172 SPRING-TIDE. 



thinking of the quaint, but somewhat coarse 

 rhyming admonition which the rustics sing 

 to the note of the blackbird : 



" Barnaby, Barnaby take for a warning, 

 Be no more dry, nor drunk of a morning ; 

 Barnaby, Barnaby lies in his grave, 

 All the churchyard doth stink of a knave ! " 



It always recurs to my memory when the 

 Spring returns and the ousel's note is heard 

 loudest in brake and bush. There, too, 

 is the memorial of one with whom I have 

 often fished these streams ; one who, 

 though young, was yet not unprepared, the 

 hope and pride of his fond parents. " How, 

 now, foolish rheum ! " regret is vain and 

 profitless : 



11 Whom the gods love die young," was said of yore, 

 And many deaths do they escape by this : 



The death of friends, and that which slays even more 

 The death of friendship, love, youth, all that is, 



Except mere breath ; and since the silent shore 

 Awaits at last even those whom longest miss 



The old archer's shafts, perhaps the early grave, 



Which men weep over may be meant to save !" 



