  THE weary teacher sat alone, While twilight gathered on: And not a sound was heard around, The boys and girls were gone. The weary teacher sat alone, Unnerved and pale was he; Bowed by a yoke of care he spoke In sad soliloquy: “Another round, another round Of labor thrown away, Another chain of toil and pain Dragged through a tedious day. “Of no avail is constant zeal, Love’s sacrifice is loss, The hopes of morn, so golden, turn, Each evening, into dross. “I squander on a barren field My strength, my life, my all; The seeds I sow will never grow, They perish where they fall. He sighed, and low upon his hands His aching brow he prest, And like a spell upon him fell A soothing sense of rest. Ere long he lifted drowsy eyes, When, on his startled view, The room by strange and sudden change To vast proportions grew! It seemed a senate house, and one Addressed a listening throng; Each burning word all bosoms stirred, Applause rose loud and long. The wildered teacher thought he knew The speaker’s voice and look, “And for his name,” said he, “the same Is in my record-book.” The stately congress hall dissolved, A church rose in its place, Wherein there stood a man of God, Dispensing words of grace. And though he heard the solemn voice, And saw the beard of gray, The teacher’s thought was strangely wrought “My yearning heart to-day “Wept for this youth whose wayward will Against persuasion strove, Compelling force, love’s last resource, To stablish laws of love.” The church, a phantasm, vanished soon; What shadowy picture then? In classic gloom of alcoved room An author plied his pen. “My idlest lad!” the master said, Filled with a new surprise, “Shall I behold his name enrolled Among the great and wise?” The vision of a cottage home Was now through tears descried: A mother’s face illumed the place Her influence sanctified. “A miracle! a miracle! This matron well I know! She was a wild and careless child Not half an hour ago. “Now, when she to her children speaks Of duty’s golden rule, Her lips repeat, in accents sweet, My words to her at school.” Dim on the teacher’s brain returned The humble school-room old; Upon the wall did darkness fall, The evening air was cold. “A dream!” the sleeper, waking, said, Then paced along the floor, And, whistling low and soft and slow, He locked the school-house door. His musing heart was reconciled To love’s divine delays: “The bread forth cast returns at last, Lo, after many days!” |
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