Poems for Dads

"In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his gray locks,"I kept all my limbs very suppleBy the use of this ointment--one shilling the box--Allow me to sell you a couple?"

"You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weakFor anything tougher than suet;Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak--Pray, how did you manage to do it?"

"In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law,And argued each case with my wife;And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw,Has lasted the rest of my life."

"You are old," said the youth, "one would hardly supposeThat your eye was as steady as ever;Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose--What made you so awfully clever?"

"I have answered three questions and that is enough,"Said his father; "don't give yourself airs!Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?Be off, or I'll kick you downstairs!"

And then his eyes grew very dim, And his throat began to swell,And in a hoarse, changed voice he spake, "Farewell, sweet child! Farewell!

"O, how I loved my darling! Though stern I sometimes be,To thee, thou know'st, I was not so,-- Who could be so to thee?And how my darling loved me! How glad she was to hearMy footstep on the threshold When I came back last year!

"And how she danced with pleasure To see my civic crown,And took my sword, and hung it up, And brought me forth my gown!Now, all those things are over,-- Yes, all thy pretty ways,Thy needlework, thy prattle, Thy snatches of old lays;

"And none will grieve when I go forth, Or smile when I return,Or watch beside the old man's bed, Or weep upon his urn.The house that was the happiest Within the Roman walls,The house that envied not the wealth Of Capua's marble halls,

"Now, for the brightness of thy smile, Must have eternal gloom,And for the music of thy voice, The silence of the tomb.The time is come! See how he points His eager hand this way!See how his eyes gloat on thy grief, Like a kite's upon the prey!

"With all his wit, he little deems That, spurned, betrayed, bereft,Thy father hath, in his despair, One fearful refuge left.He little deems that in this hand I clutch what still can saveThy gentle youth from taunts and blows, The portion of the slave;

"Yea, and from nameless evil, That passes taunt and blow,--Foul outrage which thou knowest not, Which thou shalt never know.Then clasp me round the neck once more, And give me one more kiss;And now, mine own dear little girl, There is no way but this."

With that he lifted high the steel, And smote her in the side,And in her blood she sank to earth, And with one sob she died.Then, for a little moment, All people held their breath;And through the crowded forum Was stillness as of death;

And in another moment Brake forth, from one and all,A cry as if the Volscians Were coming o'er the wall.Some with averted faces Shrieking fled home amain;Some ran to call a leech; and some Ran to lift up the slain.

Some felt her lips and little wrist, If life might there be found;And some tore up their garments fast, And strove to stanch the wound.In vain they ran, and felt, and stanched; For never truer blowThat good right arm had dealt in fight Against a Volscian foe.

When Appius Claudius saw that deed, He shuddered and sank down,And hid his face some little space With the corner of his gown;Till, with white lips and bloodshot eyes, Virginius tottered nigh,And stood before the judgment-seat, And held the knife on high.

"O dwellers in the nether gloom, Avengers of the slain,By this dear blood I cry to you Do right between us twain;And even as Appius Claudius Hath dealt by me and mine,Deal you by Appius Claudius, And all the Claudian line!"

So spake the slayer of his child, And turned and went his way;But first he cast one haggard glance To where the body lay,And writhed, and groaned a fearful groan, And then, with-steadfast feet,Strode right across the market-place Unto the Sacred Street.

Then up sprang Appius Claudius: "Stop him; alive or dead!Ten thousand pounds of copper To the man who brings his head."He looked upon his clients; But none would work his will.He looked upon his lictors; But they trembled, and stood still.

And as Virginius through the press His way in silence cleft,Ever the mighty multitude Fell back to right and left.And he hath passed in safety Onto his woful home,And there ta'en horse to tell the camp What deeds are done in Rome.

The Sun was Lord of the Marigold, Basil and Rocket belonged to Mars.Pat as a sum in division it goes-- (Every plant had a star bespoke)--Who but Venus should govern the Rose? Who but Jupiter own the Oak? Simply and gravely the facts are told In the wonderful books of our fathers of old.

Wonderful little, when all is said, Wonderful little our fathers knew.Half their remedies cured you dead-- Most of their teaching was quite untrue--'Look at the stars when a patient is ill, (Dirt has nothing to do with disease,)Bleed and blister as much as you will, Blister and bleed him as oft as you please.' Whence enormous and manifold Errors were made by our fathers of old.

Yet when the sickness was sore in the land, And neither planets nor herbs assuaged,They took their lives in their lancet-hand And, oh, what a wonderful war they waged!Yes, when the crosses were chalked on the door-- (Yes, when the terrible dead-cart rolled,)Excellent courage our fathers bore-- Excellent heart had our fathers of old. None too learned, but nobly bold Into the fight went our fathers of old.

If it be certain, as Galen says, And sage Hippocrates holds as much--'That those afflicted by doubts and dismays Are mightily helped by a dead man's touch',Then, be good to us, stars above! Then, be good to us, herbs below!We are afflicted by what we can prove, We are distracted by what we know-- So--ah, so! Down from your heaven or up from your mould, Send us the hearts of our fathers of old!

Guide the homely harmony Of the quire Who for long years strenuously— Son and sire—Caught the strains that at his fingering low or higherFrom your four thin threads and eff-holes came outflowing.

And, too, what merry tunes He would bow at nights or noonsThat chanced to find him bent to lute a measure, When he made you speak his heart As in dream, Without book or music-chart, On some themeElusive as a jack-o’-lanthorn’s gleam,And the psalm of duty shelved for trill of pleasure.

Well, you can not, alas, The barrier overpassThat screens him in those Mournful Meads hereunder, Where no fiddling can be heard In the glades Of silentness, no bird Thrills the shades;Where no viol is touched for songs or serenades,No bowing wakes a congregation’s wonder.

He must do without you now, Stir you no more anyhowTo yearning concords taught you in your glory; While, your strings a tangled wreck, Once smart drawn, Ten worm-wounds in your neck, Purflings wanWith dust-hoar, here alone I sadly conYour present dumbness, shape your olden story.

The fly impaled on the tormenting pinStills in his awful glance its dizzy din;Beneath that stern regard the chewing-gumWhich writhed and squeaked between the teeth is dumb;Obedient to his will the dunce-cap fliesTo perch upon the brows of the unwise;The supple switch forsakes the parent woodTo settle where 'twill do the greatest good,Puissant still, as when of old it stroveWith Solomon for spitting on the stoveLearned Professor, variously great,Guide, guardian, instructor of the State--Quick to discern and zealous to correctThe faults which mar the public intellectFrom where of Siskiyou the northern boundIs frozen eternal to the sunless groundTo where in San Diego's torrid climeThe swarthy Greaser swelters in his grime--Beneath your stupid nose can you not seeThe dunce whom once you dandled on your knee?O mighty master of a thousand schools,Stop teaching wisdom, or stop breeding fools.