There stood a low and ivied roof,
As gazing rustics tell,
In times of chivalry and song'Yclept the holy well.
Above the ivies' branchlets
In glistening clusters shone;
While round the base the grass-blades
And spiry foxglove sprung.
The brambles clung in graceful bands,
Chequering the old gray
With shining leaflets, whose bright
In autumn's tinting shone.
Around the fountain's eastern baseA babbling brooklet sped,
With sleepy murmur purling
Adown its gravelly bed.
Within the cell the filmy
To woo the clear wave bent;
And cushioned mosses to the
Their quaint embroidery lent.
The fountain's face lay still as glass—Save where the streamlet
Across the basin's gnarled
Flowed ever silently.
Above the well a little
Once held, as rustics tell,
All garland-decked, an image
The Lady of the Well.
They tell of tales of mystery,
Of darkling deeds of woe;
But no! such doings might not
The holy streamlet's flow.
Oh tell me not of bitter thoughts,
Of melancholy dreams,
By that fair fount whose sunny
Basks in the western beams.
When last I saw that little stream,
A form of light there stood,
That seemed like a precious gem,
Beneath that archway rude:
And as I gazed with love and
Upon that sylph-like thing,
Methought that airy form must
The fairy of the spring.
Helston, 1835.
