Memories Of Schooldays.
By Thomas Frederick Young
There are mem'ries glad of the old school-house,
Which throng around me still;
And voices spoke in my youthful days,
My ears with music fill.
Those youthful voices I seem to hear,
With their gladsome, joyous tone,
And joy and hope they bring to me,
When I am all alone.
I think of the joys of that time long past,
Of its boyish hopes and fears,
And 'tis partly joy, and partly pain,
That wets my eyes with tears.
For 'tis joy I feel, when I seem to stand,
Where I stood long years ago,
And when I think that cannot be,
My heart is fill'd with woe.
My old school mates are scatter'd far,
And some are with the dead,
And my old class mates have wander'd, too,
To seek for fame, or bread.
And those who still are near my home,
And whom I often see,
Have come to manhood's grave estate;
They're boys no more to me.
And tho' we meet in converse yet,
And each one's thoughts enjoy,
Our thoughts and words are not so free,
As when, each was a boy.
For the spring of life is gone for us,
With all its bursting bloom,
And manhood's thoughts, and joys, and cares,
Are now within its room.
But the mem'ry of our bright school days,
Will last through ev'ry strain,
And time will brighten ev'ry joy,
And darken ev'ry pain.
The rippling of our childhood's laugh,
Will roll adown the years,
And time will blunt, each day we live,
The mem'ry of our tears.
Our boyhood's hopes, and boyhood's dreams,
And aspirations high,
Will doubtless never be fulfill'd,
Until the day we die.
But still we'll cherish in our hearts,
And live those days again,
When awkardly we read our books,
Or trembling held the pen.