THE CROSS-ROAD SCHOOL-HOUSE.
Oh, say! does it stand where it stood of yore,
That old log house with the open door?
But it was not old when first to school
I went, half fearful of rod and rule;
A little girl with a downcast eye,
And a cheek that blushed, it knew not why,
And a laugh that was sometimes heard to ring,
And a heart that trembled at everything.
That old log house with the open door?
But it was not old when first to school
I went, half fearful of rod and rule;
A little girl with a downcast eye,
And a cheek that blushed, it knew not why,
And a laugh that was sometimes heard to ring,
And a heart that trembled at everything.
It was not old, as I said before,
That cross-road school-house with open door;
Its walls were oaken, and rude, and bare,
Though the chinks were filled and daubed with care,
It may have been with as proud a clay,
As the great Macedonian's in his day,
Some Indian king's, who had trod before
The very ground that we sported o'er.
That cross-road school-house with open door;
Its walls were oaken, and rude, and bare,
Though the chinks were filled and daubed with care,
It may have been with as proud a clay,
As the great Macedonian's in his day,
Some Indian king's, who had trod before
The very ground that we sported o'er.
Oh, thus it is ever! Our footsteps fall
On the nameless, in the ancient hall,
Nor think we of those who sleep beneath,
With brows once crowned with the laurel-wreath.
On the nameless, in the ancient hall,
Nor think we of those who sleep beneath,
With brows once crowned with the laurel-wreath.
