Classic Poem

Could I the priest's consent have gained
Or his who tolled thy passing bell,
Then, Matthew, had thy bones remained
Beneath this tree we loved so well.

Yet in our thorn will I suspend
Thy gift this twisted oaken staff,
And here where trunk and branches blend
Will I engrave thy epitaph.

Just as the blowing thorn began
To spread again its vernal shade,
This village lost as good a man
As ever handled book or spade.

Then Traveller passing o'er the green,
Thy course a single moment stay,
Though here no mouldering [heap?] be seen
To tell thee thou art kindred clay.

A schoolmaster by title known
Long Matthew penned his little flock
Within yon pile that stands alone
In colour like its native rock.

Learning will often dry the heart,
The very bones it will distress,
But Matthew had an idle art
Of teaching love and happiness.

The neat trim house, the cottage rude
All owed to Matthew gifts of gold,
Light pleasures every day renewed
Or blessings half a century old.

His fancy played with endless play
So full of mother wit was he,
He was a thousand times more gay
Than any dunce has power to be.

Yet when his hair was white as rime
And he twice thirty years had seen
Would Matthew wish from time to time
That he a graver man had been.

But nothing could his heart have bribed
To be as sad as mine is now,
As I have been while I inscribed
This verse beneath the hawthorn bough.