On A Beautiful Spring,

FORMING A COLD BATH, AT COOMBE, NEAR DONHEAD, BELONGING TO MY BROTHER, CHAS. BOWLES, ESQ. Fountain, that sparklest through the shady place, Making a soft, sad murmur o'er the stones That strew thy lucid way! Oh, if some guest Should haply wander near, with slow disease Smitten, may thy cold springs the rose of health Bring back, and the quick lustre to his eye! The ancient oaks that on thy margin wave, The song of birds, and through the rocky cave The clear stream gushing, their according sounds Should mingle, and, like some strange music, steal Sadly, yet soothing, o'er his aching breast. And thou, pale exile from thy native shores, Here drink,--oh, couldst thou!--as of Lethe's stream! Nor friends, nor bleeding country, nor the views Of hills or streams beloved, nor vesper bell, Heard in the twilight vale, remember more!