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THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS.
We walked along, while bright and red
And Matthew stopped, he looked, 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 travelled 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 just above yon slope of corn
With rod and line I sued the sport
Which that sweet season gave,
And, to the church-yard come, stopped 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.
Six feet in earth my Emma lay;
And yet I loved her more,
For so it seemed, than till that day
And, turning from her grave, I met,
A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet
A basket on her head she bare;
No fountain from its rocky cave
There came from me a sigh of pain
I looked at her, and looked again:
Matthew is in his grave, yet now,
THE FOUNTAIN. A CONVERSATION.
We talked with open heart, and tongue
A pair of friends, though I was young,
We lay beneath a spreading oak,
Beside a mossy seat;
And from the turf a fountain broke,
'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
'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,
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
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 amid leafy trees,
The lark above the hill,
Let loose their carols when they please,
With Nature never do they wage
A happy youth, and their old age
But we are pressed by heavy laws;
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.
My days, my Friend, are almost gone,
My life has been approved,
And many love me; but by none
'Now both himself and me he wrongs,
The man who thus complains!
I live and sing my idle songs
And, Matthew, for thy children dead
At this he grasped my hand, and said, 'Alas! that cannot be.'
We rose up from the fountain-side ;
Of the green sheep-track did we glide;
And, ere we came to Leonard's rock,
THERE WAS A BOY.
There was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs
That they might answer him.—And they would shout
Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung
Has carried far into his heart the voice
This boy was taken from his mates, and died In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old. Pre-eminent in beauty is the vale
Where he was born and bred the church-yard hangs Upon a slope above the village-school;