Classic Poem

Here, on the sultry mountain's face,
Although the heat broods bright around,
The runlet, in a mossy place,
Drips, drop by drop, without a sound,
Into a basin cool yet bright,
Half-shaded from the golden light.

All is as still as sleep; on high
The clouds float soft and white as wool;
Fern-fringëd crags and boulders lie
Sun-parch'd around the dewy pool;
Beneath, the mountain pathway twines,
Above, peaks rise and sunlight shines.

How still it is! nought moves or stirs.
Afar below, the lake of blue,
With purple islands dark with firs,
Gleams smooth as glass and dim as dew:
And mountain, isle, and woodland rest
Within the mirror of its breast.

All motionless on yonder stone
The white grouse crouches in the light;
On high among the crags, alone,
The eagle sheathes his piercing sight,
Clutching the peak amid the heat,
His shadow black'ning at his feet.

No living thing that flies or creeps
Comes near the well this noontide hour;
The sunlight scorches crags and steeps,
The heather shrinks its purple flower;
The wild brook glisters in its bed,
Silent and faded to a thread.

But when the sun is in the west,
And sheds soft crimson o'er the place,
The grey-hen creeping from her nest,
Leaving her dull brown eggs a space,
Comes hither, pausing on the brink
With quick sharp eyes, and stoops to drink.

Or from the stones the foumart slim
Doth hither steal at eve to cool
His bloody mouth; or on the brim
The blue hare, shadow'd in the pool,
Sits up erect, and thro' the rocks
Springs, at the coming of the fox.

How many a strange and gentle thing
Hath seen its face reflected here!
How oft at gloaming hath the spring
Mirror'd the moist eyes of the deer,
While glen and corry, peak and height,
Were redd'ning in the rosy light!

Here stain'd with blood and foamy-lipt,
The stag of ten hath paused for breath,
His blood in the sad pool hath dript
Dark, drop by drop, before his death,
While he has watched, with looks of woe,
The hunter toiling from below.

How sweet it lies! how dark and cool!
Half shaded by the crag on high,
A tiny place, a shallow pool,
Yet with its own dark depth of sky—
Renewed for ever with no will
By the soft trickling of the hill.

All thro' the dim and dewy night
It gathers coolness drop by drop,
While in the moon the crags gleam white,
And on the silent mountain top
The evening star of liquid dew
Gleams like a diamond in the blue.

A never-empty hand, a dim
Dark eye for dews of love to fill,
A constant cup full to the brim,
Hast thou, O fount upon the hill.
I stoop and kiss thy lips; and so,
Refresh'd, I bless thee as I go.