THE FOUNTAIN.

FROM THE FRENCH OF THÉOPHILE GAUTIER.

A FOUNTAIN bubbles forth, hard by the lake,
Between two stones up-sparkling ever,
And merrily their course the waters take,
As if to launch some famous river.

Softly she murmurs, 'What delight is mine!
It was so cold and dark below;

But now my banks green in the sunlight shine,
Bright skies upon my mirrow glow;

'The blue forget-me-nots through tender sighs, "Remember us," keep ever saying;

On a strong wing the gem-like dragon-flies
Ruffle me, as they sweep round playing.

'The bird drinks at my cup; and now who knows After this rush through grass and flowers,

I may become a giant stream, that flows
Past rocks and valleys, woods and towers.

'My foam may lie, a lace-like fringe, upon
Bridges of stone, and granite quays,
And bear the smoking steam-ship on, and on,
To earth-embracing seas.'

Thus the young rivulet prattled as it went,

With countless hopes and fancies fraught ; Like boiling water in a vessel pent,

Throbbed through its bed the imprisoned thought.

But close upon the cradle frowns the tomb ;

A babe the future Titan dies,

For in the near lake's gulph of azure gloom

The scarce-born fountain buried lies.

THE HUT.

FROM THEOPHILE GAUTIER.

UNDER thick trees, about it swaying,
A hump-backed hovel crouches low;
The roof-tree bends-the walls are fraying,
And on the threshold mosses grow.

Each window-pane is masked by shutters,
Still, as around the mouth in frost
The warm breath rises up and flutters,
Life lingers here-not wholly lost.