Come with me, friend!-We rested yon!

There grew a flower she pluck'd and wore! this mossy stone

She sat upon

That broken fountain running o'er

With the same ring, like silver bells.
She listen'd to its babbling flow,

And said, "Perhaps the gossip tells
Some fountain-nymph's love-story now!"

And as her laugh rang clear and wild,
A youth-a painter-pass'd and smiled

He gave the greeting of the morn
With voice that linger'd in mine ear.

I knew him sad and gentle born

By those two words-so calm and clear. His frame was slight, his forehead high And swept by threads of raven hair,

The fire of thought was in his eye,

And he was pale and marble fair,
And Grecian chisel never caught
The soul in those slight features wrought
I watch'd his graceful step of pride,

Till hidden by yon leaning tree,

And loved him ere the echo died;

And so, alas! did Melanie!