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 :

"Down to the vale this water steers,

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

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,

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

At this he grasped his hands, 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.

1799.

THE DANISH BOY.

A FRAGMENT.

I.

BETWEEN two sister moorland rills
There is a spot that seems to lie
Sacred to flowrets of the hills,
And sacred to the sky.

And in this smooth and open dell
There is a tempest-stricken tree;
A corner-stone by lightning cut,
The last stone of a cottage hut;
And in this dell you see

A thing no storm can e'er destroy,
The shadow of a Danish Boy.

II.

In clouds above, the lark is heard,
But drops not here to earth for rest :
Within this nook the lonesome bird

Did never build her nest.

No beast, no bird hath here his home;
Bees, wafted on the breezy air,
Pass high above those fragrant bells
To other flowers; to other dells
Their burthens do they bear;

The Danish Boy walks here alone:
The lovely dell is all his own.

III.

A Spirit of noon-day is he;

He seems a form of flesh and blood;
Nor piping shepherd shall he be,
Nor herd-boy of the wood.

A regal vest of fur he wears,
In colour like a raven's wing;

It fears not rain, nor wind, nor dew;
But in the storm 'tis fresh and blue
As budding pines in spring;
His helmet was a vernal grace,
Fresh as the bloom upon his face.

IV.

A harp is from his shoulder slung ;
He rests the harp upon his knee;
And there, in a forgotten tongue,
He warbles melody.

Of flocks upon the neighbouring hill
He is the darling and the joy;
And often, when no cause appears,

The mountain ponies prick their ears,

They hear the Danish Boy,

While in the dell he sits alone

Beside the tree and corner-stone.

1799.

V.

There sits he in his face you spy
No trace of a ferocious air,
Nor ever was a cloudless sky
So steady or so fair.

The lovely Danish Boy is blest
And happy in his flowery cove:
From bloody deeds his thoughts are far,
And yet he warbles songs of war,
That seem like songs of love,

For calm and gentle is his mien ;
Like a dead Boy he is serene.

LUCY GRAY; OR, SOLITUDE.

OFT I had heard of Lucy Gray:
And, when I crossed the wild,
I chanced to see at break of day
The solitary child.

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew ;
She dwelt on a wide moor—
The sweetest thing that ever grew
Beside a human door!