Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

John Greenleaf Whittier (1807–1892). The Poetical Works in Four Volumes. 1892.

Narrative and Legendary Poems

The Fountain

On the declivity of a hill in Salisbury, Essex County, is a fountain of clear water, gushing from the very roots of a venerable oak. It is about two miles from the junction of the Powow River with the Merrimac.

TRAVELLER! on thy journey toiling

By the swift Powow,

With the summer sunshine falling

On thy heated brow,

Listen, while all else is still,

To the brooklet from the hill.

Wild and sweet the flowers are blowing

By that streamlet’s side,

And a greener verdure showing

Where its waters glide,

Down the hill-slope murmuring on,

Over root and mossy stone.

Where yon oak his broad arms flingeth

O’er the sloping hill,

Beautiful and freshly springeth

That soft-flowing rill,

Through its dark roots wreathed and bare,

Gushing up to sun and air.

Brighter waters sparkled never

In that magic well,

Of whose gift of life forever

Ancient legends tell,

In the lonely desert wasted,

And by mortal lip untasted.

Waters which the proud Castilian

Sought with longing eyes,

Underneath the bright pavilion

Of the Indian skies,

Where his forest pathway lay

Through the blooms of Florida.

Years ago a lonely stranger,

With the dusky brow

Of the outcast forest-ranger,

Crossed the swift Powow,

And betook him to the rill

And the oak upon the hill.

O’er his face of moody sadness

For an instant shone

Something like a gleam of gladness,

As he stooped him down

To the fountain’s grassy side,

And his eager thirst supplied.

With the oak its shadow throwing

O’er his mossy seat,

And the cool, sweet waters flowing

Softly at his feet,

Closely by the fountain’s rim

That lone Indian seated him.

Autumn’s earliest frost had given

To the woods below

Hues of beauty, such as heaven

Lendeth to its bow;

And the soft breeze from the west

Scarcely broke their dreamy rest.

Far behind was Ocean striving

With his chains of sand;

Southward, sunny glimpses giving,

’Twixt the swells of land,

Of its calm and silvery track,

Rolled the tranquil Merrimac.

Over village, wood, and meadow

Gazed that stranger man,

Sadly, till the twilight shadow

Over all things ran,

Save where spire and westward pane

Flashed the sunset back again.

Gazing thus upon the dwelling

Of his warrior sires,

Where no lingering trace was telling

Of their wigwam fires,

Who the gloomy thoughts might know

Of that wandering child of woe?

Naked lay, in sunshine glowing,

Hills that once had stood

Down their sides the shadows throwing

Of a mighty wood,

Where the deer his covert kept,

And the eagle’s pinion swept!

Where the birch canoe had glided

Down the swift Powow,

Dark and gloomy bridges strided

Those clear waters now;

And where once the beaver swam,

Jarred the wheel and frowned the dam.

For the wood-bird’s merry singing,

And the hunter’s cheer,

Iron clang and hammer’s ringing

Smote upon his ear;

And the thick and sullen smoke

From the blackened forges broke.

Could it be his fathers ever

Loved to linger here?

These bare hills, this conquered river,—

Could they hold them dear,

With their native loveliness

Tamed and tortured into this?

Sadly, as the shades of even

Gathered o’er the hill,

While the western half of heaven

Blushed with sunset still,

From the fountain’s mossy seat

Turned the Indian’s weary feet.

Year on year hath flown forever,

But he came no more

To the hillside on the river

Where he came before.

But the villager can tell

Of that strange man’s visit well.

And the merry children, laden

With their fruits or flowers,—

Roving boy and laughing maiden,

In their school-day hours,

Love the simple tale to tell

Of the Indian and his well.

1837.