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Bred in this vale to which he appertain’d

       With all his ancestry. Then peace to him

       And for the outrage which he had devis’d

       Entire forgiveness. — But if thou art one

       On fire with thy impatience to become

       An Inmate of these mountains, if disturb’d

       By beautiful conceptions, thou hast hewn

       Out of the quiet rock the elements

       Of thy trim mansion destin’d soon to blaze

       In snow-white splendour, think again, and taught

       By old Sir William and his quarry, leave

       Thy fragments to the bramble and the rose,

       There let the vernal slow-worm sun himself,

       And let the redbreast hop from stone to stone.

      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 God’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 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 selfsame 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 churchyard Yew

       A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet

       With points of morning dew.

THE FOUNTAIN.

       Table of Contents

      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

      

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