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.

'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, stopp'd 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 seem'd,-than till that day
I e'er had loved before.

'And turning from her grave, I met,
Beside the churchyard yew,

A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet
With points of morning dew.

'A basket on her head she bare; Her brow was smooth and white: To see a child so very fair,

It was a pure delight!

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'No fountain from its rocky cave
E'er tripp'd with foot so free;
She seem'd as happy as a wave
That dances on the sea.

'There came from me a sigh of pain
Which I could ill confine;

I look'd at her, and look'd again:
And did not wish her mine!'

-Matthew is in his grave, yet now
Methinks I see him stand

As at that moment, with a bough
Of wilding in his hand.

THE FOUNTAIN

A Conversation

WE talk'd 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

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;
And thus the dear old man replied,
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,
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 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.

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'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
Upon these happy plains:

'And Matthew, for thy children dead
I'll be a son to thee!'

At this he grasp'd my hand and said,
'Alas! that cannot be.'

We rose up from the fountain-side;
And down the smooth descent

Of the green sheep-track did we glide,
And through the wood we went;

And ere we came to Leonard's rock

He sang those witty rhymes

About the crazy old church-clock,
And the bewilder'd chimes.

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;

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The oldest and youngest

Are at work with the strongest;
The cattle are grazing,

Their heads never raising;
There are forty feeding like one!

Like an army defeated
The Snow hath retreated,
And now doth fare ill

On the top of the bare hill;

The Ploughboy is whooping-anon-anon:
There's joy in the mountains;
There's life in the fountains;
Small clouds are sailing,
Blue sky prevailing;

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!
Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee:
I saw thee every day; and all the while
Thy form was sleeping on a glassy sea.

So pure the sky, so quiet was the air!
So like, so very like, was day to day!
Whene'er I look'd, thy image still was there;
It trembled, but it never pass'd away.

How perfect was the calm! It seem'd no sleep,
No mood, which season takes away, or brings:
I could have fancied that the mighty Deep
Was even the gentlest of all gentle things.

Ah! then if mine had been the painter's hand
To express what then I saw; and add the gleam,
The light that never was on sea or land,
The consecration, and the Poet's dream,—