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,
Fer 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; Beside, 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 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 pleasure, 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 have 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.

The roses in the night-wind sway,

Their petals glistening with the dew;
As they are longing for the day,
I long for you,-I long for you!

But you are in the land of dreams;
Your eyes are closed, your gentle breath
So faintly comes, your slumber seems
Almost like death,-almost like death!

Sleep on; but may my music twine
Your sleep with strands of melody,
And lead you, gentle love of mine,
To dream of me,-to dream of me!

THE MATRON YEAR.

THE leaves that made our forest pathways shady
Begin to rustle down upon the breeze;

The year is fading, like a stately lady
Who lays aside her youthful vanities:

SHADOWS of lost delight, arise!

And move my darksome soul to tears: Renew the light of faded skies,

The rapture of the fallen spheres:
For I will give to-night to these;
To-morrow to the stormy seas-
Beyond them, it may be, is peace!

Even as I speak the past returns;
I dwell again in Paradise;
Around the ardent spring-tide burns,
Above us laugh the happy skies;
All things in gladness onward move,
And earth beneath and heaven above
Are full of love, and only love.

Of all that joy a part are we,

Of all that love we share the bliss; And know the years to come shall be As full of happiness as this: I drain my madness to the lees; To-morrow to the stormy seasBeyond them, it may be, is peace!

For all the rapture was my own,

And all the falsehood hers; and so The dream that lit the earth is gone, And I the dreamer sadly go: No more of mournful memories; To-morrow to the stormy seasBeyond them, it may be, is peace!

IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN.

My wasted checks are wet With tears of vain regret For all I should remember not, And all I would forget.

Oh, how shall these avenge us,

With look, or word, or kiss, For all the bliss that might have been, And all the pain that is.

THE KISS.

THE lyre I bear, so sweet of sound-
I dash it on the frozen ground,

For idle are its golden chords,
And vain of song the burning words.

I kiss thee; let my kiss avail,
Where speech and music both must fail
To tell the love, which else from thee
A secret evermore must be.

A FAREWELL.

FAINT splendors of the night of June,
Sweet radiance of the summer moon,
Upon thy pathway dwell.
Farewell, Estelle! Farewell!

Dim fragrance of the violet,

And of the briar-rose dew-wet,

REMORSE.

I DIE. I know that men will haunt my graveGreat men to weep a kindred spirit fledWhose souls in hours of mirthfulness and gloom Upon my verses fed;

I know the critics shall be kind at last,

I know the world shall deem that not in vain

I lived; but I-alas, oh barren past!
Would I could live again