Sonnet II

Pure, lovely fountain ! flinging thy white foam
Like swandown to the wind ! dost thou not lave
Some nymph of beauty with thy silver wave ?
Some child of air, making thy breast her home ?
Or murmurest thou sweet music to the breeze
That wantons o'er thy bosom ? dost thou woo
Thy fickle lover to be fond and true ?
Or enviest thou the sigh that summer trees
Breathe at his coming ? Pure and lovely spring !
Mermaids might choose thee for their proper dwelling,
And when the flowers around thy banks are swelling
Forth into beauty, and the mavis' wing
Hath sought thy own dear willow, there would be
A scene as fair, as full of harmony,
As that of old where Helle's daughters sung,
And charmed the moonbeams with unearthly tongue.