Classic Poem

Remembering how thou didst beguile
With thy w[ild] ways our eyes and ears,
I feel more sorrow in a smile
Than in a waggon-load of tears;

I smile to hear the hunter's horn,
I smile at meadow, rock and shore,
I smile too at this silly thorn
Which blooms as sweetly as before.

I think of thee in silent love
And feel just like a wavering leaf,
Along my face the muscles move,
Nor know if 'tis with joy or grief,

But oft when I look up and view
Yon huts upon the mountain-side
I sigh and say, it was for you
An evil day when Matthew died.

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.

Then weep, ye Elves, a noisy race
Thoughtless as roses newly blown,
Weep Matthew with his happy face
Now lying in his grave alone.

Thou one blind Sailor, child of joy
Thy lonely tunes in sadness hum
And mourn, thou poor half-witted boy,
Born deaf and living deaf and dumb.

Mourn, Shepherd, near thy old grey stone,
Thou Angler by the silent flood,
And mourn when thou art all alone
Thou woodman in the lonesome wood.

Mourn sick man sitting in the shade
When summer suns have warmed the earth,
Ye saw the [ ] which Matthew made
And shook with weakness and with mirth.

Mourn reapers thirsting in a crew
Who rouse with shouts the evening vale,
Thou mower in the morning dew,
Thou milkmaid by thy evening pail.

Ye little girls, ye loved his name,
Come here and knit your gloves of yarn,
Ye loved him better than your dame
— The schoolmaster of fair Glencarn.

For though to many a wanton boy
Did Matthew act a father's part,
Ye tiny maids, ye were his joy,
Ye were the favourites of his heart.

Ye ruddy damsels past sixteen
Weep now that Matthew's race is run;
He wrote your love-letters, I ween
Ye kissed him when the work was done.

Ye Brothers gone to towns remote,
And ye upon the ocean tost,
Ye many a good and pious thought
And many a [ ] have lost.

Staid men may weep, from him they quaffed
Such wit as never failed to please,
While at his [ ] they laughed
Enough to set their hearts at ease.

Ye mothers who for jibe or jest
Have little room in heart or head,
The child that lies upon your breast
May make you think of Matthew dead.

Old women in your elbow chairs,
Who now will be your fence and shield,
When wintry blasts and cutting airs
Are busy in both house and field?

And weep thou School of fair Glencarn,
No more shalt thou in stormy weather
Be like a play-house in a barn
Where Punch and Hamlet play together.

Ye sheep-curs, a mirth-loving corps!
Now let your tails lie still between
Your drooping hips — you'll never more
Bark at his voice upon the green.

Remembering how thou didst beguile
With thy wild ways our eyes and ears,
I feel more sorrow in a smile
Than in a waggon-load of tears.