Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 8 1823/The Isle of Founts
The New Monthly Magazine, Volume 8, Pages 298 to 300
THE ISLE OF FOUNTS,
An Indian Tradition.
Son of the Stranger! wouldst thou take
O'er yon blue hills thy lonely way,
To reach the still and shining Lake,
Along whose banks the West-winds play?
—Let no vain dreams thy heart beguile,
Oh! seek thou not the Fountain-lsle!
Lull but the mighty Serpent-King†[1]
Midst the great Rocks, his old domain,
Ward but the Cougar's deadly spring,
—Thy step that Lake's green shore may gain;
And the bright Isle, when all is past,
Shall vainly meet thine eye at last!
Yes! there, with all its rainbow streams
Clear as within thine arrow's flight
The Isle of founts, the Isle of dreams,
Floats on the wave in golden light,
And lovely will the shadows be
Of groves whose fruit is not for thee!
And breathings from their sunny flowers,
Which are not of the things that die,
And singing voices from their bowers
Shall greet thee in the purple sky;
Soft voices, e'en like those that dwell
Far in the green reed's hollow cell.
Or hast thou heard the sounds that rise
From the deep chambers of the Earth?
The wild and wondrous melodies,
To which the ancient Rocks give birth?*[2]
—Like that sweet song of hidden caves,
Shall swell those Isle-notes o'er the waves.
The emerald waves!—they take their hue
And image from that summer-shore;
But wouldst thou launch thy light canoe,
And wouldst thou ply thy rapid oar,
Before thee, hadst thou morning's speed,
The sunbright land should still recede!
Yet on the breeze thou still shalt hear
The music of its flowering shades,
And ever shall the sound be near
Of founts that ripple through its glades!
The sound, and sight, and flashing ray,
Of joyous waters in their play.
But woe for him who sees them burst
With their bright spray-showers to the Lake!
Earth has no spring to quench the thirst
That semblance in his soul shall wake,
For ever pouring through his dreams,
The gush of those untasted streams!
Bright, bright in many a rocky urn,
The waters of our deserts lie,
Yet at their source his lip shall burn,
Parch'd with the fever's agony!
From the blue mountains to the main,
Our thousand floods may roll in vain.
E'en thus our Hunters came of yore
Back from their vain and weary quest;
—Had they not seen th' untrodden shore,
And could they midst our wilds find rest?
The lightning of their glance was fled,
They dwelt amongst us as the dead!
They lay beside our glancing rills,
With visions in their darken'd eye,
Their joy was not amidst the hills,
Where elk and deer before us fly;
Their spears upon the cedar hung,
Their javelins to the wind were flung.
They bent no more the forest-bow,
They arm'd not with the warrior-band,
The moons waned o'er them dim and slow—
—They left us for the Spirit's land!
Beneath our pines yon greensward heap
Shows where the Restless found their sleep.
Son of the Stranger! if at eve
Silence be midst us in thy place,
Yet go not where the mighty leave
The strength of battle and of chase!
Let no vain dreams thy heart beguile,
—Oh! seek thou not the Fountain-Isle!F. H.
- ↑ † The Cherokees believe that the recesses of their mountains, overgrown with lofty pines and cedars, and covered with old mossy rocks, are inhabited by the Kings or Chiefs of the Rattlesnakes, whom they denominate the "bright old inhabitants." They represent them as snakes of an enormous size, and which possess the power of drawing to them every living creature that comes within the reach of their eyes. Their heads are crowned with a large carbuncle of dazzling brightness. See Notes to Leyden's "Scenes of Infancy."
- ↑ * The Stones called by the South American Missionaries Lazas de Musica, from which travellers on the Oroonoco have occasionally heard, towards sun-rise, subterraneous sounds, resembling those of the organ.—Humboldt's Travels.