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The mattock tottered in his hand;
That at the root of the old tree
He might have worked for ever.
"You're overtasked, good Simon Lee;
I struck, and with a single blow
At which the poor old man so long
The tears into his eyes were brought,
They never would have done.
-I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds
Alas! the gratitude of men
In the school of Hawkshead 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 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,
And if a sleeping tear should wake,
For Matthew a request I make,
Which for himself he had not made.
Poor Matthew-all his frolics o'er-
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 !
That these two words of glittering gold
THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS.
WE walk'd along, while bright and red
And Matthew stopped, he looked and said, "The will of God be done!"
A village schoolmaster was he,
And on that morning, through the grass,
And by the steaming rills,
We travelled merrily, to pass
"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;
Upon the eastern mountain-top,
To me he made reply :
"Yon cloud with that long purple cleft
A day like this, which I have left
"And just above yon slope of corn
"With rod and line I sued the sport
Which that sweet season gave, And, coming to the church, stopped 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 loved her more,
For so it seemed, than till that day
“And turning from her grave, I met,
A blooming girl, whose hair was wet
"A basket on her head she bare; Her brow was smooth and white;