Classic Poem

Denys, maitre d'école.

Denys, chased from Syracuse away,
Would the pedagogue at Corinth play:
He, a monarch from his people hiding,
Sunk so low, consoles himself with chiding
Master of a school, at least he lords it;
Makes the law, or, if he please, awards it:
Tyrant still, he still assumes to reign—
Kings from exile no experience gain.

On the dinner that his pupils bring
He, that cruel Syracusan King,
Lays a daily tax that none escapes—
Three fourths is it—honey, nuts, or grapes
“Ay,” says he, “I'll show them I exact
Dues from all; and oft I've proved the fact:
Kiss the hand—that favor you may earn.”—
Kings from exile nothing ever learn.

Lowest in his class, a sullen fool
Wrote beneath his theme, one day in school,
Words like these, “Great King, may Heaven confound
All your foes by whom you were discrowned!”
Quick, a prize the flattering booby won—
“Heavy things are sceptres, O my son;
Take,” quoth he, “the rod; my usher be!”
Kings in exile never learn to see.
Next, another whispers in his ear,

“Master, there's a scholar now, I fear,
Copying satires out of some one's works;
They're on you, for look 'ye how he smirks!”
Denys, prompt coercion to employ,
Rapping hard the knuckles of the boy,
Cries, “I'll have no writing in the school!”
Kings in exile never learn to rule.

Dreaming of conspiracies, one day,
Fancying, blockhead, ruin in his way,
Denys thinks his empire it endangers
That his urchins jeer two passing strangers
“O good gentlemen,” cries he in fright,
“Step in hither, to avenge my right;
Thrash my boys, Sirs—I'm a father to them!”
Kings—no good can exile ever do them.

Fathers, mothers, grandmammas, at last
Thinking the old tyrant flogged too fast,
Met, upbraided, and then plainly told him
Corinth now was far too hot to hold him.
But, that he the ferule still might use,
Still his country and its laws abuse,
From a pedant, Denys turned a priest—
Kings by exile profit not the least.