 
I’ve heard it told, that many years ago, When here deep groves stood in their majesty, Ere they had felt the white man’s fatal stroke, And peace and happiness breathed over all,— That near this spring an Indian maiden dwelt. Most beautiful was she, so runs the tale, With tresses like the darkest raven’s coat, And eyes to match their hue. Her lips, ’tis said, Surpassed the reddest berries on the hill; And the bright glow which rested on her cheek Was like the morning beam, or like the rays Of eve, that ling’ring, paint the western sky. Such was the one, ’tis said, who first beheld This living stream of water, cool and clear, Uprising from the bosom of the earth. Here many a traveler on his weary way ’Mid summer’s heat, retires to cool his brow, And freely drink the ever crystal tide. And men oppressed with city care and strife, Stroll hither when the toils of day are o’er; Or when the weary week draws to a close, Upon that day when all men cease their toils, Approach this calm retreat to meditate On nature’s wonders and the Mighty One By Whom all things were formed and still exist. And happy lovers strolling hand in hand Amid these pleasant bowers, pause to behold This sparkling fount forever gushing forth, And linger ’round this scene of beauty, which Still bears the name of that sweet Indian girl. |
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