Classic Poem

He that so often bade us smile —
What later whim hath bid us weep?
Or was it some new jest, that while
He jested, he should fall asleep?

His mirth, we now remember, stood
Next neighbour always to regret.
Responding to his merriest mood
We sometimes found our lashes wet.

With courtly quip, and kindly scoff,
And laughter never long or loud,
His fun was not the common stuff,
His fancy fooled not for the crowd;

But, Humour's wild aristocrat,
He wandered through these busy days,
Half wondering what the world was at,
And shrewdly smoothing it with praise.

And now he lives but in his page,
Where wit and wisdom are comprised, —
The gentlest breeding of the age
Most graciously epitomized.