And yet I loved her more— For so it seem'd, — 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 look'd at her, and look'd again: - Matthew is in his grave, yet now THE FOUNTAIN A CONVERSATION WE talk'd with open heart, and tongue Affectionate and true, 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 Sing here beneath the shade That half-mad thing of witty rhymes Which you last April made!" In silence Matthew lay, and eyed The spring beneath the tree; And thus the dear old man replied, The gray-hair'd man of glee : "No check, no stay, this Streamlet fears, 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 How oft, a vigorous man, I lay "My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirr'd, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard. "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. And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy, because "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 Am I enough beloved." "Now both himself and me he wrongs, The man who thus complains! I live and sing my idle songs 66 And, Matthew, for thy children dead I'll be a son to thee!" At this he grasp'd 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 And the bewilder'd chimes. THE world is too much with us: late and soon, We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC ONCE did She hold the gorgeous East in fee; When her long life hath reach'd its final day: UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPT. 3, 1802 EARTH has not anything to show more fair : This City now doth, like a garment, wear All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill; LONDON, 1802 I O FRIEND! I know not which way I must look For comfort, being, as I am, opprest To think that now our life is only drest For show; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook, MILTON! thou shouldst be living at this hour: |