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Fount of the vale! thou art sought no more By the pilgrim's foot, as in time of yore, When he came from afar, his beads to tell, And to chant his hymn at Our Lady's Well. There is heard no Ave through thy bowers, Thou art gleaming lone 'midst thy water-flowers! But the herd may drink from thy gushing wave, And there may the reaper his forehead lave, And the woodman seeks thee not in vain— —Bright Fount! thou art nature's own again!

Fount of the Virgin's ruin'd shrine! A voice that speaks of the past is thine! It mingles the tone of a thoughtful sigh, With the notes that ring through the laughing sky; 'Midst the mirthful song of the summer-bird, And the sound of the breeze, it will yet be heard! —Why is it that thus we may gaze on thee, To the brilliant sunshine sparkling free? —'Tis that all on earth is of Time's domain— He hath made thee nature's own again!

Fount of the chapel with ages grey! Thou art springing freshly amidst decay!