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

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 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
Upon these happy plains;

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;
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 bewildered chimes.

THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS.

Composed 1799.

Published 1800.

WE walked along, while bright and red
Uprose the morning sun :

And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said, "The will of God be done !"

A village schoolmaster was he,
With hair of glittering grey;

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.

66

"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;
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 on that slope of springing corn

The self-same crimson hue,

Fell from the sky, that April morn,

The same which now I view.

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;

And yet I loved her more,

For so it seemed, 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!

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

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

I looked at her, and looked 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.

Not long your pastime to prevent;
I heard the blessing which to you

Our common Friend and Father sent. (16)

I kissed his cheek before he died;
And when his breath was fled,

I raised, while kneeling by his side,
His hand :-it dropped like lead.
Your hands, dear Little-ones, do all
That can be done, will never fall
Like his till they are dead.
By night or day blow foul or fair,
Ne'er will the best of all your train
Play with the locks of his white hair,
Or stand between his knees again.

Here did he sit confined for hours; But he could see the woods and plains, Could hear the wind and mark the showers Come streaming down the streaming panes. Now stretched beneath his grass-green mound He rests a prisoner of the ground.

He loved the breathing air,

He loved the sun, but if it rise

Or set, to him where now he lies,

Brings not a moment's care.

Alas! what idle words; but take

The Dirge which for our Master's sake

And yours, love prompted me to make.

The rhymes so homely in attire
With learned ears may ill agree,

But chanted by your Orphan Quire
Will make a touching melody.

DIRGE.

Mourn, Shepherd, near thy old grey stone;

Thou Angler, by the silent flood;

And mourn when thou art all alone,

Thou Woodman, in the distant wood!

Thou one blind Sailor, rich in joy

Though blind, thy tunes in sadness hum;