VI.

It was the evening--and a group were strewn O'er such a spot as ye, I ween, might see, When basking in the summer's breathless noon, With upward face beneath the drowsy tree; While golden dreams the willing soul receives, And Elf-land glimmers through the checkering leaves.

It was the evening--still it lay, and fair, Lapp'd in the quiet of the lulling air; Still, but how happy! like a living thing All love itself--all love around it seeing; And drinking from the earth, as from a spring, The hush'd delight and essence of its being. And round the spot (a wall of glossy shade) The interlaced and bowering trees reposed; And through the world of foliage had been made Green lanes and vistas, which at length were closed By fount, or fane, or statue white and hoar, Startling the heart with the fond dreams of yore. And near, half-glancing through its veil of leaves, An antique temple stood in marble grace; Where still, if fondly wise, the heart conceives Faith in the lingering Genius of the Place: Seen wandering yet perchance at earliest dawn Or greyest eve--with Nymph or bearded Faun. Dainty with mosses was the grass you press'd, Through which the harmless lizard glancing crept. And--wearied infants on Earth's gentle breast-- In every nook the little field-flowers slept. But ever when the soft air draws its breath (Breeze is a word too rude), with half-heard sigh, From orange-shrubs and myrtles--wandereth The Grove's sweet Dryad borne in fragrance by. And aye athwart the alleys fitfully Glanced the fond moth enamour'd of the star; And aye, from out her watch-tower in the tree, The music which a falling leaf might mar, So faint--so faery seem'd it--of the bird Transform'd at Daulis thrillingly was heard. And in the centre of that spot, which lay A ring embosom'd in the wood's embrace, A fountain, clear as ever glass'd the day, Breathed yet a fresher luxury round the place; But now it slept, as if its silver shower, And the wide reach of its aspiring sound, Were far too harsh for that transparent hour:-- Yet--like a gnome that mourneth underground-- You caught the murmur of the rill which gave The well's smooth calm the passion of its wave; Ev'n as man's heart that still, with secret sigh, Stirs through each thought that would reflect the sky.