Or of the church-clock and the chimes 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 Thus fares it still in our decay: And yet the wiser mind takes away 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 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 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 Upon these happy plains, And, Matthew, for thy children dead At this he grasped my hand, and said, 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, XVI. TO THE SPADE OF A FRIEND. (AN AGRICULTURIST.) COMPOSED WHILE WE WERE LABOURING TOGETHER IN HIS PLEASURE-GROUND. SPADE! with which Wilkinson hath tilled his lands, And shaped these pleasant walks by Emont's side, Thou art a tool of honour in my hands; I press thee, through the yielding soil, with pride. Rare master has it been thy lot to know; Health, meekness, ardour, quietness secure, Here often hast Thou heard the Poet sing Who shall inherit Thee when death has laid Low in the darksome cell thine own dear lord? That man will have a trophy, humble Spade! A trophy nobler than a conqueror's sword. If he be one that feels, with skill to part He will not dread with Thee a toilsome dayThee his loved servant, his inspiring mate! And, when thou art past service, worn away, Nc dull oblivious nook shall hide thy fate. His thrift thy uselessness will never scorn; |