66 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; "No fountain from its rocky cave "There came from me a sigh of pain Which I could ill confine; I looked at her, and looked again: Matthew is in his grave, yet now, XVII. THE FOUNTAIN. A CONVERSATION. We talked 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, And from the turf a fountain broke, 66 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 In silence Matthew lay, and eyed And thus the dear old man replied, "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, How oft, a vigorous man, I lay "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: Mourns less for what age takes away "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 happy youth, and their old age "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 be one who need bemoan His kindred laid in earth, The household hearts that were his own, It is the man of mirth. 66 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! Upon these happy plains, 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 e; Of the green sheep-track did we glide; And, ere we came to Leonard's rock, About the crazy old church clock, XVIII. LINES WRITTEN WHILE SAILING IN A BOAT AT EVENING. How richly glows the water's breast Such views the youthful Bard allure; And let him nurse his fond deceit, Who would not cherish dreams so sweet, XIX. REMEMBRANCE OF COLLINS, COMPOSED UPON THE THAMES NEAR RICHMOND. GLIDE gently, thus for ever glide, O Thames! that other Bards may see As now, fair River! come to me. Vain thought!-Yet be as now thou art, The image of a poet's heart, How bright, how solemn, how serene! Such as did once the Poet bless, But in the milder grief of pity. * Collins's Ode on the Death of Thomson, the last written, I believe, of the poems which were published during his life-time. This Ode is also alluded to in the next stanza. |