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Whoever governs, he controls the school:
"T is not the distant emperor moves their fear,
But the proud viceroy who is ever near. (11)
Verres could do that mischief in a day,
For which not Rome, in all its power, could pay
And these boy-tyrants will their slaves distress,
And do the wrongs no master can redress:
The mind they load with fear; it feels disdain
For its own baseness; yet it tries in vain
To shake th' admitted power;-the coward comes again:
'Tis more than present pain these tyrants give,
Long as we've life some strong impression live;
And these young ruffians in the soul will sow
Seeds of all vices that on weakness grow.
Hark! at his word the trembling younglings flee,
Where he is walking none must walk but he;
See! from the winter-fire the weak retreat,
His the warm corner, his the favorite seat,
Save when he yields it to some slave to keep
Awhile, then back, at his return, to creep:
At his command his poor defendants fly,
And humbly bribe him as a proud ally;
Flatter'd by all, the notice he bestows
gross abuse, and bantering, and blows;
Yet he's a dunce, and, spite of all his fame
Without the desk, within he feels his shame :
For there the weaker boy, who felt his scorn,
For him corrects the blunders of the morn;
And he is taught, unpleasant truth! to find
The trembling body has the prouder mind.
Hark! to that shout, that burst of empty noise,
From a rude set of bluff, obstreperous boys,
They who, like colts let loose, with vigor bound,
And thoughtless spirit, o'er the beaten ground;
Fearless they leap, and every youngster feels
His Alma active in his hands and heels.
These are the sons of farmers, and they come (12)
With partial fondness for the joys of home;
Their minds are coursing in their fathers' fields,
And e'en the dream a lively pleasure yields;
They, much enduring, sit th' allotted hours,
And o'er a grammar waste their sprightly powers;
They dance; but them can measured steps delight,
Whom horse and hounds to daring deeds excite?
Nor could they bear to wait from meal to meal,
Did they not slyly to the chamber steal,
And there the produce of the basket seize,
The mother's gift! still studious of their ease.
Poor Alma, thus oppress'd, forbears to rise,
But rests or revels in the arms and thighs.
"But is it sure that study will repay
The more attentive and forbearing?"—Nay!
The farm, the ship, the humble shop have each
Gains which severest studies seldom reach.
At College place a youth, who means to raise (13)
His state by merit and his name by praise;
Still much he hazards; there is serious strife
In the contentions of a scholar's life:
Not all the mind's attention, care, distress,
Nor diligence itself, insure success:
His jealous heart a rival's power may dread,
Till its strong feelings have confused his head,
And, after days and months, nay, years of pain,
He finds just lost the object he would gain.
But grant him this and all such life can give,
For other prospects he begins to live;
Begins to feel that man was form'd to look
And long for other objects than a book:
In his mind's eye his house and glebe he sees,
And farms and talks with farmers at his ease;
And time is lost, till fortune sends him forth
To a rude world unconscious of his worth;
There in some petty parish to reside,
The college-boat, then turn'd the village guide:
And though awhile his flock and dairy please,
He soon reverts to former joys and ease,
Glad when a friend shall come to break his rest,
And speak of all the pleasures they possess'd,
Of masters, fellows, tutors, all with whom
They shared those pleasures, never more to come;
Till both conceive the times by bliss endear'd,
Which once so dismal and so dull appear'd.
But fix our Scholar, and suppose him crown'd
With all the glory gain'd on classic ground;
Suppose the world without a sigh resign'd,
And to his college all his care confined;
Give him all honors that such states allow,
The freshman's terror and the tradesman's bow;
Let his apartinents with his taste agree,
And all his views be those he loves to see;
Let him each day behold the savory treat,
For which he pays not, but is paid to eat;
These joys and glories soon delight no more,
Although, withheld, the mind is vex'd and sore:
The honor too is to the place confined,
Abroad they know not each superior mind;
Strangers no wranglers in these figures see,
Nor give they worship to a high degree;
Unlike the prophet's is the scholar's case,
His honor all is in his dwelling-place;
And there such honors are familiar things;
What is a monarch in a crowd of kings?
Like other sovereigns he's by forms address'd,
By statutes govern'd and with rules oppress'd.
When all these forms and duties die away,
And the day passes like the former day,
Then of exterior things at once berest,
He's to himself and one attendant left;
Nay, John too goes; nor aught of service more
Remains for him; he gladly quits the door,
And, as he whistles to the college-gate,
He kindly pities his poor master's fate.
Books can not always please, however good;
Minds are not ever craving for their food;
But sleep will soon the weary soul prepare
For cares to-morrow that were this day's care;
For forms, for feasts, that sundry times have past,
And formal feasts that will for ever last.
"But then from Study will no comforts rise?" Yes! such as studious minds alone can prize; Comforts, yea!-joys ineffable they find, Who seek the prouder pleasures of the inind: The soul, collected in those happy hours, Then makes her efforts, then enjoys her powers; And in those seasons feels herself repaid, For labors past and honors long delay'd.
No! 't is not worldly gain, although by chance The sons of learning may to wealth advance ; Nor station high, though in some favoring hour The sons of learning may arrive at power; Nor is it glory, though the public voice Of honest praise will make the heart rejoice: But 't is the mind's own feelings give the joy, Pleasures she gathers in her own employPleasures that gain or praise can not bestow, Yet can dilate and raise them when they flow. For this the Poet looks the world around, Where form and life and reasoning man are found; He loves the mind, in all its modes, to trace, And all the manners of the changing race; Silent he walks the road of life along,
And views the aims of its tumultuous throng; He finds what shapes the Proteus-passions take, And what strange waste of life and joy they make, And loves to show them to their varied ways, With honest blame or with unflattering praise; 'Tis good to know, 't is pleasant to impart, These turns and movements of the human heart; The stronger features of the soul to paint, And make distinct the latent and the faint; MAN AS HE IS, to place in all men's view, Yet none with rancor, none with scorn pursue; Nor be it ever of my Portraits told"Here the strong lines of malice we behold."
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE, was the youngest son of Rev. John Coleridge, Vicar of St. Mary Ottery, Devonshire, where he was born on the 21st of October, 1772. In 1782 he was sent to Christ's Hospital School, London, where he was a contemporary of Charles Lamb, who has given an account of his appearance as a school-boy. In 1791 he entered Jesus College, Cambridge, which he quitted in 1794, without taking his degree, having made himself obnoxious to the college authorities by his avowal of radical political opinions. He soon after, in great pecuniary distress, enlisted in the 15th dragoons, but was soon discharged and repaired to Bristol, where he became acquainted with Robert Southey. In the autumn of 1795, he married Miss Sarah Fricker, whose sister, the same day was married to Mr. Southey. In 1796, he published a volume of poems, and in 1797, wrote the "Ancient Mariner," a portion of "Christabel," and "Remorse." In 1798 to 1800, he resided in Germany; in 1800, published "Wallenstein;" in 1808, the "Friend;" in 1816, the "Statesman Manual;" in 1817, his "Literary Life;" and in 1825, "Aids to Reflection;" and died in 1834.
LOVE, HOPE, AND PATIENCE.
"O'er wayward childhood would'st thou hold firm rule,
And sun thee in the light of happy faces,
Love, Hope, and Patience, these must be thy graces,
And in thine own heart let them first keep school.
For as old Atlas on his broad neck places
Heaven's starry globe, and there sustains it;—so
Do these upbear the little world below,
Of education,-Patience, Love, and Hope.
Methinks I see them grouped in seemly show,
The straitened arms upraised, the palms aslope,
And robes that, touching as adown they flow,
Distinctly blend, like snow embossed in snow.
O part them never! If Hope prostrate lie,
Love too will sink and die.
But Love is subtle, and doth proof derive
From her own life that hope is yet alive;
And bending o'er, with soul-transfusing eyes,
And the soft murmur of the mother dove,
Woos back the fleeting spirit, and half supplies;
Thus Love repays to Hope what Hope first gave to love.
Yet haply there will come a weary day,
When overtasked at length
Both Love and Hope beneath the load give way.
Then with a statue's smile, a statue's strength,
Stands the mute sister, Patience, nothing loth,
And both supporting does the work of both."
THE SCHOOL AND THE TEACHER IN LITERATURE.
THOMAS HOOD. 1798-1845.
THOMAS HOOD, the son of a bookseller, was born in London, in 1798. He entered the counting-house of a Russian merchant as clerk, which he left on account of his health, for the business of engraving, but in 1821, became sub-editor of the London Magazine, and afterward was an author, by profession, till his death in 1845. His "Whims and Oddities," "Comic Almanac," &c., have established his reputation for wit and comic power, and his "Song of a Shirt," "Eugene Aram's Dream," &c., indicate the possession of more serious and higher capacities.
His "Irish Schoolmaster," "The Schoolmaster Abroad," "The Schoolmaster's Motto," abound in whimsical allusions to the peculiarities of Irish and English schools and the teachers of our day-greatly exaggerated, we would fain believe.
THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER.
ALACK! 'tis melancholy theme to think
How Learning doth in rugged states abide,
And, like her bashful owl, obscurely blink,
In pensive glooms and corners, scarcely spied;
Not, as in Founders' Halls and domes of pride,
Served with grave homage, like a tragic queen,
But with one lonely priest compell'd to hide,
midst of foggy moors and mosses green,
In that clay cabin hight the College of Kilreen!
This College looketh South and West alsoe,
Because it hath a cast in windows twain;
Crazy and crack'd they be, and wind doth blow
Thorough transparent holes in every pane,
Which Dan, with many paines, makes whole again,
With nether garments, which his thrift doth teach
To stand for glass, like pronouns, and when rain
Stormeth, he puts, "once more unto the breach,"
Outside and in, tho' broke, yet so he mendeth each.
And in the midst a little door there is,
Whereon a hoard that doth congratulate
With painted letters, red as blood I wis,
"CHILDREN TAKEN IN TO BATE:"
And oft, indeed, the inward of that gate,
Most ventriloque, doth utter tender squeak,