So when the pilgrim, on his journey bent,
With upward toil creeps on the steep ascent;
Ere yet his feet the destin'd height attain,
Oft will he pause, and gaze the journey'd plain;
Oft pause again, the valley to survey,
Where food or slumber sooth'd his wand'ring way.
Alston! twelve years, in various business fled,
Have wing'd their restless flight o'er Bion's head;
Twelve years have taught his opening mind to know
The smiles of pleasure, and the frowns of woe;
Since in thy vale, beneath the master's rule,
He roam'd an inmate of the village school:
Yet still will memory's busy eye retrace
Each well-known vestige of the oft-trod place;
Each wonted haunt, each scene of youthful joy,
Where merriment has cheer'd the careless boy:
Well pleas'd will memory still the spot survey,
Where once he triumph'd in the infant play,
Without one care where every morn he rose,
Where every evening sunk to calm repose.
Large was the mansion, fall'n by varying fate
From lordly grandeur and manorial state;
Where once the manor's lord supreme had rule,
Now reign'd the master of the village school:
No more was heard around, at earliest morn,
The echoing clangor of the huntsman's horn;
No more the eager hounds, with deep'ning cry,
Yell'd in the exulting hope of pastime nigh;
The squire no more obey'd the morning call,
Nor favourite spaniels fill'd the sportsman's hall;
For he, the last descendant of his race,
Slept with his fathers, and forgot the chace.
Fall'n was the mansion: o'er the village poor
The lordly landlord tyrannized no more;
For now, in petty greatness o'er the school,
The mighty master held despotic rule:
With trembling silence all his deeds we saw,
His look a mandate, and his word a law;
Severe his voice, severely grave his mien,
And wond'rous strict he was, and wond'rous wise, I ween.
Even now, thro' many a long long year, I trace
The hour when first in awe I view'd his face;
Even now recall my entrance at the dome,
'Twas the first day I ever left my home!
Years intervening have not worn away
The deep remembrance of that distant day;
Effac'd the vestige of my earliest fears,
A mother's fondness, and a mother's tears;
When close she prest me to her sorrowing heart,
As loath as even I myself to part.
But time to youthful sorrow yields relief,
Each various object weans the child from grief:
Like April showers the tears of youth descend,
Sudden they fall, and suddenly they end;
Serener pleasure gilds the following hour,
As brighter gleams the sun when past the April shower.
Methinks ev'n now the interview I see,
Recall the mistress' smile, the master's glee:
Much of my future happiness they said,
Much of the easy life the scholars led;
Of spacious play-ground, and of wholsome air,
The best instruction, and the tenderest care;
And when I follow'd from the garden door
My father, 'till with tears I saw no more,
How civilly they eas'd my parting pain,
And never spake so civilly again!
Why loves the soul on earlier years to dwell,
When memory spreads around her saddening spell;
When discontent, with sullen gloom o'ercast,
Loaths at the present, and prefers the past?
Why calls reflection to my pensive view
Each trifling act of infancy anew—
Each trifling act with pleasure pondering o'er,
Even at the time when trifles please no more!
Day follows day, yet leaves no trace behind,
When one sole thought engrosses all the mind;
When anxious reason claims her painful sway,
And for to-morrow's prospect glooms to-day!
Ill fares the wanderer in this vale of life,
When each new stage affords succeeding strife;
In every stage he feels supremely curst,
Yet still the present evil seems the worst:
On as he goes the vision'd prospect flies,
And, grasping still at bliss, unblest at last he dies.
Yet is remembrance sweet; though well I know
The days of childhood are but days of woe;
Some rude restraint, some petty tyrant sours
The tranquil calm of childhood's easy hours;
Some trifling fault committed calls the tear,
Some trifling task neglected prompts to fear:
Yet is it sweet to call to mind the hour,
Ere searching reason gain'd her saddening power;
Ere future prospects could the soul distress,
When even ignorance was happiness.
Such was my state in those remember'd years,
When one small acre bounded all my fears:
And even now with pleasure I recall
The tapestry'd school, the bright-brown boarded hall;
The murmuring brook, that every morning saw
The due observance of the cleanly law;
The walnuts, where, when favour would allow,
Full oft I wont to search each well-stript bough;
The crab-tree, whence we hid the secret hoard,
With roasted crabs to deck the wintry board.