The old school-house is still to day,
The rooms have no gay throng;
No ringing laugh is on the air,
There is no snatch of song.
The white-haired master sits upon
The seat beneath the tree,
And thinks upon the vanished face,
With all its boyish glee.
But a few short days ago, the lad
Was gayest of the gay,
Quick at the page of knowledge, and
The heartiest in play.
The pride of the home beside the stream,
With his pigeons in their cots,
And finding life a very dream,
In pleasant homely spots.
His school companions loving him,
And old folks speaking praise,
Of the well-loved boy, with frankest eyes,
And cheery, happy ways.
All in the village knew the boy,
From parson down to clerk,
And his whistle in the village street
Was clear as the song of lark.
But like a dream he's passed away,
And from the chamber dim,
In the fair light of summer day,
The peasants carry him.
And playmates gather at the grave,
The old schoolmaster there,
While blossomed boughs wave over-head,
And all around is fair.
True is the grief that brings the tear,
There is no empty show;
The simple neighbours see their loss,
And there is heart-felt woe.
They talk of the bright and lively lad,
Cut down in boyish prime,
And old folks think how strange is life,
More strange with passing time!
Oh! simple sight on green hill-side,
Away from pomp and power;
Here are the truths so oft denied
To the imperial hour.
Dear child, how precious are the tears,
Suffusing friendly eyes!
Sublimity is in their gleam,
A light from God's own skies.
[Illustration: Naughty Mice Teasing the Poor Kitten.]
[Page 83--Play Land]
[Illustration: Chinese Toy Merchant.]