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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.
IF Nature, for a favorite child,
In thee hath tempered so her clay,
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,
Has travelled down to Matthew's name,
And, if a sleeping tear should wake,
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,
The sighs which Matthew heaved were sighs
Yet, sometimes, when the secret cup
Thou Soul of God's best earthly mould!
THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS.
WE walked along, while bright and red
And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said, "The will of God be done!"
A village schoolmaster was he,
With hair of glittering gray;
As blithe a man as you could see
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,
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 just above yon slope of corn
Such colors, and no other,
Were in the sky, that April morn,
Of this the very brother.
"With rod and line I sued the sport
Which that sweet season gave,
And, to the churchyard come, stopped short
"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, Beside the churchyard yew,
A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet
With points of morning dew.
"A basket on her head she bare;
"No fountain from its rocky cave E'er tripped with foot so free; She seemed as happy as a wave
That dances on the sea.
"There came from me a sigh of pain
Which I could ill confine;
I looked at her, and looked again:
Matthew is in his grave, yet now,
We talked with open heart, and tongue
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
This water's pleasant tune
With some old border-song, or catch
That suits a summer's noon;