CHAPTER XX.
The fountain's low singing is heard on the wind,
Like a melody bringing sweet fancies to mind;
Away in the distance is heard the far sound
From the streets of the city that compass it round,
Like the echo of mountains, or ocean's deep call:
Yet that fountain's low singing is heard over all.
The turf and the terrace slope down to the tide
Of the Thames, that sweeps onward a world at its side;
And dark the horizon with mast and with sail
Of the thousand tall ships that have weather'd the gale;
While beyond the arched bridge the old abbey appears,
Where England has garnered—the glories of years.
There are lights in the casement—how weary the ray
That asks from the night-time the toils of the day!
I fancy I see the brow bent o'er the page,
Whose youth wears the paleness and wrinkles of age;
What struggles, what hopes, what despair may have been,
Where sweep those dark branches of shadowy green!
The last gleams of a summer sunset were reddening amid the topmast boughs of the
