4524005Poems — My old PreceptorMary Caroline Denver
MY OLD PRECEPTOR.
Nay, smile not if I loved him! recollection, That old familiar friend, attends us still, Retaining in her grasp a rare collection Of hoarded treasures, long-past scenes, that thrill The bosom with sweet memories, fond affection, That bends above the grave of good and ill.
Oft in the summer-time, when day-light slumbers And stars look sweetly from their homes on high; When heavy dew, like tears, the flower encumbers, And the soft breeze on sleepy wing goes by, I listen to the music of her numbers, And phantoms, like familiar friends, draw nigh.
I've seen the dead take their accustomed places, Beside me, on the never-fading green; And distant ones draw near, with smiling faces, Eager to hear of wonders that have been, And passed away, or left unmeaning traces, That mock at glory, and the toils of men.
And they, from out whose hearts the priceless treasure Of conscious truth, has long since passed away; Within whose minds is darkness without measure, A darkness that will never end in day; They rise around, with, brows all bright with pleasure, Such as the false world dooms to sure decay.
And they, within whose hearts fond memory never May find a time to breathe one thought of me; Whose all is centered in one vast endeavor To build a monument the world may see; They come with eyes undimmed, hearts warm as ever, And take their places round me joyously.
He, too, is there, whose sun has long departed. Who lived his life out with no settled plan; Patient, yet proud, hasty, yet gentle-hearted; So inconsistent is the heart of man. The "observed of all observers"—ere we parted How oft our anxious eyes his face would scan.
Some mischief done, or else in contemplation, Some course to track, man would not dare pursue, Fear of discovery, or the palpitation That brings a wished-for moment into view,— These mark our course with a strange hesitation, And conscience sometimes checks the school-boy, too.
A sigh for thee! in this cold world of ours, Though stern to others, thou wast kind to me, And as above thy grave the humbler flowers, At eventide, sweet fragrance breathe o'er thee, So would I give, friend of departed hours, One simple offering to thy memory.
