Yet, sometimes, when the secret cup -Thou soul of God's best earthly mould! XI. THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS. WE walked along, while bright and red And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said, A village schoolmaster was he, As blithe a man as you could see On a spring holiday. And on that morning, through the grass, And by the steaming rills, We travelled merrily, to pass A day among the hills. "Our work," said I, "was well begun, Then, from thy breast what thought, So sad a sigh has brought ?" 1799. A second time did Matthew stop; Upon the eastern mountain-top, "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 Such colours, and no other, Were in the sky, that April morn, Of this the very brother. With rod and line I sued the sport Which that sweet season gave, And, to the church-yard come, 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 blooming Girl, whose hair was wet A basket on her head she bare; 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, XII. THE FOUNTAIN. A CONVERSATION. WE talked with open heart, and tongue A pair of friends, though I was young, We lay beneath a spreading oak, Beside a mossy seat; And from the turf a fountain broke, And gurgled at our feet. 1799. "Now, Matthew!" said I, "let us match This water's pleasant tune With some old border-song, or catch Or of the church-clock and the chimes In silence Matthew lay, and eyed The spring beneath the tree; And thus the dear old Man replied, The grey-haired man of glee: "No check, no stay, this Streamlet fears; 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 How oft, a vigorous man, I lay My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, 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 amid leafy trees, The lark above the hill, Let loose their carols when they please, Are quiet when they will. With Nature never do they wage A foolish strife; they see A happy youth, and their old age But we are pressed by heavy laws; If there be 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, love me; but by none And many love me 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 I'll be a son to thee!" At this he grasped my hand, and said, "Alas! that cannot be." |