The water has flowed forth a year,
Since, sitting by the fountain's side,
We looked into the basin clear,
Where sparkles still the gushing tide,
And watched the crystal current pour,
During one bright enchanting hour.
The sun sloped low upon the plain—
The mellow southern winter sun—
And purple rose the mountain chain,
Which then I first did look upon;
While o'er its shadowy crests were seen
Bright, dazzling peaks of snowy sheen.
The limpid heavens o'er our head
Were clear as truth, and soft as love;
The dark-blue tufted pine-trees spread
Their solemn shade our rest above.
And, framed between their pillars gray,
The landscape's magic pictures lay.
A year that water hath flowed forth;
A year my golden hours have flowed:
And towards the regions of the north
I turn, to leave this blest abode,
Where I have dwelt in constant joy,
In peace and rest without alloy.
Pain has been far from me, and pleasure
Has kept the record of my days;
Glory and beauty, without measure,
Have haunted my familiar ways,
And made a year's existence seem
Bright, brief, and wondrous as a dream.
Now I depart, and bear with me
The gathered riches of these days;
No shade the sternest futurity
Upon their perfect brightness lays;
Life shall possess them to the last:
The blackest fate must spare the past.
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