force a child to sit motionless, on one and the same spot, for several hours, forbidding its tongue to wag at some person or thing, making the scraping of a foot a penal offence-is an outrage on its nature. Its whole innocent being demands motion of this kind, and if you attempt to suppress it, you make it a martyr.
Withal Schoolmaster Schwartz was a good teacher. Among other lessons, he made us commit hymns to memory. A pleasing scene occurs to my memory, where two little brothers spent hours by themselves, in a certain room, and studied their hymns by the light of a tallow candle. How the one found it so easy a task, and the other so hard. Many a choice hymn such as
"When all Thy mercies, O, my God."
"From all that dwell below the skies."
"Jesus shall reign where'er the sun."
"Alas, and did my Saviour bleed,"
were treasured up in the memory. And there they remain to this day.
These hymns we were taught to sing. Often the tediousness of school hours was relieved with singing. A certain urchin had to raise the tune. After all had been duly arranged on certain benches, and the hymn announced, the Master called on the little fellow to begin, and he did it with a will, the rest joining in the song. Often as I repeat or help to sing one of these hymns, it calls up the memory of Schoolmaster Schwartz. He disappeared no one knows whither. In some quiet God's acre he sleeps his last sleep. None of our scholars know where he lies. But all gratefully cherish the memory of the Master, who filled our childhood memories with sweet hymns, which we shall continue to sing until the school-days of earth shall end.
'Be it a weakness, it deserves some praise,-
We love the play place of our early days;
The scene is touching, and the heart is stone
That feels not at that sight-and feels at none.
The wall on which we tried our graving skill;
The very name we carved subsisting still;
The bench on which we sat while deep employ'd,
Though mangled, hack'd, and hew'd, yet not destroy'd.
The little ones unbutton'd, glowing hot,
Playing our games, and on the very spot;
As happy as we once to kneel and draw
The chalky ring, and knuckle down at taw.
To pitch the ball into the grounded hat,
Or drive it devious with a dexterous pat :
The pleasing spectacle at once excites
Such recollections of our own delights,
That viewing it, we seem almost to obtain
Our innocent sweet simple years again.
This fond attachment to the well-known place
When first we started into life's long race,
Maintains its hold with such unfailing sway
We feel it e'en in age and at our latest day."-Cowper.
BY REV. R. LEIGHTON GERHART,
White Marsh, Pa.
As I, in sad and thoughtful mood,
Came wandering through this silent wood,
I here unwittingly have met
A happy dimpling rivulet,
That issuing out, so sly and still,
From a dark hiding in the hill,
Before me sprang, in open sight,
With limpid tones of loud delight:
Just as a little child once did ;-
She, full of joy, from me had hid
Within a dusky corner, where
She lay in wait till I drew near,
And then with merry ringing shout
Before me sprang to dance about,
With clapping hands and laughing eyes
To see my startle of surprise:
And all the golden sunlight shone
Her unbound golden hair upon,
From head to foot arraying her
With such a glory, I aver,
That ne'er before and ne'er again,
Such lovely vision have I seen;
Then whilst I stood half filled with awe,
And gazed perplexed at what I saw,
On white-bare feet away she tripped
And into darkness softly slipped,
And left me turning o'er and o'er,
A thought by me unsolved before,
Whether it was a gleeful child
Who thus with sport herself beguiled,
Or if it was a merry elf
That played this prank upon myself.
And thus before my very feet,
When least I thought such thing to meet,
Like to the little child I met,
Yon dimpling dance, my rivulet.
And babbling o'er the mossy stones,
You've charmed mine ear with such sweet tones,
That all my gloomy thoughts have fled,
And naught but joy is left instead.
And laughing now at what you've done,
On your bright course you gaily run,
As if you dared me to pursue
The winding way marked out by you:
Perchance 'twill lead amid the shade
Which the dark verdant leaves have made,
Where not a single shaft of light,-
Although the sun with all his might,
From the unclouded sky above,
Shines down upon the leafy grove,-
Can pierce the covering thick and green,
Which you so lover-like doth screen;
And then by different mood possest,
Perchance you'll air your limpid breast
Within some open sunlit glade
Undimmed by shadow or by shade,
Where 'mid stillness deep, profound,
The sunlight rests upon the ground,
Like to a holy blessing said
Upon a young child's gentle head;
Or yet, fatigued with th' quietness
Of the great forest's deep recess,
You'll gaily fly the silent glade,
And speed to form the high cascade.
Adown your frolic plunge to take,
And into thousand spherules break,-
Bright pearls of water, pure as day,
That with incessant patter play-
As glistening through the air they go-
Upon the shining pool below,
Which like a round and silver shield,
By tiny hammers beat, doth yield
Sweet tuneful notes of bell-like sound,
Which through the forest dim resound,
Still charming all the woody air
With tones so musical and clear;
And thus, where'er you choose to go,
Your laughing waters lightly flow;
And none I ween can e'er draw near,
Your wave to see or voice to hear,
Without partaking in the joy
Which your sweet time doth all employ.
E'en though one come, in woful plight
A poor and melancholy wight,
Of every friend on earth bereft,
By fortune scorned, whom hope hath left,
Your cheering influence will steal
O'er his tired heart, and he will feel
Some of the joy, which now from thee
Hath banished far my misery.
This he must feel, for all things here
Attest the wondrous power you bear
To give of your unfailing wealth,
To those who need, new life and health:
The columbine which here hath grown
The richest crimson claims her own;
Of golden hue the butter-cup
His tiny chalice lifteth up,
And every flower draws from you
A deeper and more lovely hue;
While these great trees, here towering high,
Decay and years seem to defy,
And sway their brawny limbs as free,
As if through all eternity,
They were predestined still to grow;
Why, ev'n the rocks your influence show,
For here no longer do they lie
In cold and death-like apathy,
But roused from out the sluggish sleep,
Which their whole life so long did keep,
They've clothed their naked forms, so gross,
With silky robes of velvet moss,
Which glitter o'er with jewels, bright,
As e'er upon a banquet night
The snow-white brow or dimpled neck
Of radiant maiden did bedeck,
As on the floor with dainty tap,
Her dainty slipper light did rap,
And she to music's silvery sound
In the gay dance sped round and round.
Indeed, it almost seems to me-
How much soe'er that thought may
With thoughts of wiser men at strife-
I've found the Elixir of life.
That Liquid, which, with power strange
Old age to youth 'twas said could change;
Could turn the hoary hair to brown,
And smooth the yellow wrinkles down,
Could give to him, whose twitching pains,
And creaking joints, and clogged reins,
And palsied hand, and dim weak e'e,
And shrunken shank, and feeble knee
Compelled, with long and piteous groan,
The loss of youthful prime to own,
As warm and red a flow of blood,
As sparkling and as gay a mood,
As supple and as strong a limb,
As was in youth possessed by him,
When with his comrades on the lawn,
Perchance at eve or yet at dawn,
Their shouts of laughter ringing clear,
He kicked the foot-ball through the air;
Or yet, as when, at close of day,
To some still haunt he stole away,
His heart with love's sweet trouble laden
To meet his rosy little maiden,
And with coy words from her to steal
The avowal she would fain conceal,
But which, with him, in spite of art,
Would find its way from out her heart:
E'en as the gentle violet sweet,
When warmed by morning's balmy heat,
May close its petals as it will,
The petals soft will open still,
And delicate emit the scent,
Which makes the air all redolent.
And thus to change old age to youth
'Twas often said,-and held forsooth,-
This power had that magic draught,
Which wizards old, with wizard craft
And never wearying industry,
Sought in their old-time alchemy,
Or where for them it might have birth
In some deep cavern of the earth,
Which the strange waters did produce
For wrinkled mortals' timely use,-
Here bubbling up all clear and cold
'Tween rocks with many a century old.
Ah, happy stream, do you possess
The magic power which thus can bless
Mortality? Give life a form
Which chilling death can never harm?
Well might I think it! ne'er indeed,
From sombre hill or sunny mead,
Have waters of so pure a ray
O'er their white pebbles slid away,
As here, with voice of music low,
Well from this rock before me now!
And never did the joyous spring
To the sad earth such gladness bring,
As here in richest verdancy
On every side delights the eye!
Ah! how the invalid would love
On this smooth bank to idly rove;
To feel the wind upon his brow
Allay the pain he suffers now;
To kneel upon this mossy stone,
As he perchance may once have done,
And in your stream his hand to dip,
And, bearing to his feverish lip
Refreshing waters cool, to drink
Renewed life from this green brink ;
Then on this fragrant grass, so sleek,
To press his wan and wasted cheek,
And gazing far above to see
The clouds sail on thus tranquilly;
Then close his eyes, and free from pain,
Dream-dream himself a boy again.
Oh! happy streamlet, may you still
Flow onward, onward where you will,
And give to others, as to me,
The joy of your dear company.
Through waving wood, and new mown field,
And flowery meadows, which do yield
To grazing herds the tender grass,
May your bright waters ever pass!
By you may fern leaves ever grow,
And wild-wood flowers peep and blow!
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