ADDRESS TO THE SCHOLARS OF THE

VILLAGE SCHOOL OF

1799 1845

Composed at Goslar, in Germany.

I COME, ye little noisy Crew,
Not long your pastime to prevent;
I heard the blessing which to you
Our common Friend and Father sent.
I kissed his cheek before he died;
And when his breath was fled,

I raised, while kneeling by his side,
His hand: it dropped like lead.
Your hands, dear Little-ones, do all
That can be done, will never fall
Like his till they are dead.

By night or day blow foul or fair,
Ne'er will the best of all your train
Play with the locks of his white hair,
Or stand between his knees again.

Here did he sit confined for hours;

But he could see the woods and plains,
Could hear the wind and mark the showers

Come streaming down the streaming panes. Now stretched beneath his grass-green mound

He rests a prisoner of the ground.

He loved the breathing air,

He loved the sun, but if it rise

Or set, to him where now he lies,
Brings not a moment's care.

Alas! what idle words; but take

The Dirge which for our Master's sake
And yours, love prompted me to make.

The rhymes so homely in attire
With learned ears may ill agree,

But chanted by your Orphan Quire

Will make a touching melody.

DIRGE

MOURN, Shepherd, near thy old grey stone;

Thou Angler, by the silent flood;

And mourn when thou art all alone,
Thou Woodman, in the distant wood!

Thou one blind Sailor, rich in joy
Though blind, thy tunes in sadness hum;
And mourn, thou poor half-witted Boy!
Born deaf, and living deaf and dumb.

Thou drooping sick Man, bless the Guide

Who checked or turned thy headstrong youth, As he before had sanctified

Thy infancy with heavenly truth.

Ye Striplings, light of heart and gay,

Bold settlers on some foreign shore,

Give, when your thoughts are turned this way, A sigh to him whom we deplore.

For us who here in funeral strain
With one accord our voices raise,
Let sorrow overcharged with pain
Be lost in thankfulness and praise.

And when our hearts shall feel a sting
From ill we meet or good we miss,
May touches of his memory bring

Fond healing, like a mother's kiss.

BY THE SIDE OF THE GRAVE SOME YEARS AFTER

LONG time his pulse hath ceased to beat,

But benefits, his gift, we trace

Expressed in every eye we meet

Round this dear Vale, his native place.

To stately Hall and Cottage rude
Flowed from his life what still they hold,
Light pleasures, every day renewed;
And blessings half a century old.

Oh true of heart, of spirit gay,
Thy faults, where not already gone
From memory, prolong their stay
For charity's sweet sake alone.

Such solace find we for our loss;

And what beyond this thought we crave Comes in the promise from the Cross, Shining upon thy happy grave.

MATTHEW

1799 1800

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.

IF Nature, for a favourite child,
In thee hath tempered 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.