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, 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 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 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:

"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 stirred, 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. [A]

"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 pressed 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 grasped 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 bewildered chimes.

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