And if a sleeping tear should wake, Poor Matthew, all his frolics o'er, Far from the chimney's merry roar, The sighs which Matthew heav'd were sighs Yet sometimes when the secret cup -Thou soul of God's best earthly mould! Thou happy soul! and can it be That these two words of glittering gold 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, And on that morning, through the grass, And by the steaming rills, We travell'd merrily to pass A day among the hills "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, Upon the eastern mountain-top Yon cloud with that long purple cleft A day like this which I have left • 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 • Six feet in earth my Emma lay, And yet I lov'd her more, "For so it seem'd, than till that day 'I e'er had lov'd before. And, turning from her grave, I met • Beside the church-yard Yew 'A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet "With points of morning dew. * A basket on her head she bear, 'No fountain from its rocky cave 6 ' 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 look'd at her, and look'd again: -And did not wish her mine.' Matthew is in his grave, yet now As at that moment, with his bough THE FOUNTAIN, A Conversation. WE talk'd with open heart, and tongué 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. Now, Matthew, let us try to match 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! |