Iv

"Of all the founts, bedropped with light, Or silver-tress'd with shade of trees, Not one there is, but sprinkles bright It's plume of freshness on the breeze, And jewelled flight:

"Of all that hush among the moss, Or babble to the lily-vases, Not one there is but purls across A gush of the delight, that causes It's limpid gloss.

"So let thy heart a fountain be, To rise in sparkling joy, and fall In dimpled melody--and all For love of home, and me."