Here oft the shepherd came at noon-tide heat
  And sat him down upon the bank of turf
  Beneath the thorn, to eat his humble meal
  And drink the crystal from that cooling spring. 
  Here oft at evening, in that placid hour
  When first the stars appear, would maidens come
  To fill their pitchers at the Hawthorn Well,
  Attended by their swains; and often here
  Were heard the cheerful song and jocund laugh
  Which told of heart-born gladness, and awoke
  The slumbering echoes in the distant wood.

    But now the place is changed.  The pleasant path,
  Which wound so gently up the mountain side
  Is overgrown with bent and russet heath;
  The thorn is withered to a moss-clad stump,
  And the fox kennels where the turf-bank rose! 
  The primrose and wild violet now no more
  Spread their soft fragrance round.  The hollow stone
  Is rent and broken; and the spring is dry!

* * * * *

  But yesterday I passed the spot, in thought
  Enwrapped—­unlike the fancies which played round
  My heart in life’s sweet morning, bright and brief: 
  And as I stood and gazed upon the change,
  Methought a voice low whispered in my ear: 
  “Thy destiny is linked with that low spring;
  Its course is changed, and so for aye shall be
  The tenor of thy life; and anxious cares,
  And fruitless wishes, springing without hope,
  Shall rankle round thy heart, like those foul weeds
  Which now grow thick where flow’rets bloomed anew:—­
  Like to that spring, thy fount of joy is dry!”

* * * * *

LINES

From the Italian of Scipione Maffei[1]

By E.B.  IMPEY.

    Quivi qual foste gia, non qual sarete. 
    Con diletto mirando, in onta agli anni
    Vostre belle sembianze ancor vedrete.

  Scorn not, dear maid, this fond but faithful lay,
    That pictures, on no perishable page,
    Thy beauties, rescued from the spoils of age,
  To live and blossom with thy poet’s bay: 
  For when remorseless Time brings on decay,
    When the loath’d mirror shall no more engage
    Thy smiles, distorted into grief and rage,
  Alas! to think that youth must pass away—­
    Then in these lines contented shall thou trace,
    As in a lovelier glass, thy lasting charms,
  Not as they shall be, but as now they grace,
  Fresh in the bud of youth, these circling arms.

    [1] The Marchese Scipione Maffei was a native of Verona, contemporary
        with Gio.  Baptista Felice Zappi, Vincenzio di Filicaja, and other
        Italian poets, who associated themselves together in an academy,
        which they entitled Arcadia.  The pastoral name conferred upon
        the Marquess was Orilto Barentatico.