The Teacher's Monologue

The room is quiet, thoughts alonePeople its mute tranquillity;The yoke put off, the long task done,--I am, as it is bliss to be,Still and untroubled. Now, I see,For the first time, how soft the dayO'er waveless water, stirless tree,Silent and sunny, wings its way.Now, as I watch that distant hill,So faint, so blue, so far removed,Sweet dreams of home my heart may fill,That home where I am known and loved:It lies beyond; yon azure browParts me from all Earth holds for me;And, morn and eve, my yearnings flowThitherward tending, changelessly.My happiest hours, aye! all the time,I love to keep in memory,Lapsed among moors, ere life's first primeDecayed to dark anxiety.

Sometimes, I think a narrow heartMakes me thus mourn those far away,And keeps my love so far apartFrom friends and friendships of to-day;Sometimes, I think 'tis but a dreamI treasure up so jealously,All the sweet thoughts I live on seemTo vanish into vacancy:And then, this strange, coarse world aroundSeems all that's palpable and true;And every sight, and every sound,Combines my spirit to subdueTo aching grief, so void and loneIs Life and Earth--so worse than vain,The hopes that, in my own heart sown,And cherished by such sun and rainAs Joy and transient Sorrow shed,Have ripened to a harvest there:Alas! methinks I hear it said,"Thy golden sheaves are empty air."

All fades away; my very homeI think will soon be desolate;I hear, at times, a warning comeOf bitter partings at its gate;And, if I should return and seeThe hearth-fire quenched, the vacant chair;And hear it whispered mournfully,That farewells have been spoken there,What shall I do, and whither turn?Where look for peace? When cease to mourn?

'Tis not the air I wished to play,The strain I wished to sing;My wilful spirit slipped awayAnd struck another string.I neither wanted smile nor tear,Bright joy nor bitter woe,But just a song that sweet and clear,Though haply sad, might flow.

A quiet song, to solace meWhen sleep refused to come;A strain to chase despondency,When sorrowful for home.In vain I try; I cannot sing;All feels so cold and dead;No wild distress, no gushing springOf tears in anguish shed;

But all the impatient gloom of oneWho waits a distant day,When, some great task of suffering done,Repose shall toil repay.For youth departs, and pleasure flies,And life consumes away,And youth's rejoicing ardour diesBeneath this drear delay;

And Patience, weary with her yoke,Is yielding to despair,And Health's elastic spring is brokeBeneath the strain of care.Life will be gone ere I have lived;Where now is Life's first prime?I've worked and studied, longed and grieved,Through all that rosy time.

To toil, to think, to long, to grieve,--Is such my future fate?The morn was dreary, must the eveBe also desolate?Well, such a life at least makes DeathA welcome, wished-for friend;Then, aid me, Reason, Patience, Faith,To suffer to the end!