That ask no aid of sail or oar,

That fear no spite of wind or tide! Nought cared this body for wind or weather

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When Youth and I lived in't together.

Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like;
Friendship is a sheltering tree;

O! the joys, that came down shower-like,
Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,
Ere I was old!

Ere I was old? Ah woeful Ere,
Which tells me, Youth 's no longer here!
O Youth! for years so many and sweet
'Tis known that Thou and I were one,
I'll think it but a fond conceit-

It cannot be that thou art gone!
Thy vesper bell hath not yet toll'd :-
And thou wert ay a masker bold!
What strange disguise hast now put on
To make believe that thou art gone?
I see these locks in silvery slips,·

This drooping gait, this alter'd size :
But Springtide blossoms on thy lips,

And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!
Life is but thought: so think I will
That Youth and I are housemates still.

Dew-drops are the gems of morning,
But the tears of mournful eve!
Where no hope is, life 's a warning
That only serves to make us grieve,
When we are old :

That only serves to make us grieve
With oft and tedious taking-leave,
Like some poor nigh-related guest
That may not rudely be dismist,
Yet hath outstay'd his welcome while,
And tells the jest without the smile.

S. T. COLERIDGE.

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THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS

We walk'd along, while bright and red
Uprose the morning sun;

And Matthew stopp'd, he look'd, 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 travell'd merrily, to pass

A day among the hills.

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'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

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A day like this, which I have left

Full thirty years behind.

And just above yon slope of corn
Such colours, and no other,

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Were in the sky, that April morn,

Of this the very brother.

'With rod and line I sued the sport

Which that sweet season gave,

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And, to the churchyard come, stopp'd 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 seem'd,—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 tripp'd with foot so free;
She seem'd 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.

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W. WORDSWORTH.

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THE FOUNTAIN

A Conversation

We talk'd 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.

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'Now, Matthew!' said I, 'let us match This water's pleasant tune

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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! '

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In silence Matthew lay, and eyed
The spring beneath the tree :

And thus the dear old man replied,
The grey-hair'd 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 stirr'd,

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.

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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 press'd by heavy laws;
And often, glad no more,

We wear a face of joy, because

We have been glad of yore.

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'If there be one who need bemoan

His kindred laid in earth,

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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

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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:

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

At this he grasp'd 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 bewilder'd chimes.

W. WORDSWORTH.

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