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"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..
WRITTEN WHILE SAILING IN A BOAT AT EVENING.
How richly glows the water's breast
And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam,
Such views the youthful Bard allure;
Who would not cherish dreams so sweet,
Though grief and pain may come to-morrow?
REMEMBRANCE OF COLLINS,
Written upon the Thames near Richmond.
GLIDE gently, thus for ever glide,
As now, fair River! come to me.
Vain thought!....Yet be as now thou art,
The image of a poet's heart,
How bright, how solemn, how serene!
Who murmuring here a later* ditty,
But in the milder grief of pity.
Now let us, as we float along,
For him suspend the dashing oar;
* Collins's Ode on the death of Thomson, the last written, I believe, of the poems which were published during his lifetime. This Ode is also alluded to in the next stanza.
I AM not One who much or oft delight