'Or of the church-clock and the chime 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 gray-hair'd 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 stirr'd,

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 press'd 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 grasp'd 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 bewilder'd chimes.

W. Wordsworth

CCLXXXIII

THE RIVER OF LIFE

The more we live, more brief appear
Our life's succeeding stages:
A day to childhood seems a year,
And years like passing ages.

The gladsome current of our youth
Ere passion yet disorders,
Steals lingering like a river smooth
Along its grassy borders.

But as the careworn cheek grows wan,
And sorrow's shafts fly thicker,
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?

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?

Heaven gives our years of fading strength
Indemnifying fleetness;

And those of youth, a seeming length,
Proportion'd to their sweetness.
T. Campbell

CCLXXXIV

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 :

He has his Summer, when luxuriously
Spring's honey'd cud of youthful thought he love
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.

7. Keats

CCLXXXV

A LAMENT

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-O never more!

Out of the day and night

A joy has taken flight:

Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight No more-O never more!

P. B. Shelley

CCLXXXVI

My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began,
So is it now I am a man,

So be it when I shall grow old
Or let me die !

The Child is father of the Man :

And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.

W. Wordsworth

CCLXXXVII

ODE ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight

To me did seem
Apparell'd in celestial light,

The glory and the freshness of a dream.

It is not now as it has been of yore ;-
Turn wheresoe'er I may,

By night or day,

The things which I have seen I now can see no more!

The rainbow comes and goes,
And lovely is the rose;

The moon doth with delight

Look round her when the heavens are bare;
Waters on a starry night

Are beautiful and fair;

The sunshine is a glorious birth;

But yet I know, where'er I go,

That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth.

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
And while the young lambs bound

As to the tabor's sound,

To me alone there came a thought of grief:
A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
And I again am strong.

The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep,—
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong:
I hear the echoes through the mountains throng,
The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
And all the earth is gay;
Land and sea

Give themselves up to jollity,
And with the heart of May
Doth every beast keep holiday ;-
Thou child of joy

Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy
Shepherd boy!

Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call
Ye to each other make; I see

The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ;
My heart is at your festival,

My head hath its coronal,

The fulness of your bliss, I feel-I feel it all.
O evil day! if I were sullen

While Earth herself is adorning

This sweet May morning;