Lyrical Ballads with Other Poems, 1800 Volume Ii Part 9

_In the School of ---- is a tablet on which are inscribed, in gilt letters, the names of the federal persons who have been Schoolmasters there since the foundation of the School, with the time at which they entered upon and quitted their office. Opposite one of those names the Author wrote the following lines_.

If Nature, for a favorite Child In thee hath temper'd so her clay, That every hour thy heart runs wild Yet never once doth go astray,

Read o'er these lines; and then review This tablet, that thus humbly rears In such diversity of hue Its history of two hundred years.

--When through this little wreck of fame, Cypher and syllable, thine eye Has travell'd down to Matthew's name, Pause with no common sympathy.

And if a sleeping tear should wake Then be it neither check'd nor stay'd: For Matthew a request I make Which for himself he had not made.

Poor Matthew, all his frolics o'er, Is silent as a standing pool, Far from the chimney's merry roar, And murmur of the village school.

The sighs which Matthew heav'd were sighs Of one tir'd out with fun and madness; The tears which came to Matthew's eyes Were tears of light, the oil of gladness.

Yet sometimes when the secret cup Of still and serious thought went round It seem'd as if he drank it up, He felt with spirit so profound.

--Thou soul of G.o.d's best earthly mould, Thou happy soul, and can it be That these two words of glittering gold Are all that must remain of thee?

The Two April Mornings.

We walk'd along, while bright and red Uprose the morning sun, And Matthew stopp'd, he look'd, and said, "The will of G.o.d 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 gra.s.s, And by the steaming rills, We travell'd merrily to pa.s.s 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.

The FOUNTAIN, _A Conversation_.

We talk'd 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, let us try to 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!

On silence Matthew lay, and eyed The spring beneath the tree; And thus the dear old Man replied, The grey-hair'd Man of glee.

"Down to the vale this water steers, How merrily it goes!

Twill murmur on a thousand years, And flow as now it flows."

And here, on this delightful day, I cannot chuse 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 stirr'd, 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.

The blackbird in the summer trees, The lark upon 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 press'd by heavy laws, And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy, because We have been glad of yore.

If there is one who need bemoan His kindred laid in earth, The houshold hearts that were his own, It is the man of mirth.

"My days, my Friend, are almost gone, My life has been approv'd, And many love me, but by none Am I enough belov'd."

"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 grasp'd his hands, 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 bewilder'd chimes.