Page:The Midsummer Night.djvu/33

 Adown whose side dashes a mountain stream,

Thousands of flowers bloom lovely at its foot,

These gather,—and then westward fly beyond

The sea, whose restless billows lash the cliffs

Which curb their mad career, and send their roar

Far inland—heard amid the hush of night—

There wilt thou find a rugged mountain, clothed

From base to summit, with a dark pine wood,

And in the midst thereof, a lonely spot

Where ray of sun or moon hath never pierced—

Under the bushes, dry and withered, there,—

Amidst the stones and moss, grows a white flower;

Within its cup a single drop of dew

Has slowly, slowly gathered—till it now

Imparts to the wan flower its own warm blush—

This bring me quick—but shake not from its breast

The precious drop.—Haste, lest the other sprites

Be here before thee.

Nay—I'd run a match