And pendant ruffles, of the whitest lawn,
Of ancient make, her elbows did adorn.
Faint with old age, and dim were grown her eyes,
A pair of spectacles their want supplies;
These does she guard secure, in leathern case,
From thoughtless wights, in some unweeted place.
Here first I entered, though with toil and pain,
The low vestibule of learning's fane:
Entered with pain, yet soon I found the way,
Though sometimes toilsome, many a sweet display.
Much did I grieve, on that ill-fated morn,
When I was first to school reluctant borne;
Severe I thought the dame, though oft she tried
To soothe my swelling spirits when I sighed;
And oft, when harshly she reproved, I wept,
To my lone corner brokenhearted crept,
And thought of tender home, where anger never kept.
But soon inured to alphabetic toils,
Alert I met the dame with jocund smiles;
First at the form, my task forever true,
A little favorite rapidly I grew:
And oft she stroked my head with fond delight,
Held me a pattern to the dunce's sight;
And as she gave my diligence its praise,
Talked of the honors of my future days.
Oh, had the venerable matron thought
Of all the ills by talent often brought;
Could she have seen me when revolving years
Had brought me deeper in the vale of tears,
Then had she wept, and wished my wayward fate
Had been a lowlier, an unlettered state;
Wished that, remote from worldly woes and strife,
Unknown, unheard, I might have passed through life.
Where in the busy scene, by peace unblest,
Shall the poor wanderer find a place of rest?
A lonely mariner on the stormy main,
Without a hope, the calms of peace to gain;
Long tossed by tempests o'er the world's wide shore,
When shall his spirit rest, to toil no more?
Not till the light foam of the sea shall lave
The sandy surface of his unwept grave.
Childhood, to thee I turn, from life's alarms,
Serenest season of perpetual calms,—
Turn with delight, and bid the passions cease,
And joy to think with thee I tasted peace.
Sweet reign of innocence, when no crime defiles,
But each new object brings attendant smiles;
When future evils never haunt the sight,
But all is pregnant with unmixt delight;
To thee I turn, from riot and from noise,-
Turn to partake of more congenial joys.
'Neath yonder elm, that stands upon the moor,
When the clock spoke the hour of labor o'er,
What clamorous throngs, what happy groups were
In various postures scatt'ring o'er the green!
Some shoot the marble, others join the chase
Of self-made stag, or run the emulous race;
While others, seated on the dappled grass,
With doleful tales the light-winged minutes pass.
Well I remember how, with gesture starched,
A band of soldiers, oft with pride we marched;
For banners, to a tall ash we did bind
Our handkerchiefs, flapping to the whistling wind;
And for our warlike arms we sought the mead,
And guns and spears we made of brittle reed;
Then, in uncouth array, our feats to crown,
We stormed some ruined pig-sty for a town.
Pleased with our gay disports, the dame was wont
To set her wheel before the cottage front,
And o'er her spectacles would often peer,
To view our gambols, and our boyish gear.
Still as she looked her wheel kept turning round,
With its beloved monotony of sound.
When tired of play, we'd set us by her side,
(For out of school she never knew to chide)—
And wonder at her skill-well known to fame-
For who could match in spinning with the dame?
Her sheets, her linen, which she showed with pride
To strangers, still her thriftness testified;
Though we poor wights did wonder much, in troth,
How 'twas her spinning manufactured cloth.
Oft would we leave, though well beloved, our play,
To chat at home the vacant hour away.
Many's the time I've scampered down the glade,
To ask the promised ditty from the maid,
Which well she loved, as well she knew to sing,
While we around her formed a little ring:
She told of innocence, foredoomed to bleed,
Of wicked guardians bent on bloody deed,
Or little children murdered as they slept;
While at each pause we wrung our hands and wept.
Sad was such tale, and wonder much did we,
Such hearts of stone there in the world could be.
Poor simple wights, ah! little did we ween
The ills that wait on man in life's sad scene!
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