My eyes are dim with childish tears,

My heart is idly stirr'd,

For the same sound is in my cars

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.

A COTTAGE GIRL.

SERIOUS and thoughtful was her mind; and yet,
By reconcilement exquisite and rare,

The form, port, motions of this cottage girl
Were such as might have quickened and inspired

A Titian's hand, addressed to picture forth
Oread, or Dryad, glancing through the shade,
When first the hunter's startling horn is heard
Upon the golden hills.

With these dark words begins my tale;

And their meaning is, "Whence can comfort spring, When prayer is of no avail?"

"What is good for a bootless bene?"

The falconer to the Lady said;

And she made answer, "ENDLESS SORROW!"

For she knew that her son was dead.

She knew it by the falconer's words,
And from the look of the falconer's eye;
And from the love which was in her soul
For her youthful Romilly.

-Young Romilly through Barden Woods
Is ranging high and low;

And holds a greyhound in a leash,

To let slip upon buck or doe.

And the pair have reached that fearful chasm,

How tempting to bestride!

For lordly Wharf is there pent in

With rocks on either side.

This striding-place is called THE STRID,

A name which it took of yore:

A thousand years hath it borne that name,
And shall a thousand more.

And hither is young Romilly come,

And what may now forbid

That he, perhaps for the hundredth time,
Shall bound across "The Strid?"

He sprang in glee, for what cared he

That the river was strong, and the rocks were steep!

-But the greyhound in the leash hung back,

And checked him in his leap.

And strangled by a merciless force;

For never more was young Romilly seen

Till he rose a lifeless corse.

Now there is stillness in the vale,
And long unspeaking sorrow:
Wharf shall be to pitying hearts
A name more sad than Yarrow.

If for a lover the Lady wept,

A solace she might borrow

From death, and from the passion of death;-
Old Wharf might heal her sorrow.

She weeps not for the wedding-day
Which was to be to-morrow :

Her hope was a farther-looking hope,
And hers is a mother's sorrow.

He was a tree that stood alone,
And proudly did its branches wave;
And the root of this delightful tree
Was in her husband's grave!