A Conversation

We talked with open heart, and tongueAffectionate 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 matchThis water's pleasant tuneWith some old border-song, or catchThat suits a summer's noon;

"Or of the church-clock and the chimesSing here beneath the shade,That half-mad thing of witty rhymesWhich you last April made!"

In silence Matthew lay, and eyedThe 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 thinkHow oft, a vigorous man, I layBeside this fountain's brink.

"My eyes are dim with childish tears,My heart is idly stirred,For the same sound is in my earsWhich in those days I heard.

"Thus fares it still in our decay:And yet the wiser mindMourns less for what age takes awayThan 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 wageA foolish strife; they seeA happy youth, and their old ageIs beautiful and free:

"But we are pressed by heavy laws;And often, glad no more,We wear a face of joy, becauseWe have been glad of yore.

"If there be one who need bemoanHis 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 noneAm I enough beloved."

"Now both himself and me he wrongs,The man who thus complains!I live and sing my idle songsUpon these happy plains;

"And, Matthew, for thy children deadI'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 descentOf 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 rhymesAbout the crazy old church-clock,And the bewildered chimes.