for would I tear the cords apart, That bind me so to thee; o! while my thoughts seem pure and mild, ike dew upon the roses wild, I would not have thee know, he stream that seems to thee so still, Has such a tide below! nough! that in delicious dreams, I see thee and forget nough, that when the morning beams, et, could I hope, when Time shall fall would not shrink from aught below, G 76 THE FOUNTAIN. But thou hast histories that stir the heart The Indian warrior, whom a hand unseen Has smitten with his death-wound in the woods, Creep slowly to thy well-known rivulet, And slake his death-thirst. Hark, that quick fierce cry That rends the utter silence; 'tis the whoop Of battle, and a throng of savage men With naked arms, and faces stained like blood, Fill the green wilderness; the long bare arms Figures of men that crouch and creep unheard, I look again-the hunter's lodge is built, With poles and boughs, beside thy crystal well, And sheds his golden sunshine. To the door The red man slowly drags the enormous bear Slain in the chestnut thicket, or flings down The deer from his strong shoulders. Shaggy fells Of wolf and cougar hang upon the walls, THE FOUNTAIN. And loud the black-eyed Indian maidens laugh, So centuries passed by, and still the woods Since then, what steps have trod thy border! Here, On thy green bank, the woodman of the swamp Has laid his axe, the reaper of the hill His sickle, as they stooped to taste thy stream. The sportsman, tired with wandering in the still H 77 |