by T.C.C.
Originally published in Fraser's Magazine (James Fraser) vol.2 #8 (Sep 1830).
It was a burning day in June,
And I was warm and weary;
When on my ear a trickling tune
Came, small-voiced as a fairy.
I paused to hear that gentle sound,
So cool and softly flowing;
For, parched and withered all around,
The very grass seemed glowing.
And then I spied a little nook,
Buried in weeds and brambles;
Thro' whose green leaves a silvery brook
Like modest merit rambles.
And sung its sweet and low-toned song,
Nor made pretence, nor riot;
But, stealing in the shade along,
Hummed to itself in quiet.
And with it came the happy moan
Of wild bee almost stifled;
In bell or blossom newly blown,
Which none before had rifled.
While here and there, as bridal veil,
The gossamer would cover;
A blushing flower—now pink, now pale—
From glances of her lover.
Some years have passed, sixteen or more—
But where's the use of counting?
Still freshly lives in memory's store,
The music of that Fountain.