The Home Book of Verse Volume Iv Part 7

Yes, we're boys,--always playing with tongue or with pen,-- And I sometimes have asked,--Shall we ever be men?

Shall we always be youthful, and laughing, and gay, Till the last dear companion drops smiling away?

Then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray!

The stars of its winter, the dews of its May!

And when we have done with our life-lasting toys, Dear Father, take care of thy children, The Boys!

Oliver Wendell Holmes [1809-1894]

THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE

'Twas a jolly old pedagogue, long ago, Tall and slender, and sallow and dry; His form was bent, and his gait was slow, His long, thin hair was as white as snow, 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: "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 pa.s.s, With his chair tipped back to a neighbor's wall, Making an unceremonious call, Over a pipe and a friendly gla.s.s: 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 gla.s.s 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.

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 G.o.ddess 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 For some brown girl that scorned his pa.s.sion.

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 Lais.

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 pa.s.sion 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 weather-- When 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.

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 G.o.ds 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!