AT THE SPRING. 73 



peaceful, and the slow motions of the cattle grouped 

 here and there under the shadows of solitary trees, 

 or of the sheep browsing in long, irregular lines 

 across the further meadows, give the landscape 

 that touch of pastoral life which unites us with 

 Nature in the oldest and most homelike relations. 

 Here, on still summer afternoons, one seems to 

 have come upon a sleeping world ; a world over 

 whose slumber the clouds are passing like peace 

 ful dreams. In such an hour the limpid water of 

 the spring seems to rise out of the very heart of 

 the earth, and to bring with it an unfailing refresh 

 ment of spirit. The white sand through which it 

 finds its way makes its transparent clearness more 

 apparent, and the great stone seems to hold back 

 the woods from an approach that would overshadow 

 it. It rises so silently into the visible world from 

 the unseen depths that one cannot but feel some 

 illusion of sentiment thrown over it, some dis 

 closure of truth escaping with it from the darkness 

 beneath. Whence does it flow, and what has its 

 journey been ? Did some remote mountain range 

 gather its waters from the clouds and send them 

 down through long and winding channels deep in 

 its heart ? Is there far below an invisible stream 

 flowing, like the river Alphseus, unseen and un 

 heard beneath the earth ? The spring is mute 

 when these questions rise to lips which it is always 

 ready to moisten from its cool depths. It is 



