Tradition[Fz]

A love-lorn Maid, at some far-distant time, Came to this hidden pool, whose depths surpass In crystal clearness Dian's looking-glass; And, gazing, saw that Rose, which from the prime Derives its name, reflected as the chime Of echo doth reverberate some sweet sound: The starry treasure from the blue profound She longed to ravish;--shall she plunge, or climb The humid precipice, and seize the guest Of April, smiling high in upper air? Desperate alternative! what fiend could dare To prompt the thought?--Upon the steep rock's breast The lonely Primrose yet renews its bloom, Untouched memento of her hapless doom!