The School House: Its Architecture, External and Internal Arrangements

XI. THE HAPPY MAN.

BY WILLIAM COWPER.

not;

He is the happy man, whose life e'en now Though more sublimely, he o'erlooks the world.
Shows somewhat of that happier life to come; She scorns his pleasures, for she knows them
Who, doomed to an obscure but tranquil state,
Is pleased with it, and, were he free to choose,
Would make his fate his choice; whom peace,
the fruit

Of virtue, and whom virtue, fruit of faith,
Prepare for happiness; bespeak him one
Content indeed to sojourn while he must
Below the skies, but having there his home.
The world o'erlocks him in her busy search
Of objects, more illustrious in her view;
And, occupied as earnestly as she,

He seeks not hers, for he has proved them vain.
He cannot skim the ground like summer birds
Pursuing gilded flies, and such he deems
Her honours, her emoluments, her joys.
Therefore in contemplation is his bliss,
Whose power is such, that whom she lifts from
earth

She makes familiar with a world unseen,
And shows him glories yet to be revealed.

XII. THE MITHERLESS BAIRN.

BY WILLIAM THOM.

laid;

When a' ither bairnies are hush'd to their hame, Now rests in the mools where their mammie is
By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame,
Wha stands last an' lanely, an' sairly forfairn?
"Tis the dowie laddie-the mitherless bairn!

pure

The mitherless bairnie creeps to his lane bed,
Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare

head;

His wee hackit heelies are hard as the airn,
An' lithless the lair o' the mitherless bairn.

Aneath his cauld brow, siccan dreams hover there,

While the father toils sair his wee bannock to

earn.

An' kens na the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn.
Her spirit that pass'd in yon hour of his birth,
Still watches his lane lorn wand'rings on earth,
Recording in heaven the blessings they earn,
Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn!

Oh! speak him na harshly-he trembles the
while,

O' hands that wont kindly to kaim his dark hair!
But mornin' brings clutches, a' reckless an'stern,
That lo'e na the looks o' the mitherless bairn!

bends to your bidding, he blesses your smile :

their dark hour o' anguish, the heartless shall learn,

The sister wha sang o'er his softly rock'd bed, That God deals the blow for the mitherless

bairn!

XIII. OLD LETTERS!

OH THEN SPARE THEM!
(From the N. Y. Albion.)

Old letters! Oh then spare them-they are priceless for their age!
I love-Oh how I love to see each yellow time-stained page!
They tell of joys that are no more, of hopes that long have fled;
Old letters! Oh then spare them-they are sacred to the dead!
They tell of times-of happy times-in years long, long gone by,
Of dear ones who have ceased to live but in the memory;
They picture many a bright, bright scene, in sunny days of yore,
Old letters! Oh then spare them, for they are a priceless store.

Old am I too, and grey-hair'd now-deserted and alone,
And all of those I once could call my friends, alas! are gone;
Yet oft at midnight's stilly hour, in solitude's retreat,
With each one in his silent tomb, I hold communion sweet.

Old letters! here is one-the hand of youth is on its face;
Ah! that was from a brother young in some far foreign place:
A sailor boy, beloved by all, frank, open-hearted, brave-
Cold, cold and lonesome is his rest beneath the Atlantic wave,

Oh! ye are now the only links that bind us to the past;
Sweet, sweet memorials of the days too happy far to last;
The tear-drop fills again the eye whence tears had almost fled,
Old letters! ye are precious! ye are sacred to the dead!

XIV. HOME.

RY JAMES MONTGOMERY.

There is a land, of every land the pride,
Belov'd by heaven, o'er all the world beside;
Where brighter suns dispense serener light,
And milder moons emparadise the night;
A land of beauty, virtue, valour, truth,
Time-tutored age, and love exalted youth;
The wandering mariner, whose eye explores
The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores,
Views not a realm so bountiful and fair,
Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air.
In every clime the magnet of his soul,
Touch'd by remembrance, trembles to that pole;
Nor in this land of heaven's peculiar grace,
The heritage of nature's noblest race,
There is a spot of earth, supremely blest,
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest,

Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside
His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride,
While in his soften'd looks benignly blend,
The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend:
Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife,
Strews with fresh flowers the narrow path of
life;

In the clear heav'n of her delightful eye
An angel guard of loves and graces lie;
Around her knees domestic duties meet,
And fire-side pleasures gambol at her feet.
Where shall that land, that spot of earth, be
found?

Art thou a man? a patriot? look around;
Oh, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam,
That land thy country, and that spot thy home.

XV. THE IRISH MAIDEN'S SONG.

BY BERNARD BARTON.

Though Scotia's lofty mountains,
Where savage grandeur reigns;
Though bright be England's fountains,
And fertile be her plains;

When 'mid their charms I wander,
Of thee I think the while,
And seem of thee the fonder,
My own green isie !

While many who have left thee,

Seem to forget thy name,
Distance hath not bereft me
Of its endearing claim:
Afar from thee sojourning,
Whether I sigh or smile,
I call thee still "Mavourneen,"
My own green isle !

Fair as the glittering waters
Thy emerald banks that lave,
To me thy graceful daughters,
Thy generous sons as brave.
Oh! there are hearts within thee
Which know not shame or guile,
And such proud homage win thee,
My own green isle!

For their dear sakes I love thee,
Mavourneen, though unseen;
Bright be the sky above thee,

Thy shamrock ever green;
May evil ne'er distress thee,

Nor darken nor defile,
But heaven for ever bless thee,
My own green isle!

XVI. A PSALM OF LIFE.

What the Young Man said to the Psalmist.

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,

BY H. W. LONGFELLOW.

"Life is but an empty dream!"
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest !

And the grave is not its goal;
"Dust thou art, to dust returnest,"
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow,
Find us farther than to-day.
Art is long and time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of life,

Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no future, howe'er pleasant!

Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act, act in the living Present!

Heart within and God o'erhead! Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time: Footprints, that perhaps another,

Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwreck'd brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labour and to wait.

XVII BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
BY THE REV. CHARLES WOLFE, A.B.

Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we burried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,

The sods with our bayonets turning,— By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet, nor in shroud, we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,

And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
But nothing he'll reck, if they'll let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock told the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was suddenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone in his glory!

XVIII. TWENTY YEARS AGO-THE SCHOOL-BOY'S REMINISCENCE.

I've wandered in the village, Tom,-I've sat beneath the tree,-
Upon the school house playing-ground, which sheltered you and me,
But none were there to greet me, Tom, and few were left to know,
That played with us upon the green, some twenty years ago.

The grass is just as green, Tom,—barefooted boys at play
Were sporting just as we did then, with spirits just as gay;
But the master sleeps upon the hill, which, coated o'er with snow,
Afforded us a sliding place, just twenty years ago.

The old school-house is altered now, the benches are replaced
By new ones very like the same our penknives had defaced;
But the same old bricks are in the wall, the bell swings to and fro,
Its music just the same, dear Tom, as twenty years ago.

The spring that bubbled 'neath the hill, close by the spreading beech,
Is very low-'twas once so high that we could almost reach;
And kneeling down to get a drink, dear Tom, I started so,
To see how much that I had changed since twenty years ago.

Near by the spring, upon the elm, you know I cut your name,-
Your sweetheart's just beneath it, Tom-and you did mine the same,
Some heartless wretch hath peeled the bark-'twas dying sure, but slow,
Just as the one whose name we cut, died twenty years ago.

My eyelids had been dry, Tom, but tears come in my eyes,
I thought of her I loved so well-those early broken ties,—
I visited the old church-yard, and took some flowers to strew
Upon the graves of those we loved some twenty years ago.

And some are in the church-yard laid-some sleep beneath the sea,
But few are left of our old class, excepting you and me;
And when our time shall come, Tom, and we are called to go,
I hope they'll lay us where we played just twenty years ago.

-Anonymous.

XIX. THE BLIND BOY'S BEEN AT PLAY, MOTHER.*

The Blind Boy's been at play, Mother,

And merry games we had;

We led him on our way, mother,

And every step was glad.

But when we found a starry flower,

And praised its varied hue,

A tear came trembling down his cheek, Just like a drop of dew.

We took him to the mill, mother,

Where falling waters made

A rainbow o'er the rill, mother,

As golden sun-rays played;

But when we shouted at the scene,
And hailed the clear blue sky,
He stood quite still upon the bank,
And breathed a long, long sigh.

(By Eliza Cook.)

We asked him why he wept, mother,

Whene'er we found the spots Where the periwinkle crept, mother,

O'er wild Forget-me-not's;

"Ah me!" he said, while tears ran down

As fast as summer showers,

"It is because I cannot see,

The sunshine and the flowers."

Oh, that poor sightless boy, mother,
Has taught me I am blest,
For I can look with joy, mother,
On all I love the best;

And when I see the dancing stream,
And daisies red and white,

I kneel upon the meadowed sod,
And thank my God for sight.

* Many of the following pieces are inserted for recitation by girls.

XX. WHY DO THE FLOWERS BLOOM, MOTHER?

(By J. E. Carpenter.)

Why do the flow'rets bloom, mother, Why do the sweet flowers bloom; And brightest those we rear'd, mother, Around my brother's tomb?" To fill the world with gladness,

My child, were flow'rets given,To crown the earth with beauty,

And show the road to Heaven!"

"Then why do the flow'rets fade, mother,

Why do the sweet flowers fade, When winter's dreary cloud, mother, Earth's brighter scenes pervade?

My child, those flow'rs that wither,
Have seeds that still remain,
That the sunshine and the summer
Restore to life again!

"And shall not those that die, mother,
Come back to life once more,
E'en as the rain and sun, mother,

Those beauteous flow'rs restore?" Yes, yes, my child, such powers To human flow'rs are given, Here earth's frail flow'rs may blossom, But we may rise-in Heaven !"

XXI. INFANTINE INQUIRIES.
(By William P. Brown.)

"Tell me, O mother! when I grow old,

"Calm thy young thoughts, my own fair child!

Will my hair, which my sisters say is like The fancies of youth and age are beguiled; gold,

Grow grey as the old man's, weak and poor, Who ask'd for alms at our pillar'd door?

As he, when he told us his tale of woe?

Though pale grow thy cheeks and thy hair turn

gray,

Time cannot steal the soul's youth away! There is a land of which thou hast heard me

Will my hand then shake, and my eyes be speak, dim?

Tell me, O mother! will I grow like him?

Where age never wrinkles the dweller's cheek!
But in joy they live, fair boy! like thee:
It is there the old man long'd to be!"

"For he knew that those with whom he had play'd,

In his heart's young joy, 'neath their cottage shade

Whose love he shared, when their songs and mirth

Brightened the gloom of this sinful earth— Whose names from our world had passed away, As flowers in the breath of an autumn dayHe knew that they, with all suffering done, Encircled the throne of the Holy One!

"He spoke of a home, where in childhood's glee
He chased from the wild flowers the singing bee;"
And follow'd afar, with a heart as light
As its sparkling wings, the butterfly's flight;
And pull'd young flowers, where they grew
'neath the beams

Of the sun's fair light, by his own blue streams:-
Yet he left all these, throngh the earth to roam!
Why, O mother! did he leave his home?"

Though ours be a pillar'd and lofty home, Where want with his pale train never may come, Oh! scorn not the poor with the scorner's jest, Who seek in the shade of our hall to rest; For He who hath made them poor may soon Darken the sky of our glowing noon, And leave us with woe in the world's bleak wild! Oh! soften the griefs of the poor, my child!"

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