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A small cascade fresh swoln with snows
"Dost thou presume my course to block;
I'll hurl thee headlong with the rock
The flood was tyrannous and strong;
Hoping the danger would be past:
"Ah!" said the Briar, "blame me not;
Why should we dwell in strife?
Once lived a happy life!
You stirred me on my rocky bed
What pleasure through my veins you spread!
The Summer long, from day to day,
My leaves you freshened and bedewed;
Nor was it common gratitude
That did your cares repay.
When Spring came on with bud and bell,
Among these rocks did I
Before you hang my wreaths, to tell
And, in the sultry summer hours,
I sheltered you with leaves and flowers;
But now proud thoughts are in your breastWhat grief is mine you see.
Ah! would you think, even yet how blest
Together we might be!
Though of both leaf and flower bereft,
Some ornaments to me are left
Rich store of scarlet hips is mine,
What more he said I cannot tell.
I listened, nor aught else could hear;
THE FOUNTAIN;-A CONVERSATION. We talked with open heart, and tongue Affectionate and true,
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
"Down to the vale this water steers,
"T will murmur on a thousand years, And flow as now it flows.
And here, upon this delightful day,
How oft, a vigorous man, I lay
My eyes are dim with childish tears,
My heart is idly stirred,
For the same sound is in my ears
Thus fares it still in our decay:
Mourns less for what age takes away
The Blackbird in the summer trees,
Let loose their carols when they please,
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;
We wear a face of joy, because
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
At this he grasped my hand, and said,
We rose up from the fountain-side;
Of the green sheep-track did we glide;
And, ere we came to Leonard's rock,
STUDIES IN POETRY.
TO HIS BROTHER.
THE Minstrels played their Christmas tune
The encircling Laurels, thick with leaves,
Through hill and valley every breeze
- And who but listened?-till was paid
O Brother! I revere the choice:
Yet, would that thou, with me and mine,
A true revival of the light,
Which nature and these rustic powers,
For pleasure hath not ceased to wait
How touching, when, at midnight, sweep.
The mutual nod,-the grave disguise
For names once heard, and heard no more;
For infant in the cradle laid!
Ah! not for emerald fields alone,
With ambient streams more pure and bright
Glittering before the thunderer's sight,
The ground where we were born and reared!
Hail, ancient manners! sure defence,
And ye that guard them, mountains old!
Bear with me, brother! quench the thought
Yes, they can make, who fail to find,
And profit by those kindly rays
That through the clouds do sometimes steal,
And all the far-off past reveal.
Hence, while the imperial city's din
Beats frequent on thy satiate ear,
A pleased attention I may win
To agitations less severe,
That neither overwhelm nor cloy,
But fill the hollow vale with joy!
SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways
A Maid whom there were none to praise,