The Teacher.
By Thomas Frederick Young
Say, sadden'd mortal, thou who goest along
With look so weary, and with step so slow,
Why trillest thou no blithe and cheerful song,
Why whistlest thou that tune, so sad and low?
What trouble weighs thee down, what sorrow sore
Lies heavy on thy yet so youthful breast?
Sure fortune yet holds wide for thee her door;
Sure fame and joy yet wait thy earnest quest.
Why, know'st thou not the birds for thee do sing,
The flow'rs for thee with perfum'd beauty grow,
With melody for thee the wild birds sing,
With rippling laugh, the cheerful streamlets flow?
Then why, my friend, once more I ask of thee,
Why shows thy face so much unrest and pain?
What painful phase of life dost thou still see?
What sad, sad woe, doth in thy heart remain?
Bright flash'd the teacher's languid eye,
Flushed his pale cheek, with bright, tho' fleeting flame;
Leap'd forth his voice with energetic cry,
And thus, to me express'd, his thoughts they came.
"Inquirer, cease, thy words stir up the fire,
That erst did fill my live and vig'rous brain;
Thy words stir up the seeds of healthy ire,
That still, with latent pow'r and force, remain.
"'Tis strange, thou think'st, that darkly on my brow
The shadow of a careworn spirit stays;
My youth, with springless step, doth make thee bow
Thy head, in kindly wonder, and amaze.
"Thou would'st not look with such a puzzl'd air,
Upon my weary pace, and heavy eye,
If thou didst know the cause of my despair,
The stem, substantial, solid reason why.
"Didst ever know, my friend, what I endure,
In slavish, plodding work, from day to day,
Which work should be in its own nature pure,
And lifted high, from gross and heavy clay.
"Examinations, cram and pressure high,
Are daily kept before my anxious mind;
What tho' for higher aims I daily sigh,
This is my work, and this my daily grind.
"I work, you say, on minds, and hearts, and souls,
Alas, 'tis true, but what can e'er atone
For dry, mechanic thought, and lifeless coals,
Which light not up, but turn the intellect to stone?
"Work on! ye faithful, grinding and hair-splitting band,
Work on, in slavish fear, and penitential pain,
But daily pray, that thro' this young and prosp'rous land,
A system, higher, purer, freer, yet shall reign.
"Yours shall not be the blame, the people must it bear,
For, while they look for quick results, for hot-bed flow'rs,
Amongst them, they the various ills must surely share,
Of hasty fev'rish work, compell'd by outside pow'rs."
Thus spoke the man, and closed his lips became,
The fire forsook his lately flashing eye,
His nerves relax'd, and o'er his brow, the same
Dark cloud of bitter woe, could I descry.