|ON LOCK8WELL SPRING.
" Pure fount, that, welling from this wooded hill,
Dost wander forth, as into life's wide vale,
Thou to the traveller dost tell no tale
Of other years; a lone, unnoticed rill,
In thy forsaken tract, unheard of men,
Making thy own sweet music through the glen.
Time was when other sounds, and songs arose;
When o'er the pensive scene, at evening's close,
The distant bell was heard; or the full chant
At morn came sounding high and jubilant,
Or, stealing on the wildered pilgrim's way,
The moon light Miserere died away,
Like all things earthly—
Stranger, mark the spot—
No echoes of the chiding world intrude—
The structure rose, and vanish'd—solitude
Possess'd the woods again—old Time forgot,
Passing to wider spoil, its place and name,
Since then, ev'n as the clouds of yesterday,
Seven hundred years have well nigh pasa'd away:
No wreck remains of all its early pride,
Like its own orisons its fame has died.
But this pure fount, thro' rolling years the same,
Yet lifts its small still voice, like penitence,
Or lowly prayer. Then pass, admonish'd, hence,
Happy, thrice happy, if thro' good or ill,
Christian, thy heart respond to this forsaken rill,"
Posted by Chance
21st August 2012ce