Yours is each science which the truth ensures ;
Christian and heathen, all the arts are yours !
Yours all the wisdom Socrates has taught,
Without the fatal cup which envy brought !
Yours all the pride of hearts with worth endued,
Yours the rich recompense of doing good ;
Yours the reward of pointing lofty minds
To paths which honor, learning, genius finds ;
And more than all, yours the ecstatic glow
Of fellow-worker with your God below !

Thus by thy stream, Kinross, with pensive mind,

Thy poet teacher o'er his lot repined ! u

Doomed in life's early morn to see the shade

Of secret sickness all his views pervade ;

And while misfortune's pains his feelings wrung,

Thus o'er his woes the sad enthusiast sung.
" Now spring returns, but not to me returns

The vernal joy ! " So in the secret urns

Of memory is many a treasure hid,

And many a high hope sleeps beneath the coffin lid !

A different fate, etherial Milton ! thine ; 1S
Whose lofty genius bade instruction shine.
'T was thine alone through heaven's wide fields to
roam,



48 THE SCHOOLMASTER.
And bring elate its secret treasures home ;

'T was thine to bid the youthful genius soar

To realms thy mind delighted to explore.
Yet sorrow darkened o'er thy earthly fate,

Domestic troubles, and the ills of state ;

And, ah ! more sad, that woe the muses mourn,

'T was thine to be through utter darkness borne !

To find day's vital lamp exist in vain !

While thus we hear thy lofty muse complain.
