BETA

Tradition.

A love-lorn Maid, at some far-distant time,1
Came to this hidden pool, whose depths sur-
pass2
In crystal clearness Dian’s looking-glass ;3
And, gazing, saw that rose, which from the
prime4
Derives its name, reflected as the chime5
Of echo doth reverberate some sweet sound :6
The starry treasure from the blue profound7
She long’d to ravish ;— shall she plunge, or
climb8
The humid precipice, and seize the guest9
Of April, smiling high in upper air ?10
Desperate alternative ! what fiend could dare11
To prompt the thought ?— Upon the steep
rock’s breast12
The lonely Primrose yet renews its bloom,13
Untouched memento of her hapless doom !14