I left her, and pursued my way; The Taller followed with his hat in hand, Wreathed round with yellow flowers the gayest of the land. The Other wore a rimless crown In their fraternal features I could trace Unquestionable lines of that wild Suppliant's face. Yet they, so blithe of heart, seemed fit Scattering fresh flowers; though happier far, I ween, They dart across my path-and lo, Your Mother has had alms of mine." "That cannot be," one answered-"she is dead :”— I looked reproof-they saw-but neither hung his head. "She has been dead, Sir, many a day" "Sweet Boys! you're telling me a lie ; It was your Mother, as Say!" And, in the twinkling of an eye, "Come! come !" cried one, and without more ado, Off to some other play the joyous Vagrants flew ! SEQUEL TO THE FOREGOING. COMPOSED MANY YEARS AFTER. WHERE are they now, those wanton Boys? And implements of frolic mirth; With tools for ready wit to guide; And ornaments of seemlier pride, More fresh, more bright, than Princes wear; For what one moment flung aside, Another could repair; What good or evil have they seen Spirits of beauty and of grace! They met me in a genial hour, When universal nature breathed As with the breath of one sweet flower,→ A time to overrule the power Of discontent, and check the birth Of thoughts with better thoughts at strife, Soft clouds, the whitest of the year, Sailed through the sky-the brooks ran clear ; Through your sweet influence and the care Destined, whate'er their earthly doom, MATTHEW. In the School of Hawkshead is a Tablet, on which are inscribed, in gilt letters, the Names of the several Persons who have been Schoolmasters there since the Foundation of the School, with the Time at which they entered upon and quitted their Office. Opposite to one of those Names the Author wrote the following Lines. IF Nature, for a favourite Child, U Read o'er these lines; and then review This tablet, that thus humbly rears In such diversity of hue Its history of two hundred years. -When through this little wreck of fame, Has travelled down to Matthew's name, And, if a sleeping tear should wake, Poor Matthew, all his frolics o'er, Is silent as a standing pool; Far from the chimney's merry roar, The sighs which Matthew heaved were sighs Yet, sometimes, when the secret cup He felt with spirit so profound. -Thou soul of God's best earthly mould! Thou happy Soul! and can it be That these two words of glittering gold Are all that must remain of thee? THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS. WE walked along, while bright and red And Matthew stopped, he looked and said, "The will of God be done!" A village Schoolmaster was he, With hair of glittering gray; 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?" A second time did Matthew stop; And fixing still his eye Upon the eastern mountain-top, To me he made reply: "Yon cloud with that long purple cleft Brings fresh into my mind A day like this which I have left Full thirty years behind. |