'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, A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet 'A basket on her head she bare; 'No fountain from its rocky cave 'There came from me a sigh of pain I looked at her, and looked again : Matthew is in his grave, yet now, The Fountain A CONVERSATION 1799. E talked with open heart, and tongue WE A pair of friends, though I was young, 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 '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 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. 6 And here, on this delightful day, I cannot choose but think '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 happy youth, and their old age 'But we are pressed by heavy laws; We wear a face of joy, because '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, I live and sing my idle songs '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; Of the green sheep-track did we glide; And, ere we came to Leonard's rock, About the crazy old church-clock, 1799. Lucy Gray; or, Solitude 1 OF FT I had heard of Lucy Gray: No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; -The sweetest thing that ever grew You yet may spy the fawn at play, But the sweet face of Lucy Gray 'To-night will be a stormy night— 'That, Father! will I gladly do: 'Tis scarcely afternoon The minster-clock has just struck two, And yonder is the moon!' At this the Father raised his hook, And snapped a faggot-band; He plied his work ;-and Lucy took The lantern in her hand. Not blither is the mountain roe: With many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse the powdery snow, That rises up like smoke. The storm came on before its time: She wandered up and down; And many a hill did Lucy climb : |