Or of the church-clock and the chimes

Sing here beneath the shade,

That half-mad thing of witty rhymes,
Which thou last April made."

In silence Matthew lay and eyed
The spring beneath the tree;
And thus the dear old man replied,
The grey-haired 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 choose but think, How oft, a vigorous man, I lay Beside this fountain's brink.

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 in the summer trees,

The lark upon the hill,

Let loose their carols when they please, Are quiet when they will.

The Fountain.

With nature never do they wage

A foolish strife; they see

A happy youth, and their old age
Is beautiful and free:

But we are pressed by heavy law
And often, glad no more,
We wear a face of joy because
We have been glad of yore.

If there is 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,

We rose up from the fountain side,
And down the smooth descent
Of the green sheep-track did we glide,
And through the woods we went;

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And, ere we came to Leonard's Rock,

We sang these witty rhymes
Above the crazy old church-clock,

And the bewildered chimes.

OLD DOBBIN

WORDSWORTH

ERE'S a song for old Dobbin, whose temper and
worth

Are too rare to be spurned on the score of his birth. He's a creature of trust, and what more should we heed! 'Tis deeds, and not blood, make the man and the steed.

He was bred in the forest, and turned on the plain,
Where the thistle-burs clung to his fetlocks and mane.
All ugly and rough, not a soul could espy

The spark of good-nature that dwelt in his eye.

The summer had waned, and the autumn months rolled

Into those of stern winter, all dreary and cold;

But the north wind might whistle, the snow-flake might dance, The colt of the common was left to his chance.

Half-starved and half-frozen, the hail-storm would pelt;

Till his shivering limbs told the pangs that he felt :
But we pitied the brute, and, though laughed at by all;
We filled him a manger and gave him a stall.

He was fond as a spaniel, and soon he became

The pride of the herd-boy, the pet of the dame.
'Tis well that his market-price cannot be known;
But we christened him Dobbin, and called him our own.

Old Dobbin.

He grew out of colthood, and, lo! what a change!
The knowing ones said it was "mortally strange;"
For the foal of the forest, the colt of the waste,
Attracted the notice of jockeys of taste.

The line of his symmetry was not exact;

But his paces were clever, his mould was compact;
And his shaggy thick coat now appeared with a gloss,
Shining out like the gold that's been purged of its dross.

We broke him for service, and tamely he wore

Girth and rein, seeming proud of the thraldom he bore;
Fach farm, it is known, must possess an "odd" steed,
And Dobbin was ours, for all times, and all need.

He carried the master to barter his grain,
And ever returned with him safely again :

There was merit in that, for deny it who may,

When the master could not, Dobbin could find his way.

The dairy-maid ventured her eggs on his back:
'Twas him, and him only, she'd trust with the pack.
The team-horses jolted, the roadster played pranks;
So Dobbin alone had her faith and her thanks.

We fun-loving urchins would group by his side;

We might fearlessly mount him, and daringly ride:

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We might creep through his legs, we might plait his long tail; But his temper and patience were ne'er known to fail.

We would brush his bright hide till 'twas free from a speck;
We kissed his brown muzzle, and hugged his thick neck:
Oh! we prized him like life, and a heart-breaking sob
Ever burst when they threatened to sell our dear Dob.

He stood to the collar, and tugged up the hill,
With the pigs to the market, the grist to the mill;
With saddle or halter, in shaft or in trace;

He was stanch to his work, and content with his place.

When the hot sun was crowning the toil of the year,
He was sent to the reapers with ale and good cheer;
And none in the corn-field more welcome were seen
Than Dob and his well-laden panniers, I ween.

Oh! those days of pure bliss shall I ever forget,
When we decked out his head with the azure rosette;
All frantic with joy to be off to the fair,

With Dobbin, good Dobbin, to carry us there?

He was dear to us all, ay, for many long years;
But, mercy! how's this? my eye's filling with tears.
Oh, how cruelly sweet are the echoes that start;
When memory plays an old tune on the heart!

There are drops on my cheek, there's a throb in my breast;
But my song shall not cease, nor my pen take its rest;

Till I tell that old Dobbin still lives to be seen,
With his oats in the stable, his tares on the green.

His best years have gone by, and the master who gave The stern yoke to his youth has enfranchised the slave: So browse on, my old Dobbin, nor dream of the knife; For the wealth of a king should not purchase thy life. ELIZA COOK