"Now both himself and me he wrongs, The man who thus complains! I live and sing my idle songs Upon these happy plains, "And, Matthew, for thy Children dead I'll be a son to thee!" At this he grasped my hand, and said, "Alas! that cannot be." We rose up from the fountain-side; And down the smooth descent Of the green sheep-track did we glide; And through the wood we went; And, ere we came to Leonard's Rock, He sang those witty rhymes About the crazy old church clock, And the bewildered chimes. XVII. LINES WRITTEN WHILE SAILING IN A BOAT AT EVENING. How richly glows the water's breast Before us, tinged with evening hues, While, facing thus the crimson west, And see how dark the backward stream! Such views the youthful Bard allure; And let him nurse his fond deceit, And what if he must die in sorrow! Who would not cherish dreams so sweet, Though grief and pain may come to-morrow? XVIII. REMEMBRANCE OF COLLINS, COMPOSED UPON THE THAMES NEAR RICHMOND. GLIDE gently, thus for ever glide, As now, fair River! come to me. O glide, fair Stream! for ever so, Vain thought! - Yet be as now thou art, That in thy waters may be seen The image of a poet's heart, How bright, how solemn, how serene! * Who murmuring here a later ditty, Could find no refuge from distress Now let us, as we float along, By virtue's holiest Powers attended. Collins's Ode on the Death of Thomson, the last written, I believe, of the poems which were published during his life-time. This Ode is also alluded to in the next stanza. XIX. IF Thou indeed derive thy light from Heaven, Though half a sphere be conscious of its brightness, No purer essence, than the One that burns, Like an untended watch-fire, on the ridge Of some dark mountain; or than those which seem Humbly to hang, like twinkling winter lamps, Among the branches of the leafless trees. |