Our old master.
A memory of the Hathaway school.
By an Old Scholar. Dear childhood's days! Your ghosts come back sometimesLike sweet siroccos from the scented isles,
From far Ceylon, or from those spicy climes
That greet the god of day with loving smiles.
Today one comes on memory's fleeting breath.
A spirit with a saintly mien and face,
Has long been tied behind the doors of death.
'Tis one who helped ambition set its pace,
And taught us how to try our trembling wings
As mothers teach young linnets how to fly,
And showed us, too, where flow the crystal springs,
And where the tempests thundered through the sky.
Is there, great God, within yon realm of dreams,
A paradise where men shall meet again?
An Eden far beyond the sunset's gleam?
And has it freshest meads and many a glen?
Oh, then, we beg you, let us see our friend!
No sweeter father learning ever knew;
No gentler gard'ner helped a twig to bend,
Nor showed the paths where reddest roses grew.
C. G. F.
