 | English Roses |  |
MY OLD SCHOOL.
To thee my memory turns, old School,
From pleasures new and vain,
And I would hail the Dunce's stool
To have those joys again;
Ah, I could kiss the penal rod
To visit thee once more,
And tread the fields I gaily trod
Or glean thy classic lore;
And I would gladly drop the crown
That merely mocks my lack,
And face the Master's righteous frown
To call my springtide back.
From pleasures new and vain,
And I would hail the Dunce's stool
To have those joys again;
Ah, I could kiss the penal rod
To visit thee once more,
And tread the fields I gaily trod
Or glean thy classic lore;
And I would gladly drop the crown
That merely mocks my lack,
And face the Master's righteous frown
To call my springtide back.
To thee my fancy flies, dear School,
From sober works of age,
The empty toil, the broken tool,
The blurred and blotted page;
I mourn the uncongenial task,
The phrase so often sung,
The painting of the perjured mask
Which cannot make me young;
I miss the comrades of my morn,
The bandied blow or jest,
And now I only feel the thorn
Though roses grace my breast.
From sober works of age,
The empty toil, the broken tool,
The blurred and blotted page;
I mourn the uncongenial task,
The phrase so often sung,
The painting of the perjured mask
Which cannot make me young;
I miss the comrades of my morn,
The bandied blow or jest,
And now I only feel the thorn
Though roses grace my breast.
To thee my spirit spreads, old School,
The tendrils of its trust,
And finds in thee a shadow cool
From weary din and dust;
I see the fond familiar strife,
Which pre-enacted then
The future battle-field of life,
With fiery speech or pen;
I hear the muster-roll of names
With mine so fitly blent,
The hurly-burly of the games,
The mimic parliament.
The tendrils of its trust,
395
From weary din and dust;
I see the fond familiar strife,
Which pre-enacted then
The future battle-field of life,
With fiery speech or pen;
I hear the muster-roll of names
With mine so fitly blent,
The hurly-burly of the games,
The mimic parliament.
To thee affection's tide, dear School.
At evening with new zest
Returns from rocky bed and pool
And windings, as to rest:
I find the world has graver ill
And lessons longer yet,
And for the young pretexta still
What would I not forget?
I'd blithely put my toga off
And every bigger toy,
With this gray heart I cannot doff,
To be again a boy.
At evening with new zest
Returns from rocky bed and pool
And windings, as to rest:
I find the world has graver ill
And lessons longer yet,
And for the young pretexta still
What would I not forget?
I'd blithely put my toga off
And every bigger toy,
With this gray heart I cannot doff,
To be again a boy.
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