Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, "The Two Founts." in The Bijou; (London: William Pickering , 1828)
   
      
         
            
               The Bijou; 
               or Annual of Literature and the Arts
            
            compiled by William Fraser
            
            
               
                  William Pickering
               
               London
            
            1828
            
               
                  pp. 202-204
               
            
         
      
      
         
             202 
            
               The Two Founts
            
            
               By S.T. Coleridge, Esq.
            
            
               Stanzas addressed to a lady on her recovery with unblemished
                  looks,
               from a severe attack of pain.
            
            
               'TWAS my last waking thought, How can it be,
               That thou, sweet friend, such anguish should'st
               endure?
               When straight from Dreamland came a Dwarf, and he
               Could tell the cause, forsooth, and knew the cure.
            
            
            
               Methought he fronted me with peering look,
               Fix'd on my heart; and read aloud in game,
               The loves and griefs therein, as from a book;
               And utter'd praise like one who wish'd to blame.
            
            
            
               In every heart (quoth he) since Adam's sin,
               TWO FOUNTS there are, of SUFFERING and of CHEER,
               
                  That to let forth, and this to keep within!
               But she, whose aspect I find imaged here,
            
            
             203 
            
               Of pleasure only will to all dispense,
               That Fount alone unlock, by no distress
               Choked or turn' inward; but still issue thence
               Unconquer'd cheer, persistent loveliness.
            
            
            
               As on the driving cloud the shiny bow,
               That gracious thing made up of tears and light,
               Mid the wild rack, and rain that slants below,
               Stands smiling forth unmov'd, and freshly bright:
            
            
            
               As though the spirits of all lovely flowers,
               Inweaving each its wreath and dewy crown,
               Or ere they sank to earth in vernal showers,
               Had built a bridge to tempt the angels down.
            
            
            
               Ev'n so, Eliza! on that face of thine,
               On that benignant face, whose look alone
               'The soul's translucence through her crystal shrine!)
               Has power to soothe all anguish but thine own.
            
            
            
               A Beauty hovers still, and ne'er takes wing
               But with a silent charm compels the stern,
               And fost'ring genius of the BITTER SPRING,
               To shrink aback, and cower upon his urn.
            
            
            
               Who then needs wonder, if (no outlet found
               In passion, spleen, or strife,) the FOUNT OF PAIN,
               O'erflowing beats against its lovely mound,
               And in wild flashes shoots from heart to brain?
            
            
             204 
            
               Sleep, and the Dwarf with that unsteady gleam,
               On his rais'd lip, that aped a critic smile,
               Had pass'd: yet I, my sad thoughts to beguile,
               Lay weaving on the tissue of my dream.
            
            
            
               Till audibly at length I cried, as though
               Thou hadst indeed been present to my eyes,
               O sweet, sweet sufferer! if the case be so,
               I pray thee be less good, less sweet, less wise!
            
            
            
               In every look a barbed arrow send,
               On those soft lips let scorn and anger live!
               Do any thing, rather than thus, sweet friend!
               Hoard for thyself the pain thou wilt not give!