Page:Romance of the Rose (Ellis), volume 1.pdf/249

Rh

In rippling wavelets speeds along

This gentle stream with tinkling song,

More musically sweet, I ween,

Than ever broke from tambourine

Or silvery cymbal. Those who stroll

Beside the flowery meads where roll

These singing waters haste anear,

Impatient such sweet sounds to hear

More perfectly, but when the side

Attain they of the murmuring tide,

Can nowise find the manner how

To reach the farther bank, for trow

Ye well that when their feet they set

(No more than just enough to wet

Their shoe-latch) in the trancing wave,

And drink one drop, then nought can save

Their hearts from lust of that sweet drink,

And plunging in o’erwhelmed they sink.

Others, more bold, from off the brim

Leap hardily, and think to swim

Across the current; from among

The waves they shout, in accents strong,

The joyousness of their success;

But suddenly a wavelet’s stress

Carries them back, and there on dry

And arid earth, heart-sick, they lie.

And now will I relate to thee

The other stream’s strange history.

Its waves are sulphurous, black and grim,

No birds flit o’er it, no fish swim