Read o'er these lines; and then review 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, The sighs which Matthew heaved were sighs Yet sometimes, when the secret cup Thou soul of God's best earthly mould! 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, As blithe a man as you could see 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, Beneath so beautiful a sun, So sad a sigh has brought?" 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 churchyard 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; For so it seemed, than till that day "And, turning from her grave, I met, Beside the churchyard yew, 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, THE FOUNTAIN A CONVERSATION We talked with open heart, and tongue Affectionate and true, A pair of friends, though I was young, And Matthew seventy-two. 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 "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; 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 Beside this fountain's brink. "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 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; And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy, because We have been glad of yore. "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, 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 "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." We rose up from the fountain-side; Of the green sheep-track did we glide; |