Page:The Professor (1857 Volume 2).djvu/168

 At last our school ranks took their ground; The hard-fought field I won; The prize, a laurel-wreath, was bound My throbbing forehead on. Low at my master's knee I bent, The offered crown to meet; Its green leaves through my temples sent A thrill as wild as sweet. The strong pulse of Ambition struck In every vein I owned; At the same instant, bleeding broke A secret, inward wound. The hour of triumph was to me The hour of sorrow sore; A day hence I must cross the sea, Ne'er to recross it more. An hour hence, in my master's room, I with him sat alone, And told him what a dreary gloom O'er joy had parting thrown.