THE FOUNTAIN. 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, "Now, Matthew! let us try to match This water's pleasant tune "Or of the church-clock and the chimes How merrily it goes! 'T will murmur on a thousand years, And flow as now it flows. "And here, on this delightful day I cannot choose but think "My eyes are dim with childish tears, "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 We have been glad of yore. 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, "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, I'll be a son to thee !" At this he grasped my hand, and sa'd, 'Alas! that cannot be." THE Country was enclosed; a wide And sandy road had banks on either side; Where, lo! a hollow on the left appear'd, And there a gipsy tribe their tent had rear'd; 'Twas open spread, to catch the morning sun, And they had now their early meal begun, When two brown boys just left their grassy seat, The early Trav'ller with their prayers to greet. While yet Orlando held his pence in hand, He saw their sister on her duty stand; Some twelve years old, demure, affected, sly, Prepared the force of early powers to try: Sudden a look of langour he descries, And well-feigned apprehension in her eyes; Train'd but yet savage, in her speaking face He mark'd the features of her vagrant race, When a light laugh and roguish leer express'd The vice implanted in her youthful breast. Forth from the tent her elder brother came, Who seem'd offended, yet forbore to blame The young designer, but could only trace The looks of pity in the Trav'ller's face. CRABBE. O JOY! that in our embers Is something that doth live, The thought of our past years in me doth breed For that which is most worthy to be blest; Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledg'd hope still fluttering in his breast: The song of thanks and praise; But for those obstinate questionings Fallings from us, vanishings; Moving about in worlds not realized, High instincts before which our mortal Nature Did tremble, like a guilty thing surprised! But for those first affections Those shadowy recollections, Which, be they what they may, Are yet the fountain light of all our day, Are yet a master light of all our seeing; 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— And see the Children sport upon the shore, WORDSWORTH. |