Inscription for a Fountain on a Heath

This Sycamore, oft musical with Bees,—Such Tents the Patriarchs lov'd! O long unharm'dMay all its aged Boughs o'er-canopyThe small round Basin, which this jutting stoneKeeps pure from falling leaves! Long may the Spring,Quietly as a sleeping Infant's breath,Send up cold waters to the TravellerWith soft and even Pulse! Nor ever ceaseYon tiny Cone of Sand its soundless Dance,Which at the Bottom, like a Fairy's Page,As merry and no taller, dances still,Nor wrinkles the smooth Surface of the Fount.Here Twilight is and Coolness: here is Moss,A soft Seat, and a deep and ample Shade.Thou may'st toil far and find no second Tree.Drink, Pilgrim, here! Here rest! and if thy HeartBe innocent, here too shalt thou refreshThy Spirit, list'ning to some gentle Sound,Or passing Gale or Hum of murmuring Bees!