The water at its well-head; clear it is, Not more transpicuous the invisible air; Pure as an infant’s thoughts; and here to life And good directed all its uses serve. The herb grows greener on its brink; sweet flowers Bend o’er the stream that feeds their freshened roots; The red-breast loves it for his wintry haunts; And when the buds begin to open forth, Builds near it with his mate their brooding nest; The thirsty stag with widening nostrils there Invigorated draws his copious draught; And there amid its flags the wild-boar stands, Nor suffering wrong nor meditating hurt. Through woodlands wild and solitary fields Unsullied thus it holds its bounteous course; But when it reaches the resorts of men, The service of the city there defiles The tainted stream; corrupt and foul it flows Through loathsome banks and o’er a bed impure, Till in the sea, the appointed end to which Through all its way it hastens, ’tis received, And, losing all pollution, mingles there In the wide world of waters. So is it With the great stream of things, if all were seen; Good the beginning, good the end shall be, And transitory evil only make The good end happier. Ages pass away, Thrones fall, and nations disappear, and worlds Grow old and go to wreck; the soul alone Endures, and what she chuseth for herself, The arbiter of her own destiny That only shall be permanent. But guilt, And all our suffering? said the Count. The Goth Replied, Repentance taketh sin away, Death remedies the rest.... Soothed by the strain Of such discourse, Julian was silent then, And sate contemplating. Florinda too Was calm’d: If sore experience may be thought To teach the uses of adversity, She said, alas! who better learn’d than I In that sad school! Methinks if ye would know How visitations of calamity Affect the pious soul, ’tis shown ye there! Look yonder at that cloud, which through the sky Sailing alone, doth cross in her career The rolling Moon! I watch’d it as it came, And deem’d the deep opake would blot her beams But, melting like a wreath of snow, it hangs In folds of wavey silver round, and clothes The orb with richer beauties than her own, Then passing, leaves her in her light serene.