"Our work," said I, was well begun; "Then, from thy breast what thought,

"Beneath so beautiful a sun,

"So sad a sigh has brought?"

A second time did Matthew stop;

And, fixing still his eye

Upon the eastern mountain-top,

To me he made reply.

"A day like this which I have left

"Full thirty years behind.

"And just above yon slope of corn

"Such colours, and no other

"Were in the sky, that April morn,

Of this the very brother.

"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 sung;-she would have been

"A very nightingale.

"Six feet in earth my Emma lay;

"And yet I lov'd her more,

"For so it seem'd, than till that day

"I e'er had lov'd before.

"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 bare;

"Her brow was smooth and white:

To see a Child so very fair, "It was a pure delight!

"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 came from me a sigh of pain "Which I could ill confine;

" I look'd at her and look'd again: "And did not wish her mine."

Matthew is in his grave, yet now

Methinks I see him stand,

As at that moment, with his bough
Of wilding in his hand.

The FOUNTAIN,

A Conversation.

We talk'd 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! let us try to 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 whitty 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.

"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,

"I cannot chuse but think

"How oft, a vigorous Man, I lay

"Beside this Fountain's brink.