A second time did Matthew stop;
And fixing still his eye

Upon the eastern mountain-top,
To me he made reply:

'Yon cloud with that long purple cleft
Brings fresh into my mind

A day like this, which I have left
Full thirty years behind.

20

'And turning from her grave, I met,
Beside the churchyard yew,

A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet
With points of morning dew.

'A basket on her head she bare;

45

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.

50

We talk'd with open heart, and tongue
Affectionate and true,

A pair of friends, though I was young,
And Matthew seventy-two.

CCCXXXI.

We lay beneath a spreading oak,

5

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

10

With some old border-song, or catch

That suits a summer's noon;

'Or of the church-clock and the chimes

'No check, no stay, this Streamlet fears,
How merrily it goes!

"Twill murmur on a thousand years

And flow as now it flows.

ad her in s teghi tay,
I cannor those it think
How in a vigorous naa. I ay
Beside this intain's rink.

My ones are

My hears

fim with childish tears,
y sir" i

For the same sound is in my ears

Which in these days I heard.

Let loose their carnis when they please,
Are quiet when they will

40

'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 friends, 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:

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'And Matthew, for thy children dead I'll be a son to thee!'

CXXV.

At this he grasp'd my hand and said
'Alas! that cannot be.'

-We rose up from the fountain-side;
And down the smooth descent

65

Of the green sheep-track did we glide;
And through the wood we went;

But as the care-worn cheek grows wan,
And sorrow's shafts fly thicker,

10

Ye Stars, that measure life to man,

Why seem your courses quicker?

When joys have lost their bloom and breath
And life itself is vapid,

Why, as we reach the Falls of Death,
Feel we its tide more rapid?

15

It may be strange-yet who would change
Time's course to slower speeding,

When one by one our friends have gone
And left our bosoms bleeding?

20

Heaven gives our years of fading strength
Indemnifying fleetness;

And those of youth, a seeming length,
Proportion'd to their sweetness.

T. Campbell.

CXXVI.

CCCXXXIII.

THE HUMAN SEASONS.

Four seasons fill the measure of the year;
There are four seasons in the mind of man:
He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear
Takes in all beauty with an easy span:

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He has his Summer, when luxuriously
Spring's honey'd cud of youthful thought he loves
To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
Is nearest unto heaven quiet coves

His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings
He furleth close; contented so to look
On mists in idleness-to let fair things
Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.

He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,
Or else he would forego his mortal nature.

J. Keats.

10

O World! O Life! O Time!

On whose last steps I climb,

Trembling at that where I had stood before;
When will return the glory of your prime ?
No more Oh, never more!

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