THE CROSS-ROAD SCHOOL-HOUSE.
255
Not the "noblest Roman of them all"
Felt, as I felt mine, his last great fall.
I did not dream of death, 'tis true,
But I wept—it was all that I could do.
Felt, as I felt mine, his last great fall.
I did not dream of death, 'tis true,
But I wept—it was all that I could do.
I still remember our teacher, too,
Dressed in his morning-gown of blue;
A strange, eccentric genius he,
But as kind, at times, as kind could be.
I will not dwell on his virtues here;
I have elsewhere dropped on his dust a tear;
And his faults have been hidden long from view,
In the grave we all are hastening too.
Dressed in his morning-gown of blue;
A strange, eccentric genius he,
But as kind, at times, as kind could be.
I will not dwell on his virtues here;
I have elsewhere dropped on his dust a tear;
And his faults have been hidden long from view,
In the grave we all are hastening too.
There resounds sweet music from the shore,
Even when the land is in sight no more;
So cometh the memory of fond looks,
Of loving tones and of murmuring brooks;
They break on my soul like a gush, of song,
And hurry me on in their track along,
Till I stand, in untamed glee, once more
On the sill of that cross-road school-house door.
Even when the land is in sight no more;
So cometh the memory of fond looks,
Of loving tones and of murmuring brooks;
They break on my soul like a gush, of song,
And hurry me on in their track along,
Till I stand, in untamed glee, once more
On the sill of that cross-road school-house door.
