IX.

Once my soul died within me. What had thrown That sickness o’er it? Even a passing thought Of a clear spring, whose side, with flowers o’ergrown, Fondly and oft my boyish steps had sought! Perchance the damp roof’s water-drops that fell Just then, low tinkling through my vaulted cell, Intensely heard amidst the stillness, caught Some tone from memory, of the music, welling Ever with that fresh rill, from its deep rocky dwelling.