THE WAYSIDE SPRING. FAIR dweller by the dusty way, Bright saint within a mossy shrine, The earliest blossoms of the year, And not alone to thee is given The homage of the pilgrim's knee; But oft the sweetest birds of heaven Glide down and sing to thee. Here daily from his beechen cell, And here the wagoner blocks his wheels, To quaff the cool and generous boon; Here from the sultry harvest-fields The reapers rest at noon. And oft the beggar mask'd with tan, And, lull'd beside thy whispering stream, Oft drops to slumber unawares, And sees the angel of his dream Upon celestial stairs. Dear dweller by the dusty way, Thou saint within a mossy shrine, The tribute of a heart to-day, Weary and worn, is thine! READ. IN November days, When vapours rolling down the valleys made In solitude, such intercourse was mine: 'T was mine among the fields both day and night, And by the waters all the summer long. WORDSWORTH. |