BROOK-LIME. 



POESY. 



Hast thou ne'er marked a fount from earth upspringing, 

 Within the shelter of some green-wood glade, 



Scarce seen by human eye, yet gladly flinging 

 Its wealth of freshness in that sylvan shade ? 



The very herbage that its waters nourish 

 Serves to conceal it from the passer by ; 



Only the flowrets on its brink that nourish 

 Reveal its windings to the thoughtful eye. 



Oh ! thus be poesy within my bosom, — 

 A bubbling fountain ever pure and bright, 



Known only by the charities that blossom 

 Beneath its influence into life and light ! 



Within my heart unchecked, that sweet stream gushes, 

 As fresh and pure as in my girlhood's day ; 



No beam from glory's sun its surface flushes, 

 Love only marks its solitary way. 



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