A gush of waters !-faint and sweet and wild,
Like the far echo of the voice of years,-
The ancient Nature, singing to her child
The self-same hymn that lulled the infant spheres !— A spell of song not louder than a sigh,
Yet speaking like a trumpet to the heart;
And thoughts that lift themselves, triumphingly,
O'er time-where time has triumphed over art,—
As wild-flowers climb its ruins-haunt it still,
While, still, above the consecrated spot,
Lifts up its prophet voice the ancient rill,
And flings its oracles along the grot !—
But, where is She, the Lady of the stream,
And He whose worship was and is---a dream!
Silent, yet full of voices !-desolate,
Yet filled with memories, like a broken heart!—
Oh! for a vision like to his who sate
With thee, and with the moon and stars, apart,
By the cool fountain-many a livelong even,—
That speaks, unheeded, to the desert, now,
When vanished clouds had left the air all heaven,
And all was silent, save the stream and thou,
Egeria!-solemn thought upon his brows,
For all his diadem,-thy spirit-eyes,
His only homage,—and the flitting boughs
And birds, alone, between him and the skies!-
Each outward sense expanded to a soul,
And every feeling tuned into a truth,
And all the bosom's shattered strings made whole,
And all its worn-out powers retouched with youth,
Beneath thy spell,—that chastened while it charmed,
Thy words, that touched the spirit while they taught,
Thy look, that uttered wisdom while it warmed,
And moulded fancy in the stamp of thought,
And breathed an atmosphere below, above,
Light to the soul-and to the senses love!
Beautiful dreams!—that haunt the younger earth,
In poet's pencil or in minstrel's song,-
Like sighs or rainbows-dying in their birth,
Perceived a moment, and remembered long!
Oh, no!-bright visions !-fables of the heart!
Not to the past, alone, do ye belong,—
Types for all ages,-wove when early art
To feeling gave a voice,-to truth a tongue!
Oh! what if Gods have left the Grecian mount,
And shrines are voiceless on the classic shore,
And lone Egeria by the gushing fount
Waits for her monarch-lover never more,-
Who hath not his Egeria?—some sweet thought,
Shrouded and shrined within his heart of hearts,
More closely cherished, and more fondly sought,
Still, as the daylight of the soul departs ;—
The visioned lady of the spring, that wells
In the green valley of his brighter years,
Or gentle spirit that for ever dwells,
And sings of hope, beside the fount of tears!
In the heart's trance-the calenture of mind
That haunts the soul-sick mariner of life,
And paints the fields that he has left behind,
Like green Morganas,* on the tempest's strife;-
In the dim hour when memory-whose song
Is still of buried hope,-sings back the dead,
And perished looks and forms—a phantom-throng,-
With melancholy eyes and soundless tread,
Like lost Eurydices, from graves, retrack
The long-deserted chambers of the brain,
Until the yearning soul looks fondly back,
To clasp them,-and they vanish, once again;—
At even,-when the fight of youth is done,
And sorrow-like the "searchers of the slain”,-
Turns up the cold, dead faces, one by one,
Of prostrate joys and wishes,-but in vain!
And finds that all is lost,-and walks around,
'Mid hopes that, each, has perished of its wound ;—
Then, pale Egeria! to thy moon-lit cave
The maddened and the mourner may retire,
To cool the spirit's fever in thy wave,
And gather inspiration from thy lyre ;-
In solemn musings, when the world is still,
To woo a love, less fleeting, to the breast,
Or lie and dream, beside the prophet-rill
That resteth never, while it whispers rest ;-
Like Numa, cast earth's cares and crowns aside,
And commune with a spiritual bride!
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