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A second time did Matthew stop,
• Yon cloud with that long púrple cleft Brings fresh into
mind • A day like this which have left Full thirty years behind.
And on that slope of springing corni « 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 • A very nightingale.
• Six feet in earth my Emma lay,
• 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 • E’er tripp'd with foot so free,
She seem'd as happy as a wave « That dances on the sea.
• There caine from me a sigh of pain
Matthew is in his
grave, yet now
WE talk'd with open heart, and tongue
We lay beneath a spreading oak,
Now, Matthew, let us try to match
Or of the Church-clock and the Chimes
you last April made!
On silence Matthew lay, and eyed
“ Down to the vale this water steers, How merrily it goes! 'Twill murmur on a thousand years, And flow as now it flows.
“ And here, on this delightful day,
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:
“ The black-bird 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
“ But we are press'd by heavy laws,
“ If there is one who need bemoan
“ My days, my friend, are almost gone,
me, but by none Am I enough belov'd !'
Now both himself and me he wrongs,
And Matthew, for thy Children dead