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259

THE WATER OF EL ARBAÏN.

Nay, not Valhalla's honey'd cup so rare,
  By souls of heroes quaffed,
Not old Olympian nectar might compare
  With that divinest draught !

Cold as the ice-born flood from Northern steep,
  Clearer than Indian wave,
Sweet as nepenthe drowning care in sleep,
  A second life it gave.

O quickening fount! may thy bright currents roll
  In everlasting flow,
And on the latest wanderer's fainting soul
  A blessing like bestow !

Know, too, O mortal, thou whose rougher path
  Lies through a world of sin.
Without, the deadly arrows of its wrath,
  Its fever-fire within, —