The Jolly Old Pedagogue But a wonderful twinkle shone in his eye; And he sang every night as he went to bed, "Let us be happy down here below: The living should live, though the dead be dead," He taught his scholars the rule of three, And the wants of the littlest child he knew: With the stupidest boys he was kind and cool, The rod was hardly known in his school . . . And too hard work for his poor old bones; 1747 "We should make life pleasant, down here below, The living need charity more than the dead," Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. He lived in the house by the hawthorn lane, And made him forget he was old and poor; "I need so little," he often said; "And my friends and relatives here below Won't litigate over me when I am dead," Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. But the pleasantest times that he had, of all, Over a pipe and a friendly glass: This was the finest picture, he said, Of the many he tasted, here below; Then the jolly old pedagogue's wrinkled face He stirred his glass with an old-school grace, Till the house grew merry, from cellar to tiles: "I'm a pretty old man," he gently said, "I've lingered a long while, here below; But my heart is fresh, if my youth is fled!" Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. He smoked his pipe in the balmy air, Every night when the sun went down, While the soft wind played in his silvery hair, Leaving its tenderest kisses there, On the jolly old pedagogue's jolly old crown: He sat at his door, one midsummer night, While the odorous night-wind whispered "Rest!" Gently, gently, he bowed his head. There were angels waiting for him, I know; He was sure of happiness, living or dead, This jolly old pedagogue, long ago! George Arnold [1834-1865] ON AN INTAGLIO HEAD OF MINERVA BENEATH the warrior's helm, behold A winsome creature, Greek or Roman. On an Intaglio Head of Minerva Minerva? No! 'tis some sly minx In cousin's helmet masquerading; I thought the goddess cold, austere, Was Wisdom's mouth so shaped for kisses? The Nightingale should be her bird, And not the Owl, big-eyed and solemn: How very fresh she looks, and yet She's older far than Trajan's Column! The magic hand that carved this face, Had lost its subtle skill and cunning. Who was he? Was he glad or sad, Who knew to carve in such a fashion? Perchance he graved the dainty head 1749 For some brown girl that scorned his passion. Perchance, in some still garden-place, Where neither fount nor tree to-day is, He flung the jewel at the feet Of Phryne, or perhaps 'twas Laïs. But he is dust; we may not know His work outlives him,--there's his glory! Both man and jewel lay in earth The countless summers came and went, Years blotted out the man, but left To rise and fall on Mabel's bosom! O nameless brother! see how Time Your gracious handiwork has guarded: Has come, at last, to be rewarded. Who would not suffer slights of men, On such a bosom rise and fall so! ́ Thomas Bailey Aldrich (1837-1907] THALIA A MIDDLE-AGED LYRICAL POET IS SUPPOSED TO BE TAKING FINAL LEAVE OF THE MUSE OF COMEDY. SHE HAS BROUGHT HIM HIS HAT AND GLOVES, AND IS ABSTRACTEDLY PICKING A THREAD OF GOLD HAIR FROM HIS COAT SLEEVE AS HE BEGINS TO SPEAK: I SAY it under the rose oh, thanks!-yes, under the laurel, We part lovers, not foes; we are not going to quarrel. We have too long been friends to spoil our kiss with reproaches. I leave you; my soul is wrung; I pause, look back from the portal- and you, child, you are immortal! Mine is the glacier's way, yours is the blossom's weatherWhen were December and May known to be happy together? Before my kisses grow tame, before my moodiness grieve you, While yet my heart is flame, and I all lover, I leave you. Pan in Wall Street 1751 So, in the coming time, when you count the rich years over, Think of me in my prime, and not as a white-haired lover, Fretful, pierced with regret, the wraith of a dead Desire Thrumming a cracked spinet by a slowly dying fire. When, at last, I am cold years hence, if the gods so will it Say, "He was true as gold," and wear a rose in your fillet! Others, tender as I, will come and sue for caresses, Woo you, win you, and die— mind you, a rose in your tresses! Some Melpomene woo, some hold Clio the nearest; You, sweet Comedy-you were ever sweetest and dearest! Nay, it is time to go. When writing your tragic sister Say to that child of woe how sorry I was I missed her. Really, I cannot stay, though "parting is such sweet sorrow" Perhaps I will, on my way down-town, look in to-morrow! Thomas Bailey Aldrich [1837-1907] PAN IN WALL STREET A. D. 1867 JUST where the Treasury's marble front |