bier. p. 15When they the bier set down for a space, And rested upon the road, A fountain sprang forth in that very place, To this hour has it flow’d. p. 15 God bless for ever the pious soul, Her blessings no lips can tell; For oft have the sick become sound and whole, Who drank at Dame Martha’s well! The tower yet stands with gloomy nook, Where Dame Martha sat of old; The stranger comes thereon to look, And to hear the story told. p. 16THE BARD AND THE DREAMS p. 16 O’er the sweet smelling meads with his lyre in his hand The bard was straying; In the twilight of evening, refreshing and bland, His chords were playing. He sang of the flowrets that slept in the tomb, He sang of the flowrets that poured their perfume, He sang of the flowrets that yet were to bloom. And the rose departed, A smile from its sepulchre darted; And the rose yet living with blushes of red Breathed sweets o’er his head. And the rose which unborn concealed yet lies, Seemed to open before his eyes. By a fountain’s side with verdure array’d Himself he laid. p. 17And the murmur and hum of the pure water fleeting, And the strains, which the birds of the wood were repeating, And the innocent heart, which so peaceful was beating, Shed health-giving slumbers, On lids which no sorrow cumbers. p. 17 In the visions of sleep there came to his side A sire with locks snow-hoary; And the songster sped with that sire for his guide To an unknown territory. On ruins majestic himself he found, The mouldering bones of old heroes lay round; Their ghosts awaking Rose from their graves wild gestures making. The youth was quaking— But the old man smiled as his mind he led To the kempion times long fled. p. 18Then a lamp in the night’s deep silence shone Through the dingy mould, And under the masses of fallen stone There glittered gold. p. 18 To the harp then pointing the sage disappears, And the youth shed tears. “Yes, yes, the young bard thy countenance knows,” So sang in wild passion the boy— “Not in vain in my bosom a holy fire glows, Not in vain thy bright
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