"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 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'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,
'T was 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.
IF I shall ever win the home in heaven
For whose sweet rest I humbly hope and pray,
In the great company of the forgiven
I shall be sure to find old Daniel Gray.
I knew him well; in truth, few knew him better,
For my young eyes oft read for him the Word,
And saw how meekly from the crystal letter
He drank the life of his beloved Lord.
Old Daniel Gray was not a man who lifted
On ready words his freight of gratitude,
Nor was he called upon among the gifted,
In the prayer-meetings of his neighborhood.
He had a few old-fashioned words and phrases,
Linked in with sacred texts and Sunday rhymes;
And I suppose that in his prayers and graces,
I've heard them all at least a thousand times.
I see him now his form, his face, his motions,
His homespun habit, and his silver hair,-
And hear the language of his trite devotions,
Rising behind the straight-backed kitchen chair.
I can remember how the sentence sounded-
"Help us, O Lord, to pray and not to faint!"
And how the "conquering-and-to-conquer" rounded
The loftier aspirations of the saint.
He had some notions that did not improve him :
He never kissed his children
And finest scenes and fairest flowers would move him
Less than a horse-shoe picked up in the way.
He had a hearty hatred of oppression,
And righteous words for sin of every kind;
Alas, that the transgressor and transgression
Were linked so closely in his honest mind.
He could see naught but vanity in beauty,
And naught but weakness in a fond caress,
And pitied men whose views of Christian duty
Allowed indulgence in such foolishness.
Yet there were love and tenderness within him;
And I am told that when his Charlie died,
Nor nature's need nor gentle words could win him
From his fond vigils at the sleeper's side.
And when they came to bury little Charlie,
They found fresh dew-drops sprinkled in his hair, And on his breast a rose-bud gathered early,
And guessed, but did not know, who placed it there. Honest and faithful, constant in his calling, Strictly attendant on the means of grace, Instant in prayer, and fearful most of falling, Old Daniel Gray was always in his place.
A practical old man, and yet a dreamer;
He thought that in some strange, unlooked-for way
His mighty Friend in Heaven, the great Redeemer,
Would honor him with wealth some golden day.
This dream he carried in a hopeful spirit,
Until in death his patient eye grew dim,
And his Redeemer called him to inherit
The heaven of wealth long garnered up for him.
So, if I ever win the home in heaven
For whose sweet rest I humbly hope and pray,
In the great company of the forgiven
I shall be sure to find old Daniel Gray.
I'M GROWING OLD
My days pass pleasantly away;
My nights are blest with sweetest sleep;
I feel no symptoms of decay;
I have no cause to mourn or weep;
My foes are impotent and shy;
My friends are neither false nor cold;
And yet, of late I often sigh,
I'm growing old!
My growing talk of olden times,
My growing thirst for early news,
My growing apathy to rhymes,
My growing love of easy shoes,
My growing hate of crowds and noise,
My growing fear of taking cold,
All whisper in the plainest voice,
I'm growing old!
I'm growing fonder of my staff;
I'm growing dimmer in the eyes;
I'm growing fainter in my laugh;
I'm growing deeper in my sighs;
I'm growing careless of my dress;
I'm growing frugal of my gold;
I'm growing wise; I'm growing-yes-
I'm growing old!
I see it in my changing taste;
I see it in my changing hair;
I see it in my growing waist;
I see it in my growing heir;
A thousand signs proclaim the truth,
As plain as truth was ever told,
That, even in my vaunted youth,
I'm growing old!
Ah me! my very laurels breathe
The tale in my reluctant ears,
And every boon the hours bequeath
But makes me debtor to the years!
E'en flattery's honeyed words declare
The secret she would fain withhold,
And tells me in "How young you are!"
I'm growing old!
Thanks for the years!- whose rapid flight
My sombre muse too sadly sings;
Thanks for the gleams of golden light
That tint the darkness of their wings!
The light that beams from out the sky,
Those heavenly mansions to unfold,
Where all are blest, and none may sigh
"I'm growing old!"
JOHN GODFREY SAXE.
WHEN all the world is young, lad,
And all the trees are green,
And every goose a swan, lad,
And every lass a queen,
Then fly for boot and horse, lad,
And round the world away;
Young blood must have its course, lad,
And every dog his day.
When all the world is old, lad,
And all the trees are brown,
And all the sport is stale, lad,
And all the wheels run down,
Come home and take your place there
The spent and maimed among;
God grant you find a face there
You loved when you were young!
THE WATER THAT HAS PASSED
LISTEN to the water-mill,
Through the live-long day,
How the clanking of the wheels
Wears the hours away!
Languidly the Autumn wind
Stirs the greenwood leaves;
From the fields the reapers sing,
Binding up the sheaves;
And a proverb haunts my mind,
As a spell is cast :
"The mill will never grind
With the water that has passed."
Take the lesson to thyself,
Living heart and true;
Golden years are fleeting by,
Youth is passing too;
Learn to make the most of life,
Lose no happy day;
Time will never bring thee back
Chances swept away.
Leave no tender word unsaid,
Love while life shall last
"The mill will never grind
With the water that is past."
Work while yet the daylight shines,
Man of strength and will;
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