In silence Matthew lay, and eyed The spring beneath the tree; And thus the dear old man replied, The grey-haired man of glee:
"Down to the vale this water steers:
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 in the summer trees,
The lark upon 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 is 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.
WRITTEN WHILE SAILING IN A BOAT AT EVENING.
How richly glows the water's breast Before us, tinged with evening hues, While, facing thus the crimson west, The boat her silent course pursues! And see how dark the backward stream! A little moment past so smiling! And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam, Some other loiterers beguiling.
Such views the youthful bard allure; But, heedless of the following gloom, He deems their colours shall endure Till peace go with him to the tomb. And let him nurse his fond deceit, And what if he must die in sorrow! Who would not cherish dreams so sweet, Though grief and pain may come to-morrow!
WRITTEN UPON THE THAMES, NEAR RICHMOND.
GLIDE gently, thus for ever glide,
O Thames! that other bards may see As lovely visions by thy side
As now, fair river! come to me.
O glide, fair stream, for ever so! Thy quiet soul on all bestowing, Till all our minds for ever flow, As thy deep waters now are flowing.
Vain thought! Yet be as now thou art, That in thy waters may be seen
The image of a poet's heart,
How bright, how solemn, how serene! Such as did once the poet bless, Who, murm'ring here a later* ditty, Could find no refuge from distress But in the milder grief of pity.
Now let us, as we float along, For him suspend the dashing oar, And pray that never child of song May know that poet's sorrows more. How calm-how still! the only sound, The dripping of the oar suspended! The evening darkness gathers round By virtue's holiest powers attended.
I AM not one who much or oft delight To season my fireside with personal talk,— Of friends who live within an easy walk, Or neighbours daily, weekly, in my sight: And, for my chance acquaintance, ladies bright, Sons, mothers, maidens withering on the stalk; These all wear out of me, like forms with chalk Painted on rich men's floors for one feast-night. Better than such discourse doth silence long, Long, barren silence, square with my desire; To sit without emotion, hope, or aim, In the loved presence of my cottage fire, And listen to the flapping of the flame, Or kettle, whispering its faint undersong.
"Yet life," you say, "is life; we have seen and see, And with a living pleasure we describe;
And fits of sprightly malice do but bribe
The languid mind into activity.
Sound sense, and love itself, and mirth and glee, Are fostered by the comment and the gibe.” E'en be it so; yet still, among your tribe,
Our daily world's true worldlings, rank not me! Children are blest, and powerful; their world lies More justly balanced; partly at their feet And part far from them: sweetest melodies Are those that are by distance made more sweet
*Collins's Ode on the death of Thomson, the last written, I believe, of the poems which were published during his lifetime. This Ode is also alluded to in another stanza.
Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyes, He is a slave-the meanest we can meet !
Wings have we-and as far as we can go, We may find pleasure: wilderness and wood, Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood Which, with the lofty, sanctifies the low;
Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good:
Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow. There do I find a never-failing store
Of personal themes, and such as I love best; Matter wherein right voluble I am :
Two will I mention, dearer than the rest: The gentle lady married to the Moor;
And heavenly Una, with her milk-white lamb.
Nor can I not believe but that hereby Great gains are mine; for thus I live remote From evil-speaking; rancour, never sought, Comes to me not; malignant truth, or lie. Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous thought: And thus, from day to day, my little boat Rocks in its harbour, lodging peaceably. Blessings be with them-and eternal praise, Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares, The poets-who on earth have made us heirs Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays! Oh! might my name be numbered among theirs, Then gladly would I end my mortal days.
CHARACTERISTIC OF A FAVOURITE DOG WHICH BELONGED TO A FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR.
On his morning rounds the master Goes, to learn how all things fare; Searches pasture after pasture, Sheep and cattle eyes with care; And, for silence or for talk,
He hath comrades in his walk;
Four dogs, each pair of different breed,
Distinguished, two for scent, and two for speed.
See, a hare before him started!
-Off they fly in earnest chase;
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