With his chair tipped back to a neighbor's wall, Over a pipe and a friendly glass;— The jolly old pedagogue's wrinkled face 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, He smoked his pipe in the balmy air, Every night when the sun went down, On the jolly old pedagogue's jolly old crown; He sat at his door one midsummer night, And the lingering beams of golden light Gently, gently he bowed his head,— "Rest! There were angels waiting for him, I know; He was sure of happiness, living or dead, This jolly old pedagogue, long ago. GEORGE ARNOLD. Ode on the Centenary of Burns. WE hail this morn A century's noblest birth; A Poet peasant-born, Who more of Fame's immortal dower Unto his country brings Than all her kings! As lamps high set Upon some earthly eminence; And to the gazer brighter thence So through the past's far-reaching night A gentle boy, With moods of sadness and of mirth, But half his mother's cares From his dark, searching eyes, Too swift to sympathize, Hid in her heart she bears. At early morn His father calls him to the field; Through the stiff soil that clogs his feet, Chill rain, and harvest heat, He plods all day; returns at eve outworn, To the rude fare a peasant's lot doth yield— To what else was he born? The God-made king Of every living thing; (For his great heart in love could hold them all); The dumb eyes meeting his by hearth and stallGifted to understand!— Knew it and sought his hand; And the most timorous cretaure had not fled Which fain all feeble things had blessed and sheltered To Nature's feast, Who knew her noblest guest And entertained him best, Kingly he came. Her chambers of the east For him her anthem rolled From the storm-wind among the winter pines, Of a love-warble from the linnet's throat. But when begins The array for battle, and the trumpet blows, Grim gathering hosts of sorrows and of sins, And Fame her trumpet blew Before him, wrapped him in her purple state, Though he may yield, Forsaken on the field; His regal vestments soiled; His crown of half its jewels spoiled; He is a king for all. Had he but stood aloof! Had he arrayed himself in armor proof Against temptation's darts! So yearn the good-so those the world calls wise, Of martyr-woe A sacred shadow on his memory rests— Indignant grief yet stirs impetuous breasts, To think-above that noble soul brought low, That wise and soaring spirit fooled, enslavedThus, thus he had been saved! It might not be! That heart of harmony Had been too rudely rent; Its silver chords, which any hand could wound, By no hand could be tuned, Save by the Maker of the instrument, Its every string who knew, And from profaning touch his heavenly gift withdrew. Regretful love His country fain would prove, By grateful honors lavished on his grave; Would fain redeem her blame That he so little at her hands can claim, Who unrewarded gave To her his life-bought gift of song and fame. The land he trod Hath now become a place of pilgrimage; Where dearer are the daisies of the sod That could his song engage. The hoary hawthorn, wreathed Above the bank on which his limbs he flung While some sweet plaint he breathed; The streams he wandered near; The maidens whom he loved; the songs he sung All, all are dear! The arch blue eyes Arch but for love's disguise Of Scotland's daughters, soften at his strain; To drive the plowshare through earth's virgin soils, And sister-lands have learned to love the tongue In which such songs are sung. For doth not song To the whole world belong? Is it not given wherever tears can fall, ISA CRAIG KNOX. Over the River. OVER the river they beckon to me Loved ones who 've passed to the further side; The gleam of their snowy robes I see, But their voices are lost in the dashing tide. There's one with ringlets of sunny gold, And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue; And the pale mist hid him from mortal view; My brother stands waiting to welcome me! |