'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_ CCCXXXII _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 care-worn 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_ CCCXXXIII _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 loves 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. _J. Keats_ CCCXXXIV _A DIRGE_ Rough wind, that meanest loud Grief too sad for song; Wild wind, when sullen cloud Knells all the night long; Sad storm whose tears are vain, Bare woods whose branches stain, Deep caves and dreary main,-- Wail for the world's wrong! _P. B. Shelley_ CCCXXXV _THRENOS_