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THE FOUNTAIN.

MOSES IN MIDIAN.

BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY.

Why art thou here, amid the streams and flocks
Oh foster-son of Egypt,-rear'd in all
The luxury of courts?-Was there no nerve
Of strong ambition in thy secret soul

Twining bright visions round a future throne?
Didst never think 't were sweet to be a king?
Or that her hand who drew thee from the Nile,
Fill'd with compassion for the babe that wept,
Might to its other bounties, add-a crown?

Yet well thou seem'st content with rural charms,
Nor wears thy brow a trace of hope deferr'd,
Or rootless expectation. Thy young heart's
Requited love, and the free intercourse
With Nature, in her beauty and repose,
Give thee full solace.

And when twilight grey

Lureth thy lambs afold, or twinkling stars

Look from their chambers on the chrystal founts With tender eye, perchance, thy hand doth sweep The solitary lyre, weaving in hues

Of sable, and of gold, his wondrous fate

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