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ANNIVERSARY POEM.
197
And rain-weighed rose-vines; scarcely might we tell Whether we had not lost our souls in dreams Of that past night, and were but sprites of streams,Oreads of hills, or elfs of knoll and dell.
XXVIII.Upon the grass-fringed lakelet, fountain-fed With cooling rills, just drained from hill-side wells, Where, to the tinkle of sweet water-bells,Aërial jets were waltzing overhead, By sirens lured, how daintily we rode! Till, drawn too near their crystalline abode,What showers the fickle creatures o'er us shed?
XXIX.We trod the dim cool windings of the trail That through the forest led to secret nooks, Where lightly laughed the ever-raptured brooks,And the mitchella repens blossomed, pale From love of shade and rich excess of dew; Where pulsed the bubbling spring, and downward threw,From tiny heights, its moss-entangled veil.
