We walk'd along, while bright and red

Uprose the morning sun,

And Matthew stopp'd, he look'd, and said,

"The will of God be done!"

A village Schoolmaster was he,

With hair of glittering grey;

As blithe a man as you could see

On a spring holiday.

And on that morning, through the grass,

And by the steaming rills,

We travell'd merrily to pass

A day among the hills.

"Our work," said I, "was well begun;

Then, from thy breast what thought,

Beneath so beautiful a sun,

So sad a sigh has brought?"

A second time did Matthew stop,

And fixing still his eye

Upon the eastern mountain-top

To me he made reply.

Yon cloud with that long purple cleft

Brings fresh into my mind

A day like this which I have left

Full thirty years behind.

And on that slope of springing corn

The self-same crimson hue

Fell from the sky that April morn,

The same which now I view!

With rod and line my silent sport

I plied by Derwent's wave,

And, coming to the church, stopp'd short

Beside my Daughter's grave.

Nine summers had she scarcely seen

The pride of all the vale;

And then she sang! — she would have been

A very nightingale.

Six feet in earth my Emma lay,

And yet I lov'd her more,

For so it seem'd, than till that day

I e'er had lov'd before.

And, turning from her grave, I met

Beside the church-yard Yew

A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet

With points of morning dew.