But for those first affections, Are yet the fountain light of all our day, Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy! Hence in a season of calm weather Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Can in a moment travel thither, X. Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song! As to the tabor's sound! We in thought will join your throng, Ye that pipe and ye that play, What though the radiance which was once so bright Though nothing can bring back the hour Which having been must ever be; In the faith that looks through death, XI. And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might: To live beneath your more habitual sway. I love the Brooks which down their channels fret, Even more than when I tripped lightly as they : The innocent brightness of a new-born Day Is lovely yet; The Clouds that gather round the setting sun That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; 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, Beside a mossy seat; And from the turf a fountain broke, And gurgled at our feet. 'Now, Matthew!' said I, 'let us 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 In silence Matthew lay, and eyed, The spring beneath the tree; And thus the dear old man replied, The grey-haired man of glee: '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, 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, 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 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, And many love me; but, by none 'Now both himself and me he wrongs, And Matthew, for thy children dead At this he grasped my hand, and said, We rose up from the fountain-side; Of the green sheep-track did we glide; And, ere we came to Leonard's rock, About the crazy old church-clock, JPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE. Earth has not anything to show more fair, |