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[Poems by Shillaber in] Poets of Portsmouth

Compiled by Aurin M. Payson and Albert Laighton

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MASTER WEEKS'S OLD FERULE.
 


330

MASTER WEEKS'S OLD FERULE.

Grim relic of a distant time,
More interesting than sublime!
Thou'rt fitting subject for my rhyme,
And touch'st me queerly,—
Unlike the touch that youthful crime
Provoked severely.
It was a dark and fearful day
When thou held'st sovereign rule and sway,
And all Humanity might say
Could not avert
The doom that brought thee into play,
And wrought us hurt!
Ah, Solomon! that dogma wild
Of sparing rod and spoiling child
Has long thy reputation soiled,
And few defend it:
Our teachers draw it far more mild,
And strive to mend it.
Oh! bitter were the blows and whacks
That fell on our delinquent backs,
When, varying from moral tracks,
In youthful error,
Thou madest our stubborn nerves relax
With direst terror.

331

I know 'twas urged that our own good
Dwelt in the tingle of the wood
That scored us as we trembling stood,
And couldn't flee it;
But I confess I never could
Exactly see it.
The smothered wrath at every stroke
Was keenly felt, though never spoke;
And twenty devils rampant broke
For one subdued,
And all discordances awoke,—
A fiendish brood.
And impish trick and vengeful spite
Essayed with all their skill and might
To make the balance poise aright;
And hate, sharp-witted,
Ne'er left occasion, day or night,
To pass omitted.
I see it now!—the whittled doors,
The window-panes smashed in by scores,
The desecrated classic floors,
The benches levelled,
The streaming ink from murky pores,
The books bedevilled.
Small reverence for Learning's fane,
For master's toil of nerve and brain:
They saw Instruction marred with pain,
And Alma Mater
Was thought of only by the train
To deprecate her.

332

'Tis strange to have thee in my grasp,
My fingers round thy handle clasp,
No sense of pain my feelings rasp,
As last I knew thee!
Then thou didst sting me like an asp,
Foul shame unto thee!
But gentler moods suggest the thought,
That still thine office, anguish-fraught,
For our best good unselfish wrought,
Had we but known it;
And we, with grateful spirit, ought
To freely own it.
Perhaps,—but I am glad at heart
That thou no more bear'st sovereign part
In helping on Instruction's art
By terror's rule;
That other modes will prompt the smart
Than thee in school.
Thanks! old reminder of the past,
For this brief vision backward cast:
We measure progress to contrast
Times far and near,
Rejoiced, on summing up at last,
We're not arrear!