The Poem
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| We talked 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!" 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!" 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 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 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 Is beautiful and free: "But we are pressed by heavy laws; And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy, because We have been glad of yore. "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." We rose up from the fountain-side; And down the smooth descent Of the green sheep-track did we glide; And through the wood we went; And, ere we came to Leonard's rock, He sang those witty rhymes About the crazy old church-clock, And the bewildered chimes. [Contents] | [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] | [A] | 5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 65 70 |
| 1820 | |
| Now, Matthew, let us try to match | 1800 |
Now, Matthew, let us try to match
| 1837 | |
| Down to the vale this water steers, | 1800 |
| Down to the vale with eager speed Behold this streamlet run, From subterranean bondage freed, And glittering in the sun. | C. |
| From subterranean darkness freed, A pleasant course to run. | C. |
| Down to the vale this streamlet hies, Look, how it seems to run, As if 't were pleased with summer skies, And glad to meet the sun. | C. |
| And glad to greet the sun. | MS. |
| No guide it needs, no check it fears, How merrily it goes! 'Twill murmur on a thousand years, And flow as now it flows. | C. |
| Down towards the vale with eager speed, Behold this streamlet run As if 'twere pleased with summer skies And glad to meet the sun. | C. |
Down to the vale this water steers,
Down to the vale with eager speed
Behold this streamlet run,
From subterranean bondage freed,
And glittering in the sun.
From subterranean darkness freed,
A pleasant course to run.
Down to the vale this streamlet hies,
Look, how it seems to run,
As if 't were pleased with summer skies,
And glad to meet the sun.
And glad to greet the sun.
No guide it needs, no check it fears,
How merrily it goes!
'Twill murmur on a thousand years,
And flow as now it flows.
Down towards the vale with eager speed,
Behold this streamlet run
As if 'twere pleased with summer skies
And glad to meet the sun.
| 1837 | |
| The blackbird in the summer trees, The lark upon the hill, | 1800 |
The blackbird in the summer trees,
The lark upon the hill,
| 1832 | |
| ... is .... | 1800 and MS. |
... is ....
| 1815 | |
| ... his hands, ... | 1800 |
... his hands, ...
"Pour me plaindre a moy, regarde noti tant ce qu'on moste, que ce qui me reste de sauvre, et dedans et dehors."
Montaigne,
Essais
, iii. 12.
Compare also:
"Themistocles quidem, cum ei Simonides, an quis alius artem memoriæ polliceretur, Oblivionis, inquit, mallem; nam memini etiam quæ nolo, oblivisci non possum quæ volo."
Cicero,
De Finibus
, II. 32
.—Ed.
[1799 Contents]
[Main Contents]