"Yon cloud with that long purple cleft 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, 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 "And, turning from her grave, I met, A blooming girl, whose hair was wet "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 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 With some old border song, or catch, "Or of the church-clock and the chimes Sing here beneath the shade, That half-mad thing of witty rhymes Which you last April made!" In silence Matthew lay, and eyed And thus the dear old man replied, "Down to the vale this water steers, "Twill murmur on a thousand years, And flow as now it flows. "And here, on this delightful day, 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 "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 foolish strife; they see A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free: "But we are pressed by heavy laws; And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy, because We have been glad of yore. "If there is one that 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, And many love me; but by none "Now both himself and me he wrongs, I live and sing my idle songs "And, Matthew, for thy children dead At this he grasped my hand, and said, We rose up from the fountain-side; Of the green sheep-track did we glide; And, ere we came to Leonard's Rock, About the crazy old church-clock, INCIDENT, CHARACTERISTIC OF A FAVOURITE DOG. ON his morning rounds the master Four dogs, each pair of different breed, Distinguished two for scent, and two for speed. See, a hare before him started! -Off they fly in earnest chase; Her hope is near: no turn she makes; Deep the river was, and crusted When, lo! the ice, so thinly spread. Breaks-and the greyhound, DART, is over head Better fate have PRINCE and SWALLOW- A loving creature she, and brave! And fondly strives her struggling friend to save. From the brink her paws she stretches, Very hands as you would say! And afflicting moans she fetches, As he breaks the ice away. For herself she hath no fears, Him alone she sees and hears, Makes efforts and complainings; nor gives o'er TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF THE SAME DOG. LIE here sequestered:-be this little mound Or want of love, that here no stone we raise; Yet they to whom thy virtues made thee dear I prayed for thee, and that thy end were past; It came, and we were glad; yet tears were shed; Both man and woman wept when thou wert dead; Not only for a thousand thoughts that were, Old household thoughts, in which thou hadst thy share A chain of heart, a feeling of the mind, THE FORCE OF PRAYER; OR, THE FOUNDING OF BOLTON PRIORY. A TRADITION. What is good for a bootless bene ?” And their meaning is, whence can comfort spring "What is good for a bootless_bene?” And she made answer "ENDLESS SORROW!" She knew it by the falconer's words, -Young Romilly through Barden Woods And holds a grayhound in a leash, To let slip upon buck or doe. The pair have reached that fearful chasm, For lordly Wharf is there pent in With rocks on either side. This striding-place is called THE STRID, A name which it took of yore: A thousand years hath it borne that name, And shall, a thousand more. And hither is young Romilly come, And what may now forbid That he, perhaps for the hundredth time, Shall bound across THE STRID? He sprang in glee,-for what cared he That the river was strong, and the rocks were steep! And checked him in his leap. The boy is in the arms of Wharf, And strangled by a merciless force |