Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? O joy! that in our embers The thought of our past years in me doth breed For that which is most worthy to be blest, Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, The song of thanks and praise; Moving about in worlds not realized, High instincts, before which our mortal nature But for those first affections, Those shadowy recollections, Which, be they what they may, Are yet the fountain-light of all our day, Are yet a master-light of all our seeing; Uphold us-cherish-and have power to make Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy! Hence, in a season of calm weather Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea . Which brought us hither; Can in a moment travel thither And see the children sport upon the shore, Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song! As to the tabor's sound! We, in thought, will join your throng Ye that through your hearts to-day Feel the gladness of the May! What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Which having been must ever be, In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind. And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, I only have relinquish'd one delight To live beneath your more habitual sway; I love the brooks which down their channels fret Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they; The innocent brightness of a new-born day Is lovely yet; The clouds that gather round the setting sun Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 365 366 Thanks to the human heart by which we live, MY HEART LEAPS UP My heart leaps up when I behold So was it when my life began, So be it when I shall grow old Or let me die! The Child is father of the Man: THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS WE walk'd along, while bright and red And Matthew stopp'd, he look'd, and said A village schoolmaster was he, 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 travell'd merrily, to pass A day among the hills. 'Our work,' said I, 'was well begun; 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 'With rod and line I sued the sport Which that sweet season gave, 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 sang:-she would have been A very nightingale. 'Six feet in earth my Emma lay; And yet I loved her more For so it seem'd,-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; To see a child so very fair, 'No fountain from its rocky cave 'There came from me a sigh of pain I look'd at her, and look'd again: -Matthew is in his grave, yet now As at that moment, with a bough 367 THE FOUNTAIN A Conversation WE talk'd 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 Which you last April made!' |