No chair he hath, the awful Pedagogue, Such as would magisterial hams imbed, But sitteth lowly on a beechen log, Secure in high authority and dread: Large, as a dome for Learning, seems his head, And, like Apollo's, all beset with rays, Because his locks are so unkempt and red, And stand abroad in many several ways:-- No laurel crown he wears, howbeit his cap is baize. VIII. And, underneath, a pair of shaggy brows O'erhang as many eyes of gizzard hue, That inward giblet of a fowl, which shows A mongrel tint, that is ne brown ne blue; His nose,--it is a coral to the view; Well nourish'd with Pierian Potheen,-- For much he loves his native mountain dew;-- But to depict the dye would lack, I ween, A bottle-red, in terms, as well as bottle-green. IX. As for his coat, 'tis such a jerkin short As Spenser had, ere he composed his Tales; But underneath he hath no vest, nor aught, So that the wind his airy breast assails; Below, he wears the nether garb of males, Of crimson plush, but non-plushed at the knee;-- Thence further down the native red prevails, Of his own naked fleecy hosierie:-- Two sandals, without soles, complete his cap-a-pie. X. Nathless, for dignity, he now doth lap His function in a magisterial gown, That shows more countries in it than a map,-- Blue tinct, and red, and green, and russet brown, Besides some blots, standing for country-town; And eke some rents, for streams and rivers wide; But, sometimes, bashful when he looks adown, He turns the garment of the other side, Hopeful that so the holes may never be espied! XI. And soe he sits, amidst the little pack, That look for shady or for sunny noon, Within his visage, like an almanack,-- His quiet smile foretelling gracious boon: But when his mouth droops down, like rainy moon, With horrid chill each little heart unwarms, Knowing that infant show'rs will follow soon, And with forebodings of near wrath and storms They sit, like timid hares, all trembling on their forms. XII. Ah! luckless wight, who cannot then repeat "Corduroy Colloquy,"--or "Ki, Kae, Kod,"-- Full soon his tears shall make his turfy seat More sodden, tho' already made of sod, For Dan shall whip him with the word of God,-- Severe by rule, and not by nature mild, He never spoils the child and spares the rod, But spoils the rod and never spares the child, And soe with holy rule deems he is reconcil'd. XIII. But, surely, the just sky will never wink At men who take delight in childish throe, And stripe the nether-urchin like a pink Or tender hyacinth, inscribed with woe; Such bloody Pedagogues, when they shall know, By useless birches, that forlorn recess, Which is no holiday, in Pit below, Will hell not seem design'd for their distress,-- A melancholy place, that is all bottomlesse? XIV.