Ed.]

* * * * *

THE FOUNTAIN

A CONVERSATION

Composed 1799.—­Published 1800

One of the “Poems of Sentiment and Reflection.”—­Ed.

  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, 5
  Beside a mossy seat;
  And from the turf a fountain broke,
  And gurgled at our feet.

  “Now, Matthew!” said I, “let us match [1]
  This water’s pleasant tune 10
  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 15
  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:  20

  “No check, no stay, this Streamlet fears; [2]
  How merrily it goes! 
  ’Twill murmur on a thousand years,
  And flow as now it flows.

  “And here, on this delightful day, 25
  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, 30
  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 35
  Than what it leaves behind. [A]

  “The blackbird amid leafy trees,
  The lark above the hill, [3]
  Let loose their carols when they please,
  Are quiet when they will. 40

  “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; 45
  And often, glad no more,
  We wear a face of joy, because
  We have been glad of yore.

  “If there be [4] one who need bemoan
  His kindred laid in earth, 50
  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 55
  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; 60

  “And, Matthew, for thy children dead
  I’ll be a son to thee!”
  At this he grasped my hand, [5] and said,
  “Alas! that cannot be.”