( PIAZZA DI SPAGNA, ROME )

The Spirit of the Fountains speaks:

Yonder 's the window my poet would sit in
 While my song murmured of happier days;
Mine is the water his name has been writ in,
 Sure and immortal my share in his praise.

Gone are the pilgrims whose green wreaths here hung for him,—
 Gone from their fellows like bubbles from foam;
Long shall outlive them the songs have been sung for him;
 Mine is eternal—or Rome were not Rome.

Far on the mountain my fountain was fed for him,
 Bringing soft sounds that his nature loved best:
Sighing of pines that had fain made a bed for him;
 Seafaring rills, on their musical quest;

Bells of the fairies at eve, that I rang for him;
 Nightingale's glee, he so well understood;
Chant of the dryads at dawn, that I sang for him;
 Swish of the snake at the edge of the wood.

Little he knew 'twixt his dreaming and sleeping,
 The while his sick fancy despaired of his fame,
What glory I held in my loverly keeping:
 Listen! my waters will whisper his name.