Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
America: Vols. XXV–XXIX. 1876–79.
Isle of Founts: An Indian Tradition
By Felicia Hemans (17931835)
S
O’er yon blue hills thy lonely way,
To reach the still and shining lake
Along whose banks the west-winds play?
Let no vain dreams thy heart beguile,—
Oh, seek thou not the Fountain Isle!
Midst the gray rocks, his old domain;
Ward but the cougar’s deadly spring,—
Thy step that lake’s green shore may gain;
And the bright Isle, when all is passed,
Shall vainly meet thine eye at last!
Clear as within thine arrow’s flight,
The Isle of Founts, the isle of dreams,
Floats on the wave in golden light;
And lovely will the shadows be
Of groves whose fruit is not for thee!
Which are not of the things that die,
And singing voices from their bowers,
Shall greet thee in the purple sky;
Soft voices, e’en like those that dwell
Far in the green reed’s hollow cell.
From the deep chambers of the earth?
The wild and wondrous melodies
To which the ancient rocks gave birth?
Like that sweet song of hidden caves
Shall swell those wood notes o’er the waves.
And image from that sunbright shore;
But wouldst thou launch thy light canoe,
And wouldst thou ply thy rapid oar,
Before thee, hadst thou morning’s speed,
The dreamy land should still recede!
The music of its flowering shades,
And ever should the sound be near
Of founts that ripple through its glades;
The sound, and sight, and flashing ray
Of joyous waters in their play!
With their bright spray showers to the lake!
Earth has no spring to quench the thirst
That semblance in his soul shall wake,
Forever pouring through his dreams
The gush of those untasted streams!
The waters of our deserts lie,
Yet at their source his lip shall burn,
Parched with the fever’s agony!
From the blue mountains to the main
Our thousand floods may roll in vain.
Back from their long and weary quest;—
Had they not seen the untrodden shore?
And could they midst our wilds find rest?
The lightning of their glance was fled,
They dwelt amongst us as the dead!
With visions in their darkened eye;
Their joy was not amidst the hills
Where elk and deer before us fly:
Their spears upon the cedar hung,
Their javelins to the wind were flung.
They armed not with the warrior band,
The moons waned o’er them dim and slow,—
They left us for the spirits’ land!
Beneath our pines yon greensward heap
Shows where the restless found their sleep.
Silence be midst us in thy place,
Yet go not where the mighty leave
The strength of battle and of chase!
Let no vain dreams thy heart beguile—
Oh, seek thou not the Fountain Isle!