Quiet, like patient tears, a fountain rose.
In spring, the violet and primrose breathed
Their sighs upon the banks; for tho' the flowers
Had pass'd away, the green leaves spread around,
'Mid the soft turf;—but tho' the scented race
Of April blooms were gone, yet there were still
Bright odourous blossoms: there the pale pink heath
Grew in its delicate beauty; and the blue
Of the fair harebell seem'd as it had caught
Its azure from the wave. You might not gaze
At distance round, for lofty trees uprose,
And rocky summits clos'd it in. The noon
Had here no power; it was most sweet to lean,
In the hot summer hours, upon that bank,
And watch the sun beams o'er the waters play,
Just where they left the hill side and came down,
In a light diamond shower, silently,
Yourself in shade the while; for o'er that rill
