 | The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") |  |
303
THE OLD SCHOOL-HOUSE.
I stand where two roads meet: the main one here,
And there the long lane leading to the mill;
Here stood a house upon a sand-waste drear,
Wherein the youthful mind they used to till,
And plant of useful knowledge, seeds;
And now a mansion rises tall and wide,
With turrets, oriels and a double door,
And all that best accords with human pride;
A marble-bounded fish-pond stands before;
A well-trimmed lawn the sand succeeds.
And there the long lane leading to the mill;
Here stood a house upon a sand-waste drear,
Wherein the youthful mind they used to till,
And plant of useful knowledge, seeds;
And now a mansion rises tall and wide,
With turrets, oriels and a double door,
And all that best accords with human pride;
A marble-bounded fish-pond stands before;
A well-trimmed lawn the sand succeeds.
Yet as I stand, and on the railing lean,
Thought gradually shapes the olden place;
Rises before me all the early scene,
And bit by bit each portion here I trace
Of where one time I went to school.
Red-roofed and low and small was learning's seat,
The broken plaster seamed with many cracks,
The sanded flooring worn by children's feet,
The rows of desks, the seats devoid of backs,
The dunce's penitential stool;
Thought gradually shapes the olden place;
Rises before me all the early scene,
And bit by bit each portion here I trace
Of where one time I went to school.
Red-roofed and low and small was learning's seat,
The broken plaster seamed with many cracks,
The sanded flooring worn by children's feet,
The rows of desks, the seats devoid of backs,
The dunce's penitential stool;
The platform where the mighty teacher sat,
Enthroned in state, half awful, half grotesque,
Behind him on a peg his well-kept hat,
His lithe rattan before him on his desk—
Symbol of majesty and might;
The oblong stove, in winter crammed with wood,
The faggots near it from the wood-pile brought,
The water-pail that in the corner stood,
With tape-bound gourd by thirsty youngsters sought,
And drained with evident delight.
Enthroned in state, half awful, half grotesque,
Behind him on a peg his well-kept hat,
His lithe rattan before him on his desk—
Symbol of majesty and might;
The oblong stove, in winter crammed with wood,
The faggots near it from the wood-pile brought,
The water-pail that in the corner stood,
304
And drained with evident delight.
All these arise before me clear and plain;
A half a century rolls its clouds away;
Shaking off age, I am a boy again,
Backward at learning, forward at my play,
The pleasure of the present mine;
And though before me sits the teacher grim,
Watching with keen grey eye the little folk,
What care I, with my fresh twelve years, for him?
Have I not wit enough to ease his yoke,
Or slip it, if I so incline?
A half a century rolls its clouds away;
Shaking off age, I am a boy again,
Backward at learning, forward at my play,
The pleasure of the present mine;
And though before me sits the teacher grim,
Watching with keen grey eye the little folk,
What care I, with my fresh twelve years, for him?
Have I not wit enough to ease his yoke,
Or slip it, if I so incline?
The boys are all around me. Cleaver's Joe—
He never has grown up, and gone to sea,
Swept overboard and drowned; that is not so,
For there he sits next row but one to me,
Trying to do a puzzling sum;
And there is Peter—Morse's Peter—who
Some one has said was born to be a judge,
With patient air to hear long cases through—
What! restless Peter, full of mischief—fudge!
That life for him could never come.
He never has grown up, and gone to sea,
Swept overboard and drowned; that is not so,
For there he sits next row but one to me,
Trying to do a puzzling sum;
And there is Peter—Morse's Peter—who
Some one has said was born to be a judge,
With patient air to hear long cases through—
What! restless Peter, full of mischief—fudge!
That life for him could never come.
And yonder on the dunce's stool alone,
That stupid Ned—Ned Baxter—silly sits;
Who says that he, to vigorous manhood grown,
Turned out a scholar great, and prince of wits—
Ned with the dull and vacant stare?
And, wriggling at my elbow, Simson's Tim,
Restless and reckless, first in every prank
The rest annoying, who predicts of him
He 'mid divines will take the highest rank,
His life sedate and void of care?
That stupid Ned—Ned Baxter—silly sits;
Who says that he, to vigorous manhood grown,
Turned out a scholar great, and prince of wits—
Ned with the dull and vacant stare?
And, wriggling at my elbow, Simson's Tim,
Restless and reckless, first in every prank
The rest annoying, who predicts of him
He 'mid divines will take the highest rank,
His life sedate and void of care?
305
They're here—all here, from fifty years ago;
Back from the churchyard some, some from the seas,
And some from later life; the locks of snow,
The wrinkled faces, and the trembling knees,
And age-bent bodies cast away;
A group of children, free from present care,
The school broke up, all hurrying eager out,
Pouring their gladness on the evening air,
With constant chatter, or with sudden shout,
As though all life were made for play.
Back from the churchyard some, some from the seas,
And some from later life; the locks of snow,
The wrinkled faces, and the trembling knees,
And age-bent bodies cast away;
A group of children, free from present care,
The school broke up, all hurrying eager out,
Pouring their gladness on the evening air,
With constant chatter, or with sudden shout,
As though all life were made for play.
And there is Mabel too—ah! now it flies!
School-house and pupils all dissolve in air;
For well I know that Mabel with her eyes
Of deepest violet, and sunny hair—
Mabel grew up to be my bride;
I know her grave within the valley made;
The roses, with their buds less sweet than she,
Cluster above it; there her form was laid;
All hope, all pleasure, all repose for me
Were lost the day that Mabel died.
School-house and pupils all dissolve in air;
For well I know that Mabel with her eyes
Of deepest violet, and sunny hair—
Mabel grew up to be my bride;
I know her grave within the valley made;
The roses, with their buds less sweet than she,
Cluster above it; there her form was laid;
All hope, all pleasure, all repose for me
Were lost the day that Mabel died.
Again before me stands the palace fair,
The half-grown grove, the broad, pretentious lawn;
The low-roofed school-house is no longer there;
It, with its memories, in the air has gone,
And I am standing lonely here;
I wait my turn to give to others place,
To be a faint remembrance at the best,
To leave upon the minds of men no trace,
But, after sinking to my final rest,
From life and memory disappear.
The half-grown grove, the broad, pretentious lawn;
The low-roofed school-house is no longer there;
It, with its memories, in the air has gone,
And I am standing lonely here;
I wait my turn to give to others place,
To be a faint remembrance at the best,
To leave upon the minds of men no trace,
But, after sinking to my final rest,
From life and memory disappear.
| The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") | |