4524008Poems — The Cross-road School-houseMary Caroline Denver
THE CROSS-ROAD SCHOOL-HOUSE.
Oh, say! does it stand where it stood of yore, That old log house with the open door? But it was not old when first to school I went, half fearful of rod and rule; A little girl with a downcast eye, And a cheek that blushed, it knew not why, And a laugh that was sometimes heard to ring, And a heart that trembled at everything.
It was not old, as I said before, That cross-road school-house with open door; Its walls were oaken, and rude, and bare, Though the chinks were filled and daubed with care, It may have been with as proud a clay, As the great Macedonian's in his day, Some Indian king's, who had trod before The very ground that we sported o'er.
Oh, thus it is ever! Our footsteps fall On the nameless, in the ancient hall, Nor think we of those who sleep beneath, With brows once crowned with the laurel-wreath. So shall we pass from the earth away, Nor leave one vestige of our decay, And the laugh and jest will still go round On the places we deem most holy ground.
A draught from Memory! Once again I would call from the past her buried train, Her train of hopes, and joys, and fears, Of little triumphs, and even tears. I will gaze once more upon distant skies, I will look once more into absent eyes, I will hear the stream as it rushes on, And speak with those who are dead and gone!
There, where the pine-trees reared on high Their bristling heads toward the changing sky, Where the glorious sunshine never crept, A place where Timon might have wept, I have passed, with swift and stealthy tread. With indrawn breath and heart of dread; For Fancy conjured images there, Of ghost and goblin, or hideous bear.
O! when I think of the terrors wild That shook my heart when a little child, As I passed on that fearful road to school, That I might not live to be a fool, I feel like crying, with one of old, Whose heart has long in death been cold, But whose fame still makes the wide world ring, "A little learning's a dangerous thing."
A dear-bought lesson it was to me, From A, B, C, to the Rule of Three, When seated upright, from morn till noon, (The noontide hour never came too soon,) On benches that stretched across the floor, From the opposite wall to the open door, I strove right hard to learn by rote The lessons I cared for not a groat.
I loved them not, but I could not bear That others the victor-wreath should wear; It was something, too, to triumph o'er Those taller than I by a head or more. For this alone I would bravely look By the hour o'er Webster's Spelling Book, And think my triumph was easily won, If I could at last but be number "one."
I remember once I had kept my place, Against all who strove to win the race And the meed of praise gain, me instead, For full a week at my class's head; Ah! never an ancient conqueror felt Like me, as each little word was spelt, And I read in each schoolmate's hopeless eye, That my hour of triumph was drawing nigh.
But the last word came—that dreadful word! And my soul in its little depths was stirred; I spelt—e'en now my spirit bends— And "Oh! what a fall was there," my friends 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.
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.
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.
