The Brook and the Fountain

A FOUNTAIN varied gambols played, Close by an humble Brook; While gently murmuring through the glade, Its peaceful course it took.

Perhaps it gave one envious gaze Upon the Fountain's height, While glittering in the morning rays Pre-eminently bright.

In all the colours of the sky, Alternately it shone: The Brook observed it with a sigh, But quietly rolled on.

The owner of the Fountain died; Neglect soon brought decay; The bursting pipes were ill-supplied; The Fountain ceased to play.

But still the Brook its peaceful course Continued to pursue; Her ample, inexhausted source, From Nature's fount she drew.

"Now," said the Brook, "I bless my fate, My showy rival gone; Contented in its native state My little stream rolls on.

And all the world has cause, indeed, To own, with grateful heart, How much great Nature's works excel The feeble works of art."