There the bee heaps his earliest treasure of honey,
Or sinks in the depths of the harebell to sleep.
V.
Like prisoners escaped during night from their prison,
The waters fling gaily their spray to the sun;
Who can tell me from whence that glad river has risen?
Who can say whence it springs in its beauty? not one.
VI.
Oh my heart, and my song which is as my heart's flowing,
Read thy fate in yon river, for such is thine own;
'Mid those the chief praise on thy music bestowing,
Who cares for the lips from whence issue the tone.
VII.
Dark as its birth-place so dark is my spirit,
Whence yet the sweet waters of melody came;
'Tis the long after-course, not the source, will inherit
The beauty and glory of sunshine and fame.
L. E. L.
