But the warm May came in his pride to woo
The wealth of our virgin store,
And our hearts just felt his breath, and knew
Their sweets no more!
And the summer reigns on the quiet spot
Where we dwell--and its suns and showers
Bring balm to our sisters' hearts, but not--
Oh! not to _ours_!
We live--we bloom--but for ever o'er
Is the charm of the earth and sky:
To our life, ye heavens, that balm restore,
Or bid us die!"


"THE FOUNTAIN: A BALLAD.


Why startest thou back from that fount of sweet water?
The roses are drooping while waiting for thee;
'Ladye, 'tis dark with the red hue of slaughter,
There is blood on that fountain--oh! whose may it be?'
Uprose the ladye at once from her dreaming,
Dreams born of sighs from the violets round,
The jasmine bough caught in her bright tresses, seeming
In pity to keep the fair prisoner it bound.
Tear-like the white leaves fell round her, as, breaking
The branch in her haste, to the fountain she flew,
The wave and the flowers o'er its mirror were reeking,
Pale as the marble around it she grew.
She followed its track to the grove of the willow,