The Fountain

Traveller! on thy journey toiling     By the swift Powow,     With the summer sunshine falling     On thy heated brow,     Listen, while all else is still,     To the brooklet from the hill.     Wild and sweet the flowers are blowing     By that streamlet's side,     And a greener verdure showing     Where its waters glide,     Down the hill-slope murmuring on,     Over root and mossy stone.     Where yon oak his broad arms flingeth     O'er the sloping hill,     Beautiful and freshly springeth     That soft-flowing rill,     Through its dark roots wreathed and bare,     Gushing up to sun and air.     Brighter waters sparkled never     In that magic well,     Of whose gift of life forever     Ancient legends tell,     In the lonely desert wasted,     And by mortal lip untasted.     Waters which the proud Castilian     Sought with longing eyes,     Underneath the bright pavilion     Of the Indian skies,     Where his forest pathway lay     Through the blooms of Florida.     Years ago a lonely stranger,     With the dusky brow     Of the outcast forest-ranger,     Crossed the swift Powow,     And betook him to the rill     And the oak upon the hill.     O'er his face of moody sadness     For an instant shone     Something like a gleam of gladness,     As he stooped him down     To the fountain's grassy side,     And his eager thirst supplied.     With the oak its shadow throwing     O'er his mossy seat,     And the cool, sweet waters flowing     Softly at his feet,     Closely by the fountain's rim     That lone Indian seated him.     Autumn's earliest frost had given     To the woods below     Hues of beauty, such as heaven     Lendeth to its bow;     And the soft breeze from the west     Scarcely broke their dreamy rest.     Far behind was Ocean striving     With his chains of sand;     Southward, sunny glimpses giving,     'Twixt the swells of land,     Of its calm and silvery track,     Rolled the tranquil Merrimac.     Over village, wood, and meadow     Gazed that stranger man,     Sadly, till the twilight shadow     Over all things ran,     Save where spire and westward pane     Flashed the sunset back again.     Gazing thus upon the dwelling     Of his warrior sires,     Where no lingering trace was telling     Of their wigwam fires,     Who the gloomy thoughts might know     Of that wandering child of woe?     Naked lay, in sunshine glowing,     Hills that once had stood     Down their sides the shadows throwing     Of a mighty wood,     Where the deer his covert kept,     And the eagle's pinion swept!     Where the birch canoe had glided     Down the swift Powow,     Dark and gloomy bridges strided     Those clear waters now;     And where once the beaver swam,     Jarred the wheel and frowned the dam.     For the wood-bird's merry singing,     And the hunter's cheer,     Iron clang and hammer's ringing     Smote upon his ear;     And the thick and sullen smoke     From the blackened forges broke.     Could it be his fathers ever     Loved to linger here?     These bare hills, this conquered river,     Could they hold them dear,     With their native loveliness     Tamed and tortured into this?     Sadly, as the shades of even     Gathered o'er the hill,     While the western half of heaven     Blushed with sunset still,     From the fountain's mossy seat     Turned the Indian's weary feet.     Year on year hath flown forever,     But he came no more     To the hillside on the river     Where he came before.     But the villager can tell     Of that strange man's visit well.     And the merry children, laden     With their fruits or flowers,     Roving boy and laughing maiden,     In their school-day hours,     Love the simple tale to tell     Of the Indian and his well