Tradition.
A love-lorn Maid, at some far-distant time,
Came to this hidden pool, whose depths sur-
pass
In crystal clearness Dian’s looking-glass ;
And, gazing, saw that rose, which from the
prime
Derives its name, reflected as the chime
Of echo doth reverberate some sweet sound :
The starry treasure from the blue profound
She long’d to ravish ;—shall she plunge, or
climb
The humid precipice, and seize the guest
Of April, smiling high in upper air ?
Desperate alternative ! what fiend could dare
To prompt the thought ?—Upon the steep
rock’s breast
The lonely Primrose yet renews its bloom,
Untouched memento of her hapless doom !