Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE VILLAGE SCHOOL, by CHARLES LOUIS HENRY WAGNER



Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE VILLAGE SCHOOL, by                    
First Line: With the golden moonlight streaming
Last Line: In that dear old village school.
Subject(s): Children; Classmates; Memory; Schools; Childhood; Schoolmates; Students


With the golden moonlight streaming
Through my window open wide,
I am all alone and dreaming,
And the past years seem to glide
Phantom-like before my vision,
Each and every one in turn,
Not a break nor an omission,
And for them my heart doth yearn.

Childhood's happy hours renewing,
'Neath the moon's soft, mystic spell,
And my memory's reviewing
Boyhood days I loved so well.
Days in which no thought of sorrow
Marred the joy which childhood knew,
When each glorious tomorrow
Opened a new world to view.

I can see a boy whose features
Much resemble those of mine,
Which, like other earth-born creatures,
Many traits seem to combine.
I can see him as he trudges
To that dear old village school;
I can see his skirted judges
Place him on a dunce's stool.

As I watch him mounting slowly,
Step by step and grade to grade,
I recall that great and lowly
Each the first same steps have made.
And each hope and aspiration
Which I own, came first to me
Through my teachers' inculcation
And their kindly amity.

I can hear the noisy prattle
Of his schoolmates when at play;
But to-day they're doing battle
With the world as best they may.
Some have gone to study under
Heavenly teachers of God's truth,
And tonight I can't but wonder
If they still retain their youth.

I remember, oh! so clearly,
Bright blue eyes and golden hair,
One boy's sweetheart, loved so dearly,
Who is now with angels there.
Winsome smiles and blushes beaming
On a bashful boy of twelve,
And the tears fall while I'm dreaming
Of the past in which I delve.

I can see a wreath of flowers
Resting lightly on a chair
Close beside him, where for hours
Sat this little maiden fair.
I can hear the subdued sobbing
Of a boy who'd lost a friend,
And tonight my heart is throbbing
With the memories that attend.

And I wonder when the ringing
School bell calls me to that shore,
Where are white-robed choirs singing,
I shall know her as of yore.
Will she be the same as childhood
Memories reveal her now,
Romping through the field and wildwood,
Purity stamped on her brow?

Or, have girlhood's blossoms parted
To reveal a woman's soul,
Still endeavoring as it started
Towards a grand and lofty goal?
Was the thread of life here broken
Bound by God into Hope's strand,
Which should serve to us as token
Of that better promised land?

From the schoolroom window gazing
I can see a grassy hill,
Where the cattle now are grazing,
There the world seems calm and still.
Once again I view the river
Flowing sluggishly along,
Where the willow branches quiver,
Where I hear the robin's song.

I can see a kind face beaming
Full of happiness and joy,
And two sharp, bright eyes are gleaming,
Focused on a naughty boy.
They were owned by dear "Aunt Hannah,"
As we used to call her then,
Whose sweet, gentle, loving manner
Will ne'er be forgot by men.

I remember quite distinctly
How she used to punish boys,
How she often used to chide me
For my whispering and noise.
I was always quite loquacious
(Even now it's not outgrown),
And I think her efficacious
Punishment I will make known.

Every night as we were leaving
She commanded those to stay
Who deserved no kind reprieving,
Those who'd whispered through the day,
While she kept them busy learning
Poetry of every kind,
Who, before their homeward turning,
Verses five must have in mind.

So I think my love of rhyming
Must have been augmented quite
By the constant, measured timing
Of those poems every night.
Dear Aunt Hannah's now up yonder,
And I think that I can see
Good Saint Peter sit and ponder
Over classic poetry.

I can see a figure stately
Standing by the schoolroom door,
And I watch it move sedately
To the platform on the floor.
'Twas my dearly loved schoolmaster,
Who impressed me as a child
With a knowledge that was vaster
Than old Homer e'er compiled.

And tonight the moonlight streaming
Seems to cast his silhouette
On my mind as I am dreaming,
And his pose I'll ne'er forget;
One hand pointed to the ceiling.
With his form erect and grand
As he was to us revealing
Oratory's master-hand.

I can hear the windows rattle
From his deep and lusty tone,
As with Spartacus in battle
Making his fierce feelings known.
And the Storm King's mighty thunder
Seemed not half as loud to me
As that voice which we sat under
Learning vocal purity.

And whene'er I have occasion
To address my fellow men,
I remember his oration,
And old Spartacus again.
And I try to put real fire
Into everything I say,
Such as he aimed to inspire
In his pupils every day.

The old master still is living,
Very gray and somewhat bent,
And I know at times he's giving
To this burning fire vent.
And with truth I can assever
That the knowledge which he taught
Will inspire me forever
Towards the goal my soul has sought.

And the schoolhouse still is standing
Just a little from the street,
Where upon each step and landing
One can hear the children's feet.
But the charm for me is broken,
As I'm dreaming here alone,
Since each sweet and loving token
Of my past there now has flown.

Still, I love that quaint, old building,
And the golden moonbeams bright
Seem to flood its porches, gilding
Every corner with delight.
And I'll ne'er forget the teachings,
Ne'er forget that dunce's stool,
Nor my kind, old master's preachings
In that dear old village school.





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