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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 púrple cleft
• Brings fresh into my mind
• A day like this which I have left
• Full thirty years behind.
And on that slope of springing corn • The self same crimson hue . • Fell from the sky that April morn, · The same which now I view!
• With rod and line my silent sport • I plied by Derwent's wave, • And coming to the church, 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.
• And, turning from her grave, I met • Beside the church-yard Yew "A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet With points of morning dew. To
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 beneathi a spreading oak,
Beside a mossy seat, . . .
And from the turf a fountain broke,
And gurgled at our feet.
Now, Matthew, let us try to match
This water's pleasant tune
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! nores
On silence Mathew Izr, and syed
The spring beneath the tree;
Ani share the bez old Man replied,
The get-hard Man of glee.-
* My eyes are aim with childish tears,
My heart is idy stirra,
For the same sound is in my ears,
Which in those days I heard.
- Thus fares it still in our decay:
And ver the wiser mind
Mourns less for what age takes away
Than what it leaves behind.
en The black bird in the summer trees, t ark upva che hill,
For a sheir carols when they please, A yer 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; beaut ,
“ But we are press'd by heavy laws,
And often, glad no more,' 'Arre,
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 approv'd,
And many love me, but by none
Am I enough belov'd!"
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 grasp'd his hands, and said,
• Alas! that cannot be.".