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* * * * * MY cheek was bare of adolescent down | |
| When first I sought the Academic town: | |
| Slow rolls the coach along the dusty road, | |
| Big with its filial and parental load; | |
| The frequent hills, the lonely woods are past, | 5 |
| The school-boy’s chosen home is reached at last. | |
| I see it now, the same unchanging spot, | |
| The swinging gate, the little garden-plot, | |
| The narrow yard, the rock that made its floor, | |
| The flat, pale house, the knocker-garnished door, | 10 |
| The small, trim parlor, neat, decorous, chill, | |
| The strange, new faces, kind, but grave and still; | |
| Two, creased with age,—or what I then called age,— | |
| Life’s volume open at its fiftieth page; | |
| One a shy maiden’s, pallid, placid, sweet | 15 |
| As the first snow-drop which the sunbeams greet; | |
| One the last nursling’s; slight she was, and fair, | |
| Her smooth white forehead warmed with auburn hair. * * * * * | |
| Brave, but with effort, had the school-boy come | |
| To the cold comfort of a stranger’s home; | 20 |
| How like a dagger to my sinking heart | |
| Came the dry summons, “It is time to part; | |
| “Good-by!” “Goo-ood-by!” one fond maternal kiss. | |
| Homesick as death! Was ever pang like this? | |
| Too young as yet with willing feet to stray | 25 |
| From the tame fireside, glad to get away,— | |
| Too old to let my watery grief appear,— | |
| And what so bitter as a swallowed tear! * * * * * | |
| The morning came; I reached the classic hall; | |
| A clock-face eyed me, staring from the wall; | 30 |
| Beneath its hands a printed line I read: | |
| “Youth is life’s seed-time”; so the clock-face said; | |
| Some took its counsel, as the sequel showed,— | |
| Sowed—their wild oats, and reaped as they had sowed. | |
| How all comes back! the upward slanting floor,— | 35 |
| The masters’ thrones that flank the central door,— | |
| The long, outstretching alleys that divide | |
| The rows of desks that stand on either side,— | |
| The staring boys, a face to every desk, | |
| Bright, dull, pale, blooming, common, picturesque. | 40 |
| Grave is the Master’s look; his forehead wears | |
| Thick rows of wrinkles, prints of worrying cares; | |
| Uneasy lie the heads of all that rule, | |
| His most of all whose kingdom is a school. | |
| Supreme he sits; before the awful frown | 45 |
| That bends his brows the boldest eye goes down; | |
| Not more submissive Israel heard and saw | |
| At Sinai’s foot the Giver of the Law. | |
| Less stern he seems, who sits in equal state | |
| On the twin throne and shares the empire’s weight; | 50 |
| Around his lips the subtle life that plays | |
| Steals quaintly forth in many a jesting phrase; | |
| A lightsome nature, not so hard to chafe, | |
| Pleasant when pleased; rough-handled, not so safe; | |
| Some tingling memories vaguely I recall, | 55 |
| But to forgive him. God forgive us all! | |
| One yet remains, whose well-remembered name | |
| Pleads in my grateful heart its tender claim; | |
| His was the charm magnetic, the bright look | |
| That sheds its sunshine on the dreariest book; | 60 |
| A loving soul to every task he brought | |
| That sweetly mingled with the lore he taught; | |
| Sprung from a saintly race that never could | |
| From youth to age be anything but good, | |
| His few brief years in holiest labors spent, | 65 |
| Earth lost too soon the treasure heaven had lent. | |
| Kindest of teachers, studious to divine | |
| Some hint of promise in my earliest line, | |
| These faint and faltering words thou canst not hear | |
| Throb from a heart that holds thy memory dear. | 70 |
| As to the traveller’s eye the varied plain | |
| Shows through the window of the flying train, | |
| A mingled landscape, rather felt than seen, | |
| A gravelly bank, a sudden flash of green, | |
| A tangled wood, a glittering stream that flows | 75 |
| Through the cleft summit where the cliff once rose, | |
| All strangely blended in a hurried gleam, | |
| Rock, wood, waste, meadow, village, hillside, stream,— | |
| So, as we look behind us, life appears, | |
| Seen through the vista of our bygone years. * * * * * | 80 |
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