Page:Lyrical ballads, Volume 2, Wordsworth, 1800.djvu/129

121 —When through this little wreck of fame,

Cypher and syllable, thine eye

Has travell'd down to Matthew's name,

Pause with no common sympathy.

And if a sleeping tear should wake

Then be it neither check'd nor stay'd:

For Matthew a request I make

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.

The sighs which Matthew heav'd were sighs

Of one tir'd out with fun and madness;

The tears which came to Matthew's eyes

Were tears of light, the oil of gladness.