CXVI.

The mosses of thy Fountain[495] still are sprinkled With thine Elysian water-drops; the face Of thy cave-guarded Spring, with years unwrinkled, Reflects the meek-eyed Genius of the place, Whose green, wild margin now no more erase Art's works; nor must the delicate waters sleep Prisoned in marble--bubbling from the base Of the cleft statue, with a gentle leap The rill runs o'er--and round, fern, flowers, and ivy, creep