No joy, nor hope, no pleasure, nor its dream, Now cheers my heart. The current of my life Seems settled to a dull, unruffled lake, Deep sunk 'midst gloomy rocks and barren hills; Which tempests only stir and clouds obscure; Unbrightened by the cheerful beam of day, Unbreathed on by the gentle western breeze, Which sweeps o'er pleasant meads and through the woods, Stirring the leaves which seem to dance with joy. No more the beauteous landscape in its pride Of summer loveliness--when every tree Is crowned with foliage, and each blooming flower Speaks by its breath its presence though unseen-- For me has charms; although in early days, Ere care and grief had dulled the sense of joy, No eye more raptured gazed upon the scene Of woody dell, green slope, or heath-clad hill; Nor ear with more delight drank in the strains Warbled by cheerful birds from every grove, Or thrilled by larks up-springing to the sky. From the hill side--where oft in tender youth I strayed, when hope, the sunshine of the mind, Lent to each lovely scene, a double charm And tinged all objects with its golden hues-- There gushed a spring, whose waters found their way Into a basin of rude stone below. A thorn, the largest of its kind, still green And flourishing, though old, the well o'erhung; Receiving friendly nurture at its roots From what its branches shaded; and around The love-lorn primrose and wild violet grew, With the faint bubbling of that limpid fount. Here oft the shepherd came at noon-tide heat And sat him down upon the bank of turf Beneath the thorn, to eat his humble meal And drink the crystal from that cooling spring. Here oft at evening, in that placid hour When first the stars appear, would maidens come To fill their pitchers at the Hawthorn Well, Attended by their swains; and often here Were heard the cheerful song and jocund laugh Which told of heart-born gladness, and awoke The slumbering echoes in the distant wood. But now the place is changed. The pleasant path, Which wound so gently up the mountain side Is overgrown with bent and russet heath; The thorn is withered to a moss-clad stump, And the fox kennels where the turf-bank rose! The primrose and wild violet now no more Spread their soft fragrance round. The hollow stone Is rent and broken; and the spring is dry! * * * * *