Pompilia. an Ode

Fair crystal fount, whose peaceful bed Unnumber'd pebbles hide, From whence, by Nature's bounty fed, Perennial waters glide.

What Nymph, by Satyrs hot pursued, Attempting swift escape, Did, to thy streams transform'd, elude The meditated rape?

'Twas she, Pompilia, virgin pure, Of chaste Diana's train, By Vandal lov'd, but ah! secure, By Vandal lov'd in vain.

Now tow'rds his banks, her only trust, Fear gave her footsteps wing; She swoon'd, she fell, deform'd with dust, To rise a silver spring.

Then, Vandal, first thy longing arms The passive fair sustain'd, And ow'd to lawless lust the charms, Thy love had never gain'd.

Yet coy, as when a maid of old, Tho' bright as noon-tide ray; She trembles still, and, icy-cold, In silence steals away.