<h3><SPAN name="45">THE SCHOOLBOY</SPAN></h3>
I love to rise in a summer morn,<br/>
When the birds sing on every tree;<br/>
The distant huntsman winds his horn,<br/>
And the skylark sings with me:<br/>
O what sweet company!
<br/><br/>But to go to school in a summer morn,—<br/>
O it drives all joy away!<br/>
Under a cruel eye outworn,<br/>
The little ones spend the day<br/>
In sighing and dismay.
<br/><br/>Ah then at times I drooping sit,<br/>
And spend many an anxious hour;<br/>
Nor in my book can I take delight,<br/>
Nor sit in learning’s bower,<br/>
Worn through with the dreary shower.
<br/><br/>How can the bird that is born for joy<br/>
Sit in a cage and sing?<br/>
How can a child, when fears annoy,<br/>
But droop his tender wing,<br/>
And forget his youthful spring?
<br/><br/>O father and mother, if buds are nipped,<br/>
And blossoms blown away;<br/>
And if the tender plants are stripped<br/>
Of their joy in the springing day,<br/>
By sorrow and care’s dismay,—
<br/><br/>How shall the summer arise in joy,<br/>
Or the summer fruits appear?<br/>
Or how shall we gather what griefs destroy,<br/>
Or bless the mellowing year,<br/>
When the blasts of winter appear?
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