THE TEACHER'S MONOLOGUE
The room is quiet, thoughts
alone
People its mute tranquillity;
The yoke put off, the long
task done,--
I am, as it is bliss to
be,
Still and untroubled. Now,
I see,
For the first time, how
soft the day
O'er waveless water, stirless
tree,
Silent and sunny, wings
its way.
Now, as I watch that distant
hill,
So faint, so blue, so far
removed,
Sweet dreams of home my
heart may fill,
That home where I am known
and loved:
It lies beyond; yon azure
brow
Parts me from all Earth
holds for me;
And, morn and eve, my yearnings
flow
Thitherward tending, changelessly.
My happiest hours, aye!
all the time,
I love to keep in memory,
Lapsed among moors, ere
life's first prime
Decayed to dark anxiety.
Sometimes, I think a narrow
heart
Makes me thus mourn those
far away,
And keeps my love so far
apart
From friends and friendships
of to-day;
Sometimes, I think 'tis
but a dream
I treasure up so jealously,
All the sweet thoughts I
live on seem
To vanish into vacancy:
And then, this strange,
coarse world around
Seems all that's palpable
and true;
And every sight, and every
sound,
Combines my spirit to subdue
To aching grief, so void
and lone
Is Life and Earth--so worse
than vain,
The hopes that, in my own
heart sown,
And cherished by such sun
and rain
As Joy and transient Sorrow
shed,
Have ripened to a harvest
there:
Alas! methinks I hear it
said,
"Thy golden sheaves are
empty air."
All fades away; my very home
I think will soon be desolate;
I hear, at times, a warning
come
Of bitter partings at its
gate;
And, if I should return
and see
The hearth-fire quenched,
the vacant chair;
And hear it whispered mournfully,
That farewells have been
spoken there,
What shall I do, and whither
turn?
Where look for peace?
When cease to mourn?
*
'Tis not the air I wished
to play,
The strain I wished to sing;
My wilful spirit slipped
away
And struck another string.
I neither wanted smile nor
tear,
Bright joy nor bitter woe,
But just a song that sweet
and clear,
Though haply sad, might
flow.
A quiet song, to solace me
When sleep refused to come;
A strain to chase despondency,
When sorrowful for home.
In vain I try; I cannot
sing;
All feels so cold and dead;
No wild distress, no gushing
spring
Of tears in anguish shed;
But all the impatient gloom
of one
Who waits a distant day,
When, some great task of
suffering done,
Repose shall toil repay.
For youth departs, and pleasure
flies,
And life consumes away,
And youth's rejoicing ardour
dies
Beneath this drear delay;
And Patience, weary with
her yoke,
Is yielding to despair,
And Health's elastic spring
is broke
Beneath the strain of care.
Life will be gone ere I
have lived;
Where now is Life's first
prime?
I've worked and studied,
longed and grieved,
Through all that rosy time.
To toil, to think, to long,
to grieve,--
Is such my future fate?
The morn was dreary, must
the eve
Be also desolate?
Well, such a life at least
makes Death
A welcome, wished-for friend;
Then, aid me, Reason, Patience,
Faith,
To suffer to the end! |
