The Fountain.

Fountain, that springest on this grassy slope,     Thy quick cool murmur mingles pleasantly,     With the cool sound of breezes in the beach,     Above me in the noontide. Thou dost wear     No stain of thy dark birthplace; gushing up     From the red mould and slimy roots of earth,     Thou flashest in the sun. The mountain air,     In winter, is not clearer, nor the dew     That shines on mountain blossom. Thus doth God     Bring, from the dark and foul, the pure and bright.     This tangled thicket on the bank above     Thy basin, how thy waters keep it green!     For thou dost feed the roots of the wild vine     That trails all over it, and to the twigs     Ties fast her clusters. There the spice-bush lifts     Her leafy lances; the viburnum there,     Paler of foliage, to the sun holds up     Her circlet of green berries. In and out     The chipping sparrow, in her coat of brown,     Steals silently, lest I should mark her nest.     Not such thou wert of yore, ere yet the axe     Had smitten the old woods. Then hoary trunks     Of oak, and plane, and hickory, o'er thee held     A mighty canopy. When April winds     Grew soft, the maple burst into a flush     Of scarlet flowers. The tulip-tree, high up,     Opened, in airs of June, her multitude     Of golden chalices to humming-birds     And silken-winged insects of the sky.     Frail wood-plants clustered round thy edge in Spring.     The liverleaf put forth her sister blooms     Of faintest blue. Here the quick-footed wolf,     Passing to lap thy waters, crushed the flower     Of sanguinaria, from whose brittle stem     The red drops fell like blood. The deer, too, left     Her delicate foot-print in the soft moist mould,     And on the fallen leaves. The slow-paced bear,     In such a sultry summer noon as this,     Stopped at thy stream, and drank, and leaped across.     But thou hast histories that stir the heart     With deeper feeling; while I look on thee     They rise before me. I behold the scene     Hoary again with forests; I behold     The Indian warrior, whom a hand unseen     Has smitten with his death-wound in the woods,     Creep slowly to thy well-known rivulet,     And slake his death-thirst. Hark, that quick fierce cry     That rends the utter silence; 'tis the whoop     Of battle, and a throng of savage men     With naked arms and faces stained like blood,     Fill the green wilderness; the long bare arms     Are heaved aloft, bows twang and arrows stream;     Each makes a tree his shield, and every tree     Sends forth its arrow. Fierce the fight and short,     As is the whirlwind. Soon the conquerors     And conquered vanish, and the dead remain     Mangled by tomahawks. The mighty woods     Are still again, the frighted bird comes back     And plumes her wings; but thy sweet waters run     Crimson with blood. Then, as the sun goes down,     Amid the deepening twilight I descry     Figures of men that crouch and creep unheard,     And bear away the dead. The next day's shower     Shall wash the tokens of the fight away.     I look again, a hunter's lodge is built,     With poles and boughs, beside thy crystal well,     While the meek autumn stains the woods with gold,     And sheds his golden sunshine. To the door     The red man slowly drags the enormous bear     Slain in the chestnut thicket, or flings down     The deer from his strong shoulders. Shaggy fells     Of wolf and cougar hang upon the walls,     And loud the black-eyed Indian maidens laugh,     That gather, from the rustling heaps of leaves,     The hickory's white nuts, and the dark fruit     That falls from the gray butternut's long boughs.     So centuries passed by, and still the woods     Blossomed in spring, and reddened when the year     Grew chill, and glistened in the frozen rains     Of winter, till the white man swung the axe     Beside thee, signal of a mighty change.     Then all around was heard the crash of trees,     Trembling awhile and rushing to the ground,     The low of ox, and shouts of men who fired     The brushwood, or who tore the earth with ploughs.     The grain sprang thick and tall, and hid in green     The blackened hill-side; ranks of spiky maize     Rose like a host embattled; the buckwheat     Whitened broad acres, sweetening with its flowers     The August wind. White cottages were seen     With rose-trees at the windows; barns from which     Came loud and shrill the crowing of the cock;     Pastures where rolled and neighed the lordly horse,     And white flocks browsed and bleated. A rich turf     Of grasses brought from far o'ercrept thy bank,     Spotted with the white clover. Blue-eyed girls     Brought pails, and dipped them in thy crystal pool;     And children, ruddy-cheeked and flaxen-haired,     Gathered the glistening cowslip from thy edge.     Since then, what steps have trod thy border! Here     On thy green bank, the woodmann of the swamp     Has laid his axe, the reaper of the hill     His sickle, as they stooped to taste thy stream.     The sportsman, tired with wandering in the still     September noon, has bathed his heated brow     In thy cool current. Shouting boys, let loose     For a wild holiday, have quaintly shaped     Into a cup the folded linden leaf,     And dipped thy sliding crystal. From the wars     Returning, the plumed soldier by thy side     Has sat, and mused how pleasant 'twere to dwell     In such a spot, and be as free as thou,     And move for no man's bidding more. At eve,     When thou wert crimson with the crimson sky,     Lovers have gazed upon thee, and have thought     Their mingled lives should flow as peacefully     And brightly as thy waters. Here the sage,     Gazing into thy self-replenished depth,     Has seen eternal order circumscribe     And bind the motions of eternal change,     And from the gushing of thy simple fount     Has reasoned to the mighty universe.     Is there no other change for thee, that lurks     Among the future ages? Will not man     Seek out strange arts to wither and deform     The pleasant landscape which thou makest green?     Or shall the veins that feed thy constant stream     Be choked in middle earth, and flow no more     For ever, that the water-plants along     Thy channel perish, and the bird in vain     Alight to drink? Haply shall these green hills     Sink, with the lapse of years, into the gulf     Of ocean waters, and thy source be lost     Amidst the bitter brine? Or shall they rise,     Upheaved in broken cliffs and airy peaks,     Haunts of the eagle and the snake, and thou     Gush midway from the bare and barren steep?