There stood a low and ivied roof, br As gazing rustics tell, br In times of chivalry and song br 'Yclept the holy well. br br Above the ivies' branchlets gray br In glistening clusters shone; br While round the base the grass-blades bright br And spiry foxglove sprung. br br The brambles clung in graceful bands, br Chequering the old gray stone br With shining leaflets, whose bright face br In autumn's tinting shone. br br Around the fountain's eastern base br A babbling brooklet sped, br With sleepy murmur purling soft br Adown its gravelly bed. br br Within the cell the filmy ferns br To woo the clear wave bent; br And cushioned mosses to the stone br Their quaint embroidery lent. br br The fountain's face lay still as glass- br Save where the streamlet free br Across the basin's gnarled lip br Flowed ever silently. br br Above the well a little nook br Once held, as rustics tell, br All garland-decked, an image of br The Lady of the Well. br br They tell of tales of mystery, br Of darkling deeds of woe; br But no! such doings might not brook br The holy streamlet's flow. br br Oh tell me not of bitter thoughts, br Of melancholy dreams, br By that fair fount whose sunny wall br Basks in the western beams. br br When last I saw that little stream, br A form of light there stood, br That seemed like a precious gem, br Beneath that archway rude: br br And as I gazed with love and awe br Upon that sylph-like thing, br Methought that airy form must be br The fairy of the spring. br br br Helston, 1835.