If Nature, for a favorite 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.

--When through this little wreck of fame,
Cypher and syllable, thine eye 
Has travelled down to Mathew's name,
Pause with no common sympathy.

And, if a sleeping tear should wake,
Then be it neither checked nor stayed:
For Mathew a request I make
Which for himself he had not made.

Poor Mathew, all his frolics o'er,
Is silent as a standing pool,
Far from the chimney's merry roar,
And murmur of the village school. 

The sighs which Mathew heaved were sighs
Of one tired out with fun and madness;
The tears which came to Mathew's eyes
Were tears of light, the dew of gladness.

Yet, sometimes, when the secret cup
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 
That these two words of glittering gold
Are all that must remain of thee?