Beneath the surface of the crystal water
⁠Metallic shines a floor of frosted green;
Uneven, like a depth of emerald lichen,
⁠Thro' ranks of dark weeds gleams its fairy sheen.

Horsetails of varied growth and plumage sombre,
⁠Like ancient warriors in dark armor dight;
Like fair young maidens' arms the prism-hued grass-leaves,
⁠Clinging in fond embrace before the fight.

Round and about this silent pool the ash-trees
⁠Bend down in thirsty eagerness to drink;
Amid their gray-green leaves show, keenly vivid,
⁠Long feathering laurel-sprays that clothe the brink.

High up in air, some thirty feet or over,
⁠A wild white rose above the footpath clings;
Fearless she clasps a tough, unyielding ash-trunk,
⁠And o'er the pool gay wreaths of blossom flings.

Idly I drop a pebble in the water,
⁠Each sombre horsetail nods a plumed head;
Like pearl or opal gem, the stone sinks slowly,
⁠Transmuted ere it reach its emerald bed.

Mystic the emerald hue beneath the water,
⁠Weirdlike this tint by which the scene is haunted;
Vainly I ask my senses if they wake,
⁠Or is the deep and silent pool enchanted?

Now as the widening ripple circles shoreward,
⁠The plumed dusky warriors file away;
The slender grass-blades wave bright arms imploring.
⁠Streaking with tender green the grim array.

Leafless, a gaunt-armed giant oak, storm-scathed,
⁠In gnarled bareness overhangs the pool;
Fantastic show its knotted limbs contorted,
⁠Grotesque and gray among the leafage cool.

Caught here and there amid the feathered foliage
⁠Are glimpses of the far hills' softened blue,
While overhead the clouds, snow-white and fleecy,
⁠Float slowly on a yet intenser hue.

From Norman times 'tis said, maybe from Saxon,
⁠This calm tree-circled lake secluded lay,
Pure as an infant's breast, its crystal mirror
⁠Baring its inmost depths to gaze of day.

Some specks there are, some clay-flakes on its surface,
⁠To open view revealed, like childish sin;
No roots have they, nor downward growth, to canker
⁠The purity that dwells the pool within.

Mystic the em'rald hue beneath the water,
⁠Fairy the tint by which the scene is haunted;
Vainly I ask my senses if they wake,
⁠Or is the clear and silent pool enchanted?

The swallow flits two-bodied o'er the water,
⁠Its four wings like a windmill's sails outspread;
Through the dark horsetails shoot the silver grayling,
⁠To seize the May-fly skimming overhead.

Flying from lawless love — so runs the story —
⁠A maiden plunged beneath this silent wave;
There, where a holly sits the bank so closely,
⁠She sprang and sank — beyond all power to save.

Six hundred years and more since that dark legend,
⁠Legend that stained a king with lasting shame —
And still the deep and silent pool lies crystal,
⁠Crystal and clear as that poor maiden's fame.

Yet mystic is the hue beneath the water;
⁠Unreal the tint by which the scene is haunted; —
Again I ask my senses if they wake,
⁠Or if the silent pool's indeed enchanted?

'Tis not alone that she is fair,
And hath a wealth of golden hair;
'Tis not that she can play and sing,
To charm a critic or a king;
'Tis not that she is gentle, kind,
And wears no chignon huge behind,
Nor high-heeled boot, nor corset laced
To show her slenderness of waist;
'Tis not that she can talk with ease
On well-nigh any theme you please;
'Tis not that she can row, and ride,
And do a dozen things beside: —
The reasons why I love Miss Brown
Are that she never wears a frown,
Ne'er sulks, or pouts, or mopes, or frets,
Or fusses about "styles" or "sets;"
Ne'er nurses lapdogs by the fire,
Nor bids her friends their charms admire;
Ne'er bets upon the Derby day,
And when she's lost omits to pay;
By bonnets does not bound her talk,
And is not indisposed to walk;
Ne'er bullies her small brothers, nor
Esteems their childish games a bore:
With pigments ne'er her cheek defiles,
Nor practises coquettish wiles;
Needs not a maid to pack her things,
Nor plagues papa for diamond rings:
On biscuits is content to lunch;
Loves Shakespeare, Milton, Pope, and Punch.
Never descends to vulgar slang,
And ne'er was known the door to bang!