With rod and line I sued the sport

Which that sweet season gave,

And, to the church-yard come, stopped short1
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.

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.

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 match1

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!"

Now, Matthew, let us try to match

1800.

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

1

Or, Down towards the vale with eager speed,
Behold this streamlet run

C.

1

Mourns less for what age takes away
Than what it leaves behind.

The blackbird amid leafy trees,

The lark above the hill,1

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

1836.

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;

The blackbird in the summer trees,
The lark upon the hill,

1800.

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

At this he grasped my hand,1 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.

1815.

[Written in Germany, 1799.]

LET thy wheel-barrow alone

Wherefore, Sexton, piling still

In thy bone-house bone on bone?

'Tis already like a hill

In a field of battle made,

Where three thousand skulls are laid;

These died in peace each with the other,

Father, sister, friend, and brother.

Mark the spot to which I point!

From this platform, eight feet square,
Take not even a finger-joint:

Andrew's whole fireside is there.