They left: again all silence in the dell
Save hum of bumble-bee on nimble wing,
Or zephyr sporting round the wild blue bell,
While fancy feigned some tiny tinkle-ring.
[Footnote A: Some readers may recognise in the old woman's song
portions of an ancient ditty that used to be chanted in a
wailing cadence in several parts of Scotland. I suspect the song
as a whole is lost--the more to be regretted for its sweet
simplicity and melodious wail (so far as judged in the
fragments), which in a modern song would be viewed as weakness
or affectation. Indeed, the modes of thought and feeling that
belong to what is called advanced civilisation are impatient of
these things except as rude relics of yet untutored minds; and
the pleasure with which they are accepted has in it perhaps a
grain of pity for those that didn't know better than produce
them. Yet, as regards mere poetical feeling at least, the nearer
the fountainhead the purer the water.]
IV.
And is not youth, thought I, a vulgar thing,
When lording over WISDOM'S ancient reign?
What may avail the brilliancy of spring
If autumn yields no hoards of garnered grain?
Experience is the daughter of old Time,
Mother of Wisdom, last and noblest born,
Who comes as Faith to help our waning prime,
To cheer the night of age and light the morn.
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