Faithful soldier of the cross,
  All thy conflicts now are done;
Earthly triumphs are but loss,
  Thine is an immortal one.

Palms of vict’ry thou shall bear,
  And a crown of fadeless light
Will be given thee to wear,
  And a robe of spotless white.

Thou shalt join the countless throng,
  Which, through tribulation, came: 
And repeat the angels’ song—­
  “Worthy! worthy is His name

Who hath conquered death and hell;
  Captive led captivity;
Always doing, all things well;
  Giving us the victory!”

MY SCHOOLBOY DAYS.

The following poem was read at the forty-fifth anniversary of the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. James Swaney, on January 11th, 1883.  Mr. and Mrs. Swaney’s residence is not far from the site of the school house where Mr. Scott first went to school.

Dear friends and neighbors, one and all,
  I’m pleased to meet you here;
’Tis fit that we should make this call
  Thus early in the year.

That time flies rapidly along,
  And hurries us away,
Has been the theme of many a song,
  And it is mine to-day.

I stand where in my childhood’s days,
  I often stood before,
But nothing meets my altered gaze
  As in the days of yore.

The trees I climbed in youthful glee,
  Or slept beneath their shade. 
Have disappeared—­no trace I see
  Of them upon the glade.

The school house, too, which stood near by,
  Has long since ceased to be;
To find its site I often try,
  No trace of it I see.

The road I traveled to and fro,
  With nimble feet and spry,
I cannot find, but well I know
  It must have been hard by.

The pond where skating once I fell
  Upon the ice so hard—­
I lost my senses for a spell,
  And hence became a bard—­

Is dry land now where grain or grass
  Is growing year by year;
I see the spot, as oft I pass,
  No ice nor pond is there.

A barn is standing on the spot
  Where once the school house stood;
A dwelling on the playground lot,
  A cornfield in the wood.

I mourn not for these altered scenes,
  Although it seems so strange
That all are changed; I know it means
  That everything must change.

I mourn the loss of early friends,
  My schoolboy friends so dear;
I count upon my fingers’ ends
  The few remaining here.

In early youth some found their graves,
  With friends and kindred by;
While some beneath the ocean’s waves
  In dreamless slumbers lie;

While many more, in distant lands,
  No friends nor kindred near,
Are laid to rest by strangers’ hands,
  Without one friendly tear.

A few survive, both far and near,
  But O! how changed are they! 
Like the small band assembled here,
  Enfeebled, old, and gray.