'No fountain from its rocky cave There came from me a sigh of pain I look'd at her, and look'd again: -Matthew is in his grave, yet now As at that moment, with a bough 367 THE FOUNTAIN A Conversation WE talk'd 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. 'Now, Matthew!' said I, 'let us match This water's pleasant tune With some old border-song, or catch That suits a summer's noon. '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 The spring beneath the tree; The gray-hair'd 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, 'My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirr'd, 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 Is beautiful and free: 'But we are press'd by heavy laws; And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy, because We have been glad of yore. 368 'If there be one who need bemoan His kindred laid in earth, The household hearts that were his own,— '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, I live and sing my idle songs 'And Matthew, for thy children dead At this he grasp'd 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, WRITTEN IN MARCH While resting on the Bridge at the foot of Brother's Water THE Cock is crowing, The stream is flowing, The small birds twitter, The lake doth glitter, The green field sleeps in the sun; 369 The oldest and youngest Are at work with the strongest; Their heads never raising; Like an army defeated On the top of the bare hill; The Ploughboy is whooping-anon-anon: The rain is over and gone! NATURE AND THE POET Suggested by a Picture of Peele Castle in a Storm, painted by Sir George Beaumont I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile! So pure the sky, so quiet was the air! How perfect was the calm! It seem'd no sleep, Ah! then if mine had been the painter's hand I would have planted thee, thou hoary pile, A picture had it been of lasting ease, Such, in the fond illusion of my heart, So once it would have been,-'tis so no more; A power is gone, which nothing can restore; Not for a moment could I now behold The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old; This, which I know, I speak with mind serene. Then, Beaumont, Friend! who would have been the friend This work of thine I blame not, but commend; O'tis a passionate work!-yet wise and well, And this huge Castle, standing here sublime, |