Verse > Anthologies > William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. > The Book of Georgian Verse
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William Stanley Braithwaite, ed.  The Book of Georgian Verse.  1909.
 
Matthew
By William Wordsworth (1770–1850)
 
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        5
This tablet, that thus humbly rears
In such diversity of hue
Its history of two hundred years.
 
—When through this little wreck of fame,
Cipher and syllable! thine eye        10
Has travelled down to Matthew’s name,
Pause with no common sympathy.
 
And, if a sleeping tear should wake,
Then be it neither checked nor stayed:
For Matthew a request I make        15
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.        20
 
The sighs which Matthew heaved were sighs
Of one tired out with fun and madness;
The tears which came to Matthew’s eyes
The tears of light, the dew of gladness.
 
Yet, sometimes, when the secret cup        25
Of still and serious thought went round,
It seemed 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        30
That these two words of glittering gold
Are all that must remain of thee?
 
 
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