The lion smiling, with his tongue
Like a pug dog’s hung out;
The unicorn with twisted horn
Brooding upon his rout.
Exalted in the gallery high
The tuneful village choir,
With flute, bassoon, and clarionet,
Their notes rose high and higher.
They shewed the number of the Psalm
In white upon a slate,
And many a time the last lines sung
Of Brady and of Tate.
While far below upon the floor
Along the narrow aisle,
The children on then benches sat
Arranged in single file
And there the clerk would stump along
And strike with echoing blow
Each idle guilty little head
That chattered loud or low.
Ah! I remember many things,
Old middle-aged, and new;
Is the new better than the old,
More bright, more wise, more true?
The old must ever pass away,
The new must still come in;
When these new things are old to you
Be they unstained by sin.
So will their memory be sweet,
A treasury of bliss
To be borne with us in the days
When we their presence miss.
Trifles connected with the love
Of many a vanished friend
Will thrill the heart and wake the sense,
For memory has no end!
