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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,"
Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago,

He taught his scholars the rule of three,
Writing, and reading, and history, too;
He took the little ones up on his knee,
For a kind old heart in his breast had he,

And the wants of the littlest child he knew:
"Learn while you're young," he often said,
"There is much to enjoy, down here below;
Life for the living, and rest for the dead!"
Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.

With the stupidest boys he was kind and cool,
Speaking only in gentlest tones;

The rod was hardly known in his school . . .
Whipping, to him, was a barbarous rule,

And too hard work for his poor old bones;
Besides, it was painful, he sometimes said:

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,
With roses and woodbine over the door;
His rooms were quiet, and neat, and plain,
But a spirit of comfort there held reign,

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,
Were the sociable hours he used to pass,
With his chair tipped back to a neighbor's wall,
Making an unceremonious call,

Over a pipe and a friendly glass:

This was the finest picture, he said,

Of the many he tasted, here below;
"Who has no cronies, had better be dead!"
Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.

Then the jolly old pedagogue's wrinkled face
Melted all over in sunshiny smiles;

He stirred his glass with an old-school grace,
Chuckled, and sipped, and prattled apace,

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:
And, feeling the kisses, he smiled and said,
'Twas a glorious world, down here below;
"Why wait for happiness till we are dead?”
Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.

He sat at his door, one midsummer night,
After the sun had sunk in the west,
And the lingering beams of golden light
Made his kindly old face look warm and bright,

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
The flowing tresses of the woman!
Minerva, Pallas, what you will-

A winsome creature, Greek or Roman.

On an Intaglio Head of Minerva

Minerva? No! 'tis some sly minx

In cousin's helmet masquerading;
If not then Wisdom was a dame
For sonnets and for serenading!

I thought the goddess cold, austere,
Not made for love's despairs and blisses:
Did Pallas wear her hair like that?

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,
And set this vine-work round it running,
Perhaps ere mighty Phidias wrought,

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 happy or unhappy story:
Nameless, and dead these centuries,

His work outlives him,--there's his glory!

Both man and jewel lay in earth
Beneath a lava-buried city;

The countless summers came and went,
With neither haste, nor hate, nor pity.

Years blotted out the man, but left
The jewel fresh as any blossom,
Till some Visconti dug it up,-

To rise and fall on Mabel's bosom!

O nameless brother! see how Time

Your gracious handiwork has guarded:
See how your loving, patient art

Has come, at last, to be rewarded.

Who would not suffer slights of men,
And pangs of hopeless passion also,
To have his carven agate-stone

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
on foot and in gilded coaches,
Now that the whole thing ends,

to spoil our kiss with reproaches.

I leave you; my soul is wrung;

I pause, look back from the portal-
Ah, I no more am young,

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
Looks over Wall Street's mingled nations;
Where Jews and Gentiles most are wont
To throng for trade and last quotations;

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