On A Beautiful Spring,

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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!

© William Lisle Bowles