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Yet, sometimes, when the secret cup
-Thou soul of God's best earthly mould!
THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS.
WE walked along, while bright and red
And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said,
A village schoolmaster was he,
With hair of glittering grey;
As blithe a man as you could see
On a spring holiday.
And on that morning, through the grass,
And by the steaming rills,
We travelled merrily, to pass
A day among the hills.
"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;
Upon the eastern mountain-top,
"Yon cloud with that long purple cleft
A day like this which I have left
And just above yon slope of corn
Such colours, and no other,
Of this the very brother.
With rod and line I sued the sport
Which that sweet season gave,
And, to the church-yard come, stopped 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 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,
A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet
A basket on her head she bare;
Her brow was smooth and white:
No fountain from its rocky cave
There came from me a sigh of pain
I looked at her, and looked again:
Matthew is in his grave, yet now,
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
Or of the church-clock and the chimes
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,
I cannot choose but think
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:
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 foolish strife; they see
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."