St Johns College - Yearbook (Annapolis, MD)

Page 144 text:

the Elncient Sree. WRITTEN BY FRANCIS SCOTT KEY. GGKH? HEE, ancient tree, auturnnal storms assail, I 9 lg' Thy shattered branches spread the SOH11d afai 3 U Thy tall head bows before the rising gale, Thy pale leaf Hits along the troubled air. No more thou boastest of thy vernal bloom, Thy withered foliage glads the eye no more 3 Yet, still, thy presence on thy lonely gloom A secret pleasure to my soul restores. For round thy trunk my careless childhood straywl When fancy led me cheerful o'er the green And many a frolic feat beneath thy shade Far distant days and other suns have seen. Fond recollection kindles at the View And acts each long departed scene anew. 136

Page 143 text:

Seem likely to devour me 5 but itwas Not destined to be thus. The Flames are quenched, And lo I the glow of youth returns to me, My roots take firmer hold on Mother Earth, A And vigor grasps my whole existence. Then 'Twas seen, the threatening fire had but consumed The hindrance to my progress. So with thee, Oh, man ! permittest thou the dross to be Commingled with the gold, thy soul grows ill And soon would die but for the cleansing fire. Again I say, be helpful. As I lend My rugged strength to succor- and support The clinging vine, so proffer thy strong arm And elevate thy weaker brother. But, Alas, my doom is pending! Some swift gale This empty trunk around, may hurl it to Destruction. Thou, too, man, must surely die Q But ere thou enterest thy final sleep, Take heed, be ready, and to thee shalt be A heaven and a blest eternity. Farewell, thou noble Poplar Tree l Each rising sun but hastens our advent I Upon the stage of life, when we must leave Thee, Poplar. Yea, how soon 5 but sun ne'er shed A brighter glow in human heart than doth Thine image, Poplar: and although decades Have rolled away, and Fortune kind allot To us position with the foremost, still Unquenched will be the spark of love which draws May through these branches sweep, and twisting swift Us to thee, Poplar. 1

Page 145 text:

!Il5aurice's flbebitation. E rolled over in his bed and breathing forth a sigh of perfect content and bliss, opened his eyes, and looked out upon the damp, chill morn. The sparrows, noisy harbingers of dawn, were twitterin g forth soft sweet notes, and fluttering from twig to twig of the green ivy which, covering the house on all sides, both afforded shelter to all these little fel- lows and also gave the building a quaint, antiquated look, very charming to lovers of things almost gone to decay with venerable old age. Maurice, too, felt the rejuvenating influence of rising Phoebus and, as that old orb rolled up on his etherial course across the heavens, he sprang from his downy couch, turned on the steam and leisurely arranged his toilet. Maurice Went to the window and examined the sky for prospects of a clear day. The rising sun just at that moment burst forth from purple clouds, which, separat- ing, sailed off in grotesque shapes, and Rosy Morn with hands of fire unbarred the gates of lightff A cold, piercing wind seemed to enter every nook and cranny, All seemed cold and drear. The sun him- self seemed frosted and his glory overshadowed. I Maurice looked and beheld a woman, pale and wan, and worn, and scantily clad, picked piece by piece the half-burned coals from an ash barrel 3 ever and anon rest- ing from her wearisome labor to press her hand to her breast and cough a short hacking cough-a cough such as only the most weak give forth. V, The wind, often catching her skirts, would have great sport for a while, and then, dying out, would hurry on in the distance to blow stray paper or leaves, or per- chance to aid some other poor sufferer one step nearer the final resting place. But truly has it been said There is no rest for the weary. The poor woman picks on, only stopping to cough, or rest her numb fingers, while buzzards, flying on smooth wing, creen to the wind or hover momentarily over some spot. A q The whole scene touched Maurice's heart. He pit- ied this woman, but after all, he wondered if this poor forlorn creature might not be happier than he, for he was not one of those dreamers who simply bless their stars and call it happiness. Perhaps she had a little boy at home, whom she loved, and hoped and worked for. Per- haps she had an ill husband whose very smile was her