Chips, fragments and vestiges by Gail Hamilton :: :: University of Virginia Library

Thou mighty troubler of the school-girl's brain,
Though thou hast vexed me oft, yet would I fain
Address to thee my simple, humble lays,
And teach my feeble Muse to sing thy praise.

O Algebra! much more of toil and pain
Thou'st caused me than thou e'er shalt cause again.
The rising sun has found me bending o'er
The problems over which I bend no more.
The evening breeze has fanned my burning brow
(Nay, do not smile at all my troubles now,)
And when in weariness I sought my bed,
Dreams of equations, roots, and fractions filled my head.
Alas! how dull my intellect must be!
I wonder what my teachers thought of me;
I wonder how I must have seemed to them,
When scarce the easiest steps I'd comprehend.
And, musing on this, I might almost say
(If 'twere not wrong) with one who's passed away,
“O that some power the gift would gie' us
To see oursel' as others see us.”

When I had learned to add, subtract, divide,
And multiply, I thought the rest beside

Would seem quite easy and quite plain to me,
But I was doomed to disappointed be;
For soon, alas! how very soon, I found
Each section, chapter, problem that came round
Was harder than the former, soon was taught
To think no more of ease till every sum was wrought.

Your fractions of which some complain, ne'er troubled me as yet,
For I learned from “Father Greenleaf” what I shall not soon forget.
I puzzled over his enough to last a dozen years;
Indeed, my whole scholastic life's been one of puzzling fears.

Simple Equations! they were my delight,
For I could almost always bring them right,—
Your Involution, Evolution, too,
I think are not most difficult to do.
Of indices and roots, what shall I say?
Direct reciprocal, or any way,
I cannot bear the sight, or sound, or thought,
Though 'twill not do to let them be forgot.

Well may Sir Isaac Newton's memory find
A dwelling-place in every human mind!
Well may his monumental tower ascend!
Tho 'twere for nought excepting his Binomial Theorem.

To complete the square's a pleasing process, quite,
If one takes care enough to do it right.
Your Unknown Quantities, one, two, three, four,
Of these I think I'd better say no more.
If they were hard the fault was all in me,
Therefore I will not lay the blame on thee.

Progression and Proportion and Ratio, all combined,
Are not so hard, I think, to do as others we might find.
Square roots of compound quantities, what shall I say of these?
They're very like Arithmetic and can be done with ease.

At your Miscellaneous Problems I oft cast a wistful look,
For with the last of them I saw the “Finis” of the book.
And who shall bid me not be glad to reach the wished-for goal?
Bidden or not, I do rejoice, and from my inmost soul.

And having toiled so much, so long, my Algebra, for thee,
I'd like to ask, most worthy book, what have you done for me?
Am I wiser, am I better, than when, in former hours,
I knew not of your indices, your fractions, roots, or powers?

Alas! how little do I know! not one-half what I ought,
For knowledge with half eagerness enough I have not sought;
And many, many idle hours have now forever gone
And left behind their shadows dark for me to think upon.

And as I look on thy familiar face,
My Algebra, thou tak'st me to the place
Where all thy sums and problems first were wrought,
Where all thy intricacies first were taught
To me. I think of hours past,
Of hours too happy, far, for aye to last.
Ah! Earth's inhabitants may not enjoy
The sweets of friendship, here, without alloy.
Sad memory, ever faithful to her trust,
Brings me the thought of one, now laid in dust;
Of one who conned thy pages with me o'er;
Of one who'll con them with me, now, no more.
Her frail and fragile form could not withstand
The icy touch of the grim Angel's hand.
Ere that the weight of time was on her brow,
E'en then, the fell Destroyer laid her low.
In the damp, darksome grave her loved form lies;
No more her sweet face meets our longing eyes;
No more her voice, in music tones, shall greet
The ears of those who're wont with her to meet.

Disease has breathed on her his withering breath,
And laid her prostrate in the arms of Death.

Ah! many associations with thee dwell!
I may not linger round them. My Algebra, farewell.