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 wearNo stain of thy dark birthplace; gushing upFrom the red mould and slimy roots of earth,Thou flashest in the sun. The mountain air,In winter, is not clearer, nor the dewThat shines on mountain blossom. Thus doth GodBring, from the dark and foul, the pure and bright.

This tangled thicket on the bank aboveThy basin, how thy waters keep it green!For thou dost feed the roots of the wild vineThat trails all over it, and to the twigsTies fast her clusters. There the spice-bush liftsHer leafy lances; the viburnum there,Paler of foliage, to the sun holds upHer circlet of green berries. In and outThe chipping sparrow, in her coat of brown,Steals silently, lest I should mark her nest.

Not such thou wert of yore, ere yet the axeHad smitten the old woods. Then hoary trunksOf oak, and plane, and hickory, o'er thee heldA mighty canopy. When April windsGrew soft, the maple burst into a flushOf scarlet flowers. The tulip-tree, high up,Opened, in airs of June, her multitudeOf golden chalices to humming-birdsAnd silken-winged insects of the sky.

Frail wood-plants clustered round thy edge in Spring.The liverleaf put forth her sister bloomsOf faintest blue. Here the quick-footed wolf,Passing to lap thy waters, crushed the flowerOf sanguinaria, from whose brittle stemThe red drops fell like blood. The deer, too, leftHer 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 heartWith deeper feeling; while I look on theeThey rise before me. I behold the sceneHoary again with forests; I beholdThe Indian warrior, whom a hand unseenHas smitten with his death-wound in the woods,Creep slowly to thy well-known rivulet,And slake his death-thirst. Hark, that quick fierce cryThat rends the utter silence; 'tis the whoopOf battle, and a throng of savage menWith naked arms and faces stained like blood,Fill the green wilderness; the long bare armsAre heaved aloft, bows twang and arrows stream;Each makes a tree his shield, and every treeSends forth its arrow. Fierce the fight and short,As is the whirlwind. Soon the conquerorsAnd conquered vanish, and the dead remainMangled by tomahawks. The mighty woodsAre still again, the frighted bird comes backAnd plumes her wings; but thy sweet waters runCrimson with blood. Then, as the sun goes down,Amid the deepening twilight I descryFigures of men that crouch and creep unheard,And bear away the dead. The next day's showerShall 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 doorThe red man slowly drags the enormous bearSlain in the chestnut thicket, or flings downThe deer from his strong shoulders. Shaggy fellsOf 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 fruitThat falls from the gray butternut's long boughs.

So centuries passed by, and still the woodsBlossomed in spring, and reddened when the yearGrew chill, and glistened in the frozen rainsOf winter, till the white man swung the axeBeside 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 firedThe brushwood, or who tore the earth with ploughs.The grain sprang thick and tall, and hid in greenThe blackened hill-side; ranks of spiky maizeRose like a host embattled; the buckwheatWhitened broad acres, sweetening with its flowersThe August wind. White cottages were seenWith rose-trees at the windows; barns from whichCame loud and shrill the crowing of the cock;Pastures where rolled and neighed the lordly horse,And white flocks browsed and bleated. A rich turfOf grasses brought from far o'ercrept thy bank,Spotted with the white clover. Blue-eyed girlsBrought 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! HereOn thy green bank, the woodmann of the swampHas laid his axe, the reaper of the hillHis sickle, as they stooped to taste thy stream.The sportsman, tired with wandering in the stillSeptember noon, has bathed his heated browIn thy cool current. Shouting boys, let looseFor a wild holiday, have quaintly shapedInto a cup the folded linden leaf,And dipped thy sliding crystal. From the warsReturning, the plumed soldier by thy sideHas sat, and mused how pleasant 'twere to dwellIn 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 thoughtTheir mingled lives should flow as peacefullyAnd brightly as thy waters. Here the sage,Gazing into thy self-replenished depth,Has seen eternal order circumscribeAnd bind the motions of eternal change,And from the gushing of thy simple fountHas reasoned to the mighty universe.

Is there no other change for thee, that lurksAmong the future ages? Will not manSeek out strange arts to wither and deformThe pleasant landscape which thou makest green?Or shall the veins that feed thy constant streamBe choked in middle earth, and flow no moreFor ever, that the water-plants alongThy channel perish, and the bird in vainAlight to drink? Haply shall these green hillsSink, with the lapse of years, into the gulfOf ocean waters, and thy source be lostAmidst the bitter brine? Or shall they rise,Upheaved in broken cliffs and airy peaks,Haunts of the eagle and the snake, and thouGush midway from the bare and barren steep?