160

THE FOUNTAIN'S DEPTHS.

Yet still its ever-gushing tide

Was calm and voiceless as the grave.

The autumn wind went whistling by,
Whirling the dead leaves far and wide,
Yet still no voice of sympathy

From those untroubled depths replied;
The upper waters might be stirred,

And the fringed grass and thrushes thrill,
But from its heart no sound was heard,
Its source was all serene and still.

But when there came a quiet night,

And winds were sleeping in their caves,

The placid stars, with holy light,

Shone down upon its inmost waves;

Then fell there from the cloudless skies,

Unto its depths so coldly clear,

The light of those immortal eyes

That gladden heaven's pure atmosphere.

And by a silent under-spring

The gentle waters ebb away

To where the leaping streamlets fling
A thousand sparkles to the day.

May not the fountain's depths impart

Some image of the hidden worth

Of an unworldly, peaceful heart

Thus lit from heaven, thus gladdening earth.

BROWNE.

THE FOUNTAIN OF MARAH.

161

PEACEFUL HOURS.

OURS of romance, yes, I have mused away
The lavish glories of a summer's day,
Full oft beneath the forest's whispering shade,
Rocked by the thunders of the near cascade;

Or, more remote, have sought a gentler scene,
Where all around was fragrant, cool, and green;
Where flowerets oped their petals to emboss
With richer hues the dew-bespangled moss;
Where still the roar of neighbouring waters came,

By distance tempered, but in mood the same.

Yet thou, O Waterfall! that seem'st to be

A symbol meet of perpetuity,

E'en thou obey'st at times a loftier power,

Like some magician in his feeble hour.

Bleak Winter issues from his artic caves,

And chains thy strength, and curbs thy headlong waves;

Mute as the grave thy rolling thunders cease,

And where the tumult maddened-there is peace.

THE FOUNTAIN OF MARAH.

HERE is the tree the prophet threw

Into the bitter wave?

Left it no scion where it grew,

The thirsting soul to save?

GODWIN.

THE live-long day, 'neath the bright sun's ray,
We have gathered the purple fruit;

Let our hymn now rise to the evening skies,
On the breath of the wakeful lute.

The morning dew, with its changing hue,
Welcomed our joyous throng;