"Yon cloud with that long purple cleft Brings fresh into my mind A day like this, which I have left And just above yon slope of corn With rod and line I sued the sport And, coming to the church, stopped short Beside my daughter's grave. Nine summers had she scarcely seen, The pride of all the vale; And then she sang; she would have been A very nightingale ! Six feet in earth my Emma lay; And yet I loved her more, For so it seemed, than till that day I e'er had loved before. And, turning from her grave, I met, A basket on her head she bare; It was a pure delight! No fountain from its rocky cave There came from me a sigh of pain I looked at her, and looked again, Matthew is in his grave; yet now, As at that moment, with his bough XVII. THE FOUNTAIN. A CONVERSATION. WE talked with open heart, and tongue Affectionate and true, A pair of friends, though I was young, We lay beneath a spreading oak, And from the turf a fountain broke, "Now, Matthew! let us try to match This water's pleasant tune With some old border song, or catch, Or of the church-clock and the chimes That half-mad thing of witty rhymes In silence Matthew lay, and eyed The spring beneath the tree; And thus the dear old man replied, The grey-haired man of glee: "Down to the vale this water steers; How merrily it goes! "Twill murmur on a thousand years, And flow as now it flows. And here, on this delightful day, I cannot choose but think My eyes are dim with childish tears, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard. Thus fares it still in our decay; And yet the wiser mind Mourns less for what age takes away Than what it leaves behind. The blackbird in the summer trees, The lark upon the hill, Let loose their carols when they please, Are quiet when they will. With Nature never do they wage A happy youth, and their old age But we are pressed by heavy laws, If there is one who need bemoan His kindred laid in earth, The household hearts that were his own, It is the man of mirth. My days, my friend, are almost gone, My life has been approved, And many love me; but by none Am I enough beloved." "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 At this he grasped my hand, and said, We rose up from the fountain-side, And, ere we came to Leonard's Rock, XVIII. LINES WRITTEN WHILE SAILING IN A BOAT AT EVENING. How richly glows the water's breast And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam, Such views the youthful bard allure; XIX. REMEMBRANCE OF COLLINS. WRITTEN UPON THE THAMES, NEAR RICHMOND. GLIDE gently, thus for ever glide, Vain thought! Yet be as now thou art, The image of a poet's heart, How bright, how solemn, how serene! Such as did once the poet bless, Who, murm'ring here a later* ditty, Now let us, as we float along, Collins's Ode on the death of Thomson, the last written, I believe, of the poems which were published during his lifetime. This Ode is also alluded to in another stanza. XX PERSONAL TALK. I. I AM not one who much or oft delight IL "Yet life," you say, "is life; we have seen and see, And with a living pleasure we describe; And fits of sprightly malice do but bribe The languid mind into activity. Sound sense, and love itself, and mirth and glee, Our daily world's true worldlings, rank not me! III. Wings have we-and as far as we can go, Which, with the lofty, sanctifies the low; Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow. There do I find a never-failing store Of personal themes, and such as I love best; Matter wherein right voluble I am : Two will I mention, dearer than the rest: The gentle lady married to the Moor; And heavenly Una, with her milk-white lamb. IV. Nor can I not believe but that hereby Great gains are mine; for thus I live remote |