No eye more raptured gazed upon the scene
Of woody dell, green slope, or heath-clad hill;
Nor ear with more delight drank in the strains
Warbled by cheerful birds from every grove,
Or thrilled by larks up-springing to the sky.

From the hill side--where oft in tender youth
I strayed, when hope, the sunshine of the mind,
Lent to each lovely scene, a double charm
And tinged all objects with its golden hues--
There gushed a spring, whose waters found their way
Into a basin of rude stone below.
A thorn, the largest of its kind, still green
And flourishing, though old, the well o'erhung;
Receiving friendly nurture at its roots
From what its branches shaded; and around
The love-lorn primrose and wild violet grew,
With the faint bubbling of that limpid fount.

Here oft the shepherd came at noon-tide heat
And sat him down upon the bank of turf
Beneath the thorn, to eat his humble meal
And drink the crystal from that cooling spring.
Here oft at evening, in that placid hour
When first the stars appear, would maidens come
To fill their pitchers at the Hawthorn Well,
Attended by their swains; and often here
Were heard the cheerful song and jocund laugh
Which told of heart-born gladness, and awoke
The slumbering echoes in the distant wood.