In the School of is a tablet, on which are inscribed, in gilt letters, the Names of the several 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 to one of those Names the Author wrote the following lines. [Such a tablet as is here spoken of continued to be preserved in Hawkshead School, though the inscriptions were not brought down to our time. This, and other poems connected with Matthew, would not gain by a literal detail of facts. Like the Wanderer in "The Excursion," this Schoolmaster was made up of several, both of his class and men of other occupations. I do not ask pardon for what there is of untruth in such verses, considered strictly as matters of fact. It is enough, if, being true and consistent in spirit, they move and teach in a manner not unworthy of a Poet's calling.] In edd. 1800 to 1820 the title of this Poem was "Lines written on a Tablet in a School." In edd. 1827 to 1832 it was known by its first line, "If Nature, for a favourite child." After 1836 it was called "Matthew." The Tablet with the names of the Masters inscribed on it still exists in Hawkshead School.-ED. IF Nature, for a favourite child, Read o'er these lines; and then review In such diversity of hue Its history of two hundred years. -When through this little wreck of fame, Cipher and syllable! thine eye Has travelled down to Matthew's name, Pause with no common sympathy. And, if a sleeping tear should wake, Then be it neither checked nor stayed: Which for himself he had not made. Poor Matthew, all his frolics o'er, The sighs which Matthew heaved were sighs Yet, sometimes, when the secret cup He felt with spirit so profound. -Thou soul of God's best earthly mould! Are all that must remain of thee? WE walked along, while bright and red Uprose the morning sun; And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said, 1800. 1 1815. Were tears of light, the oil of gladness. A village schoolmaster was he, 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 travelled merrily, to pass A day among the hills. "Our work," said I, "was well begun : Then, from thy breast what thought, 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 just above yon slope of corn Such colours, and no other, Were in the sky that April morn, 1 1802. And on that slope of springing corn 1800. With rod and line I sued the sport Which that sweet season gave, And, to the church-yard come, stopped short1 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 loved her more, For so it seemed, than till that day I e'er had loved before. And, turning from her grave, I met, A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet There came from me a sigh of pain I looked at her, and looked again : Matthew is in his grave, yet now, WE talked 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!" said I, "let us match 1 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 Now, Matthew, let us try to match 1800. |