Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 2.djvu/134

126 XV.

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.

—When through this little wreck of fame,

Cypher and syllable! thine eye

Has travelled down to Matthew's name,

Pause with no common sympathy.