William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Georgian Verse. 1909.
MatthewWilliam Wordsworth (17701850)
I
In thee hath tempered so her clay,
That every hour thy heart runs wild,
Yet never once doth go astray,
This tablet, that thus humbly rears
In such diversity of hue
Its history of two hundred years.
Cipher and syllable! thine eye
Has travelled down to Matthew’s name,
Pause with no common sympathy.
Then be it neither checked nor stayed:
For Matthew a request I make
Which for himself he had not made.
Is silent as a standing pool:
Far from the chimney’s merry roar,
And murmur of the village school.
Of one tired out with fun and madness;
The tears which came to Matthew’s eyes
The tears of light, the dew of gladness.
Of still and serious thought went round,
It seemed as if he drank it up—
He felt with spirit so profound.
Thou happy soul! and can it be
That these two words of glittering gold
Are all that must remain of thee?