Six feet in earth my Emma lay; And yet I loved her more, For so it seemed, than till that day I e'er had loved before. And, turning from her grave, I met, Beside the churchyard yew, 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 Which I could ill confine; I looked at her, and looked again: Matthew is in his grave, yet now, CVIII 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, 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 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, My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, 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. With Nature never do they wage A happy youth, and their old age But we are pressed by heavy laws; 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 Upon these happy plains; And, Matthew, for thy children dead I'll be a son to thee !" At this he grasped my hand, and said, "Alas! that cannot be." We rose up from the fountain-side ; And, ere we came to Leonard's rock, About the crazy old church-clock, 1799 In the School of CIX MATTHEW is a tablet, on which are inscribed, in gilt letters, the Names of the several persons who have been School-masters there since the foundation of the School, with the time at which they entered upon and quitted their office. Opposite to one of those names the Author wrote the following lines. IF Nature, for a favourite child, In thee hath tempered so her clay, Read o'er these lines; and then review In such diversity of hue Its history of two hundred years. |