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diff --git a/old/16436-8.txt b/old/16436-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c841302 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/16436-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,12832 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems Every Child Should Know, by Various + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Poems Every Child Should Know + The What-Every-Child-Should-Know-Library + +Author: Various + +Editor: Mary E. Burt + +Release Date: August 4, 2005 [EBook #16436] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW *** + + + + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Laura Wisewell and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + [Illustration: When the shadows are long] + + + + POEMS + + Every Child Should Know + + + EDITED BY + Mary E. Burt + + [Illustration] + + THE WHAT-EVERY-CHILD- + SHOULD-KNOW-LIBRARY + + Published by + DOUBLEDAY, DORAN & CO., INC., for + THE PARENTS' INSTITUTE, INC. + Publishers of "The Parents' Magazine" + 9 EAST 40th STREET, NEW YORK + + + + COPYRIGHT. 1904, BY DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. + PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES AT THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, + N.Y. + + + + + ACKNOWLEDGMENTS TO PUBLISHERS AND AUTHORS + + + It sometimes happens that there are people who do not know that authors + are protected by copyright laws. A publisher once cited to me an + instance of a teacher who innocently put forth a little volume of poems + that she loved and admired, without asking permission of any one. Her + annoyance was boundless when she found that she had no right to the + poems. + + Special permission has been obtained for each copyrighted poem in this + volume, and the right to publish has been purchased of the author or + publisher, except in those cases where the author or the publisher has, + for reasons of courtesy and friendship, given the permission. + + In addition to the business arrangements which have been made, we wish + to extend our thanks and acknowledgments to those firms which have so + kindly allowed us to use their material. + + To HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & COMPANY, of Boston, we are indebted for + the use of the following poems: From the copyrighted works of + Longfellow--"The Arrow and the Song," "A Fragment of Hiawatha's + Childhood," "The Skeleton in Armour," "The Wreck of the + _Hesperus_," "The Ship of State," "The Psalm of Life," "The + Village Blacksmith." From Whittier--"Barbara Frietchie" and "The + _Three Bells_ of Glasgow." From Emerson--"The Problem." From + Burroughs--"My Own Shall Come to Me." From Lowell--"The Finding of + the Lyre," "The Shepherd of King Admetus," and a fragment of "The + Vision of Sir Launfal," From Holmes--"The Chambered Nautilus" and + "Old Ironsides." From James T. Fields--"The Captain's Daughter." + From Bayard Taylor--"The Song in Camp," From Celia Thaxter--"The + Sandpiper." From J.T. Trowbridge--"Farm-Yard Song." From Edith M. + Thomas--"The God of Music" and Hermes' "Moly." + + To CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS we are indebted for the use of the + following poems: From the copyrighted works of Eugene + Field--"Wynken Blynken, and Nod," "Krinken," and "The Duel." From + Robert Louis Stevenson--"My Shadow." From James Whitcomb Riley's + poems--"Little Orphant Annie." From the poems of Sidney + Lanier--"Barnacles" and "The Tournament." From "The Poems of + Patriotism"--"Sheridan's Ride." + + We are further indebted to CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, as well as + to MR. GEORGE W. CABLE, for "The New Arrival," taken from + "The Cable Story Book," and to MRS. KATHERINE MILLER and + _Scribner's Magazine_ for "Stevenson's Birthday." + + To J.B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY we are indebted for the use of + "Sheridan's Ride," from the complete works of T. Buchanan Read. + + To HARPER & BROTHERS for the use of "Driving Home the Cows," + by Kate Putnam Osgood. + + To LITTLE, BROWN & COMPANY, of Boston, "How the Leaves Came + Down," by Susan Coolidge. + + To the WHITAKER & RAY COMPANY, of San Francisco, "Columbus," + by Joaquin Miller, from his complete works published and + copyrighted by that company. + + To D. APPLETON & COMPANY for "The Planting of the Apple-Tree" + and "Robert of Lincoln," from the complete works of William Cullen + Bryant; also for "Marco Bozzaris," from the works of Fitz-Greene + Halleck. + + To the MACMILLAN COMPANY for "The Forsaken Merman," by Matthew + Arnold, from the complete volume of his poems published by that + company. + + To the HOWARD UNIVERSITY PRINT, Washington, D.C., for Jeremiah + Rankin's little poem, "The Babie," from "Ingleside Rhaims." + + To the heirs of MARY EMILY BRADLEY for "A Chrysalis." + + To HENRY HOLCOMB BENNETT for "The Flag Goes By." + + + + + PREFACE + + + Is this another collection of stupid poems that children cannot use? + Will they look hopelessly through this volume for poems that suit them? + Will they say despairingly, "This is too long," and "That is too hard," + and "I don't like that because it is not interesting"? + + Are there three or four pleasing poems and are all the rest put in to + fill up the book? Nay, verily! The poems in this collection are those + that children love. With the exception of seven, they are short enough + for children to commit to memory without wearying themselves or losing + interest in the poem. If one boy learns "The Overland Mail," or "The + Recruit," or "Wynken, Blynken, and Nod," or "The Song in Camp," or "Old + Ironsides," or "I Have a Little Shadow," or "The Tournament," or "The + Duel," nine boys out of ten will be eager to follow him. I know because + I have tried it a dozen times. Every boy loves "Paul Revere's Ride" + (alas! I have not been able to include it), and is ambitious to learn + it, but only boys having a quick memory will persevere to the end. Shall + the slower boy be deprived of the pleasure of reading the whole poem and + getting its inspiring sentiment and learning as many stanzas as his mind + will take? No, indeed. Half of such a poem is better than none. Let the + slow boy learn and recite as many stanzas as he can and the boy of quick + memory follow him up with the rest. It does not help the slow boy's + memory to keep it down entirely or deprive it of its smaller activity + because he cannot learn the whole. Some people will invariably give the + slow child a very short poem. It is often better to divide a long poem + among the children, letting each child learn a part. The sustained + interest of a long poem is worth while. "The Merman," "The Battle of + Ivry," "Horatius at the Bridge," "Krinken," "The Skeleton in Armour," +"The Raven" and "Hervé Riel" may all profitably be learned that way. + Nevertheless, the child enjoys most the poem that is just long enough, + and there is much to be said in favour of the selection that is adapted, + in length, to the average mind; for the child hesitates in the presence + of quantity rather than in the presence of subtle thought. I make claim + for this collection that it is made up of poems that the majority of + children will learn of their own free will. There are people who believe + that in the matter of learning poetry there is no "_ought_," but this is + a false belief. There is a _duty_, even there; for every American + citizen _ought_ to know the great national songs that keep alive the + spirit of patriotism. Children should build for their future--and get, + while they are children, what only the fresh imagination of the child + can assimilate. + + They should store up an untold wealth of heroic sentiment; they should + acquire the habit of carrying a literary quality in their conversation; + they should carry a heart full of the fresh and delightful associations + and memories, connected with poetry hours to brighten mature years. They + should develop their memories while they have memories to develop. + + Will the boy who took every poetry hour for a whole school year to learn +"Henry of Navarre" ever regret it, or will the children who listened to + it? No. It was fresh every week and they brought fresh interest in + listening. The boy will always love it because he used to love it. There + were boys who scrambled for the right to recite "The Tournament," "The + Charge of the Light Brigade," "The Star-Spangled Banner," and so on. The + boy who was first to reach the front had the privilege. The triumph of + getting the chance to recite added to the zest of it. Will they ever + forget it? + + I know Lowell's "The Finding of the Lyre." Attention, Sir Knights! See + who can learn it first as I say it to you. But I find that I have + forgotten a line of it, so you may open your books and teach it to me. + Now, I can recite every word of it. How much of it can you repeat from + memory? One boy can say it all. Nearly every child has learned the most + of it. Now, it will be easy for you to learn it alone. And Memory, the + Goddess Beautiful, will henceforth go with you to recall this happy + hour. + + MARY E. BURT. + + The John A. Browning School, 1904. + + + + + POEMS + + + + + CONTENTS + + + PART I + + 1. The Arrow and the Song 3 + HENRY W. LONGFELLOW + + 2. The Babie 4 + JEREMIAH EAMES RANKIN + + 3. Let Dogs Delight to Bark and Bite 4 + ISAAC WATTS + + 4. Little Things 5 + EBENEZER COBHAM BREWER + + 5. He Prayeth Best 5 + SAMUEL T. COLERIDGE + + 6. Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star 6 + ANONYMOUS + + 7. Pippa 6 + ROBERT BROWNING + + 8. The Days of the Month 7 + AN OLD SONG + + 9. True Royalty 7 + RUDYARD KIPLING + + 10. Playing Robinson Crusoe 8 + RUDYARD KIPLING + + 11. My Shadow 9 + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON + + 12. Little White Lily 10 + GEORGE MACDONALD + + 13. How the Leaves Came Down 12 + SUSAN COOLIDGE + + 14. Willie Winkie 13 + WILLIAM MILLER + + 15. The Owl and the Pussy-Cat 15 + EDWARD LEAR + + 16. Wynken, Blynken, and Nod 16 + EUGENE FIELD + + 17. The Duel 18 + EUGENE FIELD + + 18. The Boy Who Never Told a Lie 19 + ANONYMOUS + + 19. Love Between Brothers and Sisters 20 + ISAAC WATTS + + 20. The Bluebell of Scotland 20 + ANONYMOUS + + 21. If I Had But Two Little Wings 21 + SAMUEL T. COLERIDGE + + 22. A Farewell 21 + CHARLES KINGSLEY + + 23. Casabianca 22 + FELICIA HEMANS + + 24. The Captain's Daughter 23 + JAMES T. FIELDS + + 25. The Village Blacksmith 25 + HENRY W. LONGFELLOW + + 26. Sweet and Low 27 + ALFRED TENNYSON + + 27. The Violet 27 + JANE TAYLOR + + 28. The Rainbow (a fragment) 28 + WILLIAM WORDSWORTH + + 29. A Visit From St. Nicholas 29 + CLEMENT CLARKE MOORE + + 30. The Star-Spangled Banner 31 + FRANCIS SCOTT KEY + + 31. Father William 33 + LEWIS CARROLL + + 32. The Nightingale and the Glow-worm 34 + WILLIAM COWPER + + + PART II + + 33. The Frost 39 + HANNAH FLAGG GOULD + + 34. The Owl 40 + ALFRED TENNYSON + + 35. Little Billee 41 + WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY + + 36. The Butterfly and the Bee 42 + WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES + + 37. An Incident of the French Camp 43 + ROBERT BROWNING + + 38. Robert of Lincoln 44 + WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT + + 39. Old Grimes 47 + ALBERT GORTON GREENE + + 40. Song of Life 48 + CHARLES MACKAY + + 41. Fairy Song 50 + JOHN KEATS + + 42. A Boy's Song 50 + JAMES HOGG + + 43. Buttercups and Daisies 51 + MARY HOWITT + + 44. The Rainbow 53 + THOMAS CAMPBELL + + 45. Old Ironsides 53 + OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES + + 46. Little Orphant Annie 54 + JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY + + 47. O Captain! My Captain! 57 + WALT WHITMAN + + 48. Ingratitude 58 + WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE + + 49. The Ivy Green 59 + CHARLES DICKENS + + 50. The Noble Nature 60 + BEN JONSON + + 51. The Flying Squirrel 60 + MARY E. BURT + + 52. Warren's Address 63 + JOHN PIERPONT + + 53. The Song in Camp 64 + BAYARD TAYLOR + + 54. The Bugle Song 66 + ALFRED TENNYSON + + 55. The _Three Bells_ of Glasgow 67 + JOHN G. WHITTIER + + 56. Sheridan's Ride 68 + THOMAS BUCHANAN READ + + 57. The Sandpiper 71 + CELIA THAXTER + + 58. Lady Clare 72 + ALFRED TENNYSON + + 59. The Lord of Burleigh 75 + ALFRED TENNYSON + + 60. Hiawatha's Childhood 79 + HENRY W. LONGFELLOW + + 61. I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud 82 + WILLIAM WORDSWORTH + + 62. John Barleycorn 83 + ROBERT BURNS + + 63. A Life on the Ocean Wave 85 + EPES SARGENT + + 64. The Death of the Old Year 86 + ALFRED TENNYSON + + 65. Abou Ben Adhem 89 + LEIGH HUNT + + 66. Farm-Yard Song 90 + J.T. TROWBRIDGE + + 67. To a Mouse 92 + ROBERT BURNS + + 68. To a Mountain Daisy 94 + ROBERT BURNS + + 69. Barbara Frietchie 96 + JOHN G. WHITTIER + + + PART III + + 70. Lochinvar 103 + SIR WALTER SCOTT + + 71. Lord Ullin's Daughter 105 + THOMAS CAMPBELL + + 72. The Charge of the Light Brigade 107 + ALFRED TENNYSON + + 73. The Tournament 110 + SIDNEY LANIER + + 74. The Wind and the Moon 111 + GEORGE MACDONALD + + 75. Jesus the Carpenter 114 + CATHERINE C. LIDDELL + + 76. Letty's Globe 115 + CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER + + 77. A Dream 116 + WILLIAM BLAKE + + 78. Heaven Is Not Reached at a Single Bound 117 + J.G. HOLLAND + + 79. The Battle of Blenheim 117 + ROBERT SOUTHEY + + 80. Fidelity 120 + WILLIAM WORDSWORTH + + 81. The Chambered Nautilus 122 + OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES + + 82. Crossing the Bar 124 + ALFRED TENNYSON + + 83. The Overland-Mail 125 + RUDYARD KIPLING + + 84. Gathering Song of Donald Dhu 126 + SIR WALTER SCOTT + + 85. Marco Bozzaris 128 + FITZ-GREENE HALLECK + + 86. The Death of Napoleon 131 + ISAAC MCCLELLAN + + 87. How Sleep the Brave 133 + WILLIAM COLLINS + + 88. The Flag Goes By 133 + HENRY HOLCOMB BENNETT + + 89. Hohenlinden 134 + THOMAS CAMPBELL + + 90. My Old Kentucky Home 136 + STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER + + 91. Old Folks at Home 137 + STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER + + 92. The Wreck of the _Hesperus_ 138 + HENRY W. LONGFELLOW + + 93. Bannockburn 142 + ROBERT BURNS + + + PART IV + + 94. The Inchcape Rock 145 + ROBERT SOUTHEY + + 95. The Finding of the Lyre 148 + JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL + + 96. A Chrysalis 149 + MARY EMILY BRADLEY + + 97. For a' That 151 + ROBERT BURNS + + 98. The New Arrival 152 + GEORGE W. CABLE + + 99. The Brook 153 + ALFRED TENNYSON + + 100. The Ballad of the _Clampherdown_ 154 + RUDYARD KIPLING + + 101. The Destruction of Sennacherib 158 + LORD BYRON + + 102. I Remember, I Remember 159 + THOMAS HOOD + + 103. Driving Home the Cows 160 + KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD + + 104. Krinken 162 + EUGENE FIELD + + 105. Stevenson's Birthday 164 + KATHERINE MILLER + + 106. A Modest Wit 165 + SELLECK OSBORNE + + 107. The Legend of Bishop Hatto 166 + ROBERT SOUTHEY + + 108. Columbus 160 + JOAQUIN MILLER + + 109. The Shepherd of King Admetus 171 + JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL + + 110. How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to 173 + Aix + ROBERT BROWNING + + 111. The Burial of Sir John Moore at Corunna 176 + C. WOLFE + + 112. The Eve of Waterloo 177 + LORD BYRON + + 113. Ivry 179 + THOMAS B. MACAULAY + + 114. The Glove and the Lions 184 + LEIGH HUNT + + 115. The Well of St. Keyne 186 + ROBERT SOUTHEY + + 116. The Nautilus and the Ammonite 188 + ANONYMOUS + + 117. The Solitude of Alexander Selkirk 190 + WILLIAM COWPER + + 118. The Homes of England 192 + FELICIA HEMANS + + 119. Horatius at the Bridge 193 + THOMAS B. MACAULAY + + 120. The Planting of the Apple-Tree 211 + WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT + + + PART V + + 121. June 217 + JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL + + 122. A Psalm of Life 218 + HENRY W. LONGFELLOW + + 123. Barnacles 219 + SIDNEY LANIER + + 124. A Happy Life 220 + SIR HENRY WOTTON + + 125. Home, Sweet Home 220 + JOHN HOWARD PAYNE + + 126. From Casa Guidi Windows 222 + ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING + + 127. Woodman, Spare That Tree! 222 + GEORGE POPE MORRIS + + 128. Abide With Me 223 + HENRY FRANCIS LYTE + + 129. Lead, Kindly Light 224 + JOHN HENRY NEWMAN + + 130. The Last Rose of Summer 225 + THOMAS MOORE + + 131. Annie Laurie 226 + WILLIAM DOUGLAS + + 132. The Ship of State 227 + HENRY W. LONGFELLOW + + 133. America 228 + SAMUEL FRANCIS SMITH + + 134. The Landing of the Pilgrims 229 + FELICIA HEMANS + + 135. The Lotos-Eaters 231 + ALFRED TENNYSON + + 136. Moly 233 + EDITH M. THOMAS + + 137. Cupid Drowned 234 + LEIGH HUNT + + 138. Cupid Stung 234 + THOMAS MOORE + + 139. Cupid and My Campasbe 235 + JOHN LYLY + + 140. A Ballad for a Boy 236 + ANONYMOUS + + 141. The Skeleton in Armour 240 + HENRY W. LONGFELLOW + + 142. The _Revenge_ 246 + ALFRED TENNYSON + + 143. Sir Galahad 253 + ALFRED TENNYSON + + 144. A Name in the Sand 256 + HANNAH FLAGG GOULD + + + PART VI + + 145. The Voice of Spring 259 + FELICIA HEMANS + + 146. The Forsaken Merman 260 + MATTHEW ARNOLD + + 147. The Banks o' Doon 265 + ROBERT BURNS + + 148. The Light of Other Days 266 + THOMAS MOORE + + 149. My Own Shall Come to Me 267 + JOHN BURROUGHS + + 150. Ode to a Skylark 268 + PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY + + 151. The Sands of Dee 271 + CHARLES KINGSLEY + + 152. A Wish 272 + SAMUEL ROGERS + + 153. Lucy 272 + WILLIAM WORDSWORTH + + 154. Solitude 273 + ALEXANDER POPE + + 155. John Anderson 274 + ROBERT BURNS + + 156. The God of Music 275 + EDITH M. THOMAS + + 157. A Musical Instrument 275 + ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING + + 158. The Brides of Enderby 277 + JEAN INGELOW + + 159. The Lye 283 + SIR WALTER RALEIGH + + 160. L'Envoi 285 + RUDYARD KIPLING + + 161. Contentment 286 + EDWARD DYER + + 162. The Harp That Once Through Tara's Halls 287 + THOMAS MOORE + + 163. The Old Oaken Bucket 288 + SAMUEL WOODWORTH + + 164. The Raven 289 + EDGAR ALLAN POE + + 165. Arnold von Winkleried 296 + JAMES MONTGOMERY + + 166. Life, I Know Not What Thou Art 299 + A.L. BARBAULD + + 167. Mercy 300 + WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE + + 168. Polonius' Advice 301 + WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE + + 169. A Fragment from "Julius Cćsar" 301 + WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE + + 170. The Skylark 302 + THOMAS HOGG + + 171. The Choir Invisible 303 + GEORGE ELIOT + + 172. The World Is Too Much With Us 304 + WILLIAM WORDSWORTH + + 173. On His Blindness 304 + JOHN MILTON + + 174. She Was a Phantom of Delight 305 + WILLIAM WORDSWORTH + + 175. Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard 306 + THOMAS GRAY + + 176. Rabbi Ben Ezra 312 + ROBERT BROWNING + + 177. Prospice 320 + ROBERT BROWNING + + 178. Recessional 321 + RUDYARD KIPLING + + 179. Ozymandias of Egypt 322 + PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY + + 180. Mortality 323 + WILLIAM KNOX + + 181. On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer 326 + JOHN KEATS + + 182. Hervé Riel 326 + ROBERT BROWNING + + 183. The Problem 333 + RALPH WALDO EMERSON + + 184. To America 335 + ALFRED AUSTIN + + 185. The English Flag 337 + RUDYARD KIPLING + + 186. The Man With the Hoe 342 + EDWIN MARKHAM + + 187. Song of Myself 344 + WALT WHITMAN + + Index 350 + + + + + INDEX OF AUTHORS + + + ANONYMOUS + Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, 6 + The Days of the Month, 7 + The Boy who Never Told a Lie, 19 + The Bluebell of Scotland, 20 + The Nautilus and the Ammonite, 188 + A Ballad for a Boy, 236 + ARNOLD, MATTHEW + The Forsaken Merman, 260 + AUSTIN, ALFRED + To America, 335 + + BARBAULD, A.L. + Life, I Know Not What Thou Art, 299 + BENNETT, HENRY HOLCOMB + The Flag Goes By, 133 + BLAKE, WILLIAM + A Dream, 116 + BOWLES, WILLIAM LISLE + The Butterfly and the Bee, 42 + BRADLEY, MARY EMILY + A Chrysalis, 149 + BREWER, EBENEZER COBHAM + Little Things, 5 + BROWNING, ELIZABETH BARRETT + From Casa Guidi Windows, 222 + A Musical Instrument, 275 + BROWNING, ROBERT + Pippa, 6 + An Incident of the French Camp, 43 + How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix, 173 + Rabbi Ben Ezra, 312 + Prospice, 320 + Hervé Riel, 326 + BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN + Robert of Lincoln, 44 + The Planting of the Apple Tree, 211 + BURNS, ROBERT + John Barleycorn, 83 + To a Mouse, 92 + To a Mountain Daisy, 94 + Bannockburn, 142 + For a' That, 151 + The Banks o' Doon, 265 + John Anderson, 274 + BURROUGHS, JOHN + My Own Shall Come to Me, 267 + BURT, MARY E. + The Flying Squirrel, 60 + BYRON, LORD + The Destruction of Sennacherib, 158 + The Eve of Waterloo, 177 + + CABLE, GEORGE W. + The New Arrival, 152 + CAMPBELL, THOMAS + The Rainbow, 53 + Lord Ullin's Daughter, 105 + Hohenlinden, 134 + CARROLL, LEWIS + Father William, 33 + COLERIDGE, SAMUEL T. + He Prayeth Best, 5 + If I Had But Two Little Wings, 21 + COLLINS, WILLIAM + How Sleep the Brave, 133 + COOLIDGE, SUSAN + How the Leaves Came Down, 12 + COWPER, WILLIAM + The Nightingale and the Glow-worm, 34 + The Solitude of Alexander Selkirk, 190 + + DICKENS, CHARLES + The Ivy Green, 59 + DOUGLAS, WILLIAM + Annie Laurie, 226 + DYER, EDWARD + Contentment, 286 + + ELIOT, GEORGE + The Choir Invisible, 303 + EMERSON, RALPH WALDO + The Problem, 333 + + FIELD, EUGENE + Wynken, Blynken and Nod, 16 + The Duel, 18 + Krinken, 162 + FIELDS, JAMES T. + The Captain's Daughter, 23 + FOSTER, STEPHEN COLLINS + My Old Kentucky Home, 136 + Old Folks at Home, 137 + + GOULD, HANNAH FLAGG + The Frost, 39 + A Name in the Sand, 256 + GRAY, THOMAS + Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard, 306 + GREENE, ALBERT GORTON + Old Grimes, 47 + + HALLECK, FITZ-GREENE + Marco Bozzaris, 128 + HEMANS, FELICIA + Casabianca, 22 + The Homes of England, 192 + The Landing of the Pilgrims, 229 + The Voice of Spring, 259 + HOOD, THOMAS + I Remember, I Remember, 159 + HOGG, JAMES + A Boy's Song, 50 + The Skylark, 302 + HOLLAND, J.G. + Heaven is Not Reached at a Single Bound, 117 + HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL + Old Ironsides, 53 + The Chambered Nautilus, 122 + HOWITT, MARY + Buttercups and Daisies, 51 + HUNT, LEIGH + Abou Ben Adhem, 89 + The Glove and the Lions, 184 + Cupid Drowned, 234 + + INGELOW, JEAN + The Brides of Enderby, 277 + + JONSON. BEN + The Noble Nature, 60 + + KEATS, JOHN + Fairy Song, 50 + On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer, 326 + KEY, FRANCIS SCOTT + The Star-Spangled Banner, 31 + KINGSLEY, CHARLES + A Farewell, 21 + The Sands of Dee, 271 + KIPLING, RUDYARD + True Royalty, 7 + Playing Robinson Crusoe, 8 + The Overland Mail, 125 + The Ballad of the Clampherdown, 154 + L'Envoi, 285 + Recessional, 321 + The English Flag, 337 + KNOX, WILLIAM + Mortality, 323 + + LANIER, SIDNEY + The Tournament, 110 + Barnacles, 219 + LEAR, EDWARD + The Owl and the Pussy-Cat, 15 + LIDDELL, CATHERINE C. + Jesus the Carpenter, 114 + LONGFELLOW, HENRY W. + The Arrow and the Song, 3 + The Village Blacksmith, 25 + Hiawatha's Childhood, 79 + The Wreck of the Hesperus, 138 + A Psalm of Life, 218 + The Ship of State, 227 + The Skeleton in Armour, 240 + LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL + The Finding of the Lyre, 148 + The Shepherd of King Admetus, 171 + June, 217 + LYLY, JOHN + Cupid and My Campasbe, 235 + LYTE, HENRY FRANCIS + Abide With Me, 223 + + MACAULAY, THOMAS B. + Ivry, 179 + Horatius at the Bridge, 193 + MACDONALD, GEORGE + Little White Lily, 10 + The Wind and the Moon, 111 + MACKAY, CHARLES + Song of Life, 48 + MARKHAM, EDWIN + The Man With the Hoe, 342 + MCCLELLAN, ISAAC + The Death of Napoleon, 131 + MILLER, JOAQUIN + Columbus, 169 + MILLER, KATHERINE + Stevenson's Birthday, 164 + MILLER, WILLIAM + Willie Winkie, 13 + MILTON, JOHN + On His Blindness, 304 + MONTGOMERY, JAMES + Arnold von Winkleried, 296 + MOORE, CLEMENT CLARKE + A Visit from St. Nicholas, 29 + MOORE, THOMAS + The Last Rose of Summer, 234 + Cupid Stung, 234 + The Light of Other Days, 266 + The Harp That Once Through Tara's Halls, 287 + MORRIS, GEORGE POPE + Woodman, Spare That Tree, 222 + + NEWMAN, JOHN HENRY + Lead, Kindly Light, 224 + + OSBORNE, SELLECK + A Modest Wit, 165 + OSGOOD, KATE PUTNAM + Driving Home the Cows, 160 + + PAYNE, JOHN HOWARD + Home, Sweet Home, 220 + PIERPONT, JOHN + Warren's Address, 63 + POE, EDGAR ALLAN + The Raven, 289 + POPE, ALEXANDER + Solitude, 273 + + RALEIGH, SIR WALTER + The Lye, 283 + RANKIN. JEREMIAH EAMES + The Babie, 4 + READ, THOMAS BUCHANAN + Sheridan's Ride, 68 + RILEY, JAMES WHITCOMB + Little Orphant Annie, 54 + ROGERS, SAMUEL + A Wish, 272 + + SARGENT, EPES + A Life on the Ocean Wave, 85 + SCOTT, SIR WALTER + Lochinvar, 103 + The Gathering Song of Donald Dhu, 126 + SHAKESPEARE, WILLIAM + Ingratitude, 58 + Mercy, 300 + Polonius' Advice, 301 + A Fragment from Julius Cćsar, 301 + SHELLEY, PERCY BYSSHE + Ode to a Skylark, 268 + Ozymandias in the Desert, 322 + SMITH, SAMUEL FRANCIS + America, 228 + SOUTHEY, ROBERT + The Battle of Blenheim, 117 + The Inchcape Rock, 145 + The Legend of Bishop Hatto, 166 + The Well of St. Keyne, 186 + STEVENSON, ROBERT LOUIS + My Shadow, 9 + + TAYLOR, BAYARD + The Song in Camp, 64 + TAYLOR, JANE + The Violet, 27 + TENNYSON, ALFRED + Sweet and Low, 27 + The Owl, 40 + The Bugle Song, 66 + Lady Clare, 72 + The Lord of Burleigh, 75 + The Death of the Old Year, 86 + The Charge of the Light Brigade, 107 + Crossing the Bar, 124 + The Brook, 153 + The Lotos Eaters, 231 + The REVENGE, 246 + Sir Galahad, 253 + THACKERAY, WILLIAM MAKEPEACE + Little Billee, 41 + THAXTER, CELIA + The Sandpiper, 71 + THOMAS, EDITH + Moly, 233 + The God of Music, 275 + TROWBRIDGE, J.T. + Farmyard Song, 90 + TURNER, CHARLES TENNYSON + Letty's Globe, 115 + + WATTS, ISAAC + Let Dogs Delight to Bark and Bite, 4 + Love Between Brothers and Sisters, 20 + WHITMAN, WALT + O Captain! My Captain! 57 + Song of Myself, 344 + WHITTIER, JOHN G. + The Three Bells of Glasgow, 67 + Barbara Frietchie, 96 + WOLFE, C. + The Burial of Sir John Moore at Corunna, 176 + WOODWORTH, SAMUEL + The Old Oaken Bucket, 288 + WORDSWORTH, WILLIAM + The Rainbow (a fragment), 28 + I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud, 82 + Fidelity, 120 + Lucy, 272 + The World is Too Much With Us, 304 + She Was a Phantom of Delight, 305 + WOTTON, SIR HENRY + A Happy Life, 220 + + + + + PART I. + + The Budding Moment + + [Illustration] + + + + + Poems That Every Child Should Know + + + THE ARROW AND THE SONG. + +"The Arrow and the Song," by Longfellow (1807-82), is placed first in + this volume out of respect to a little girl of six years who used to + love to recite it to me. She knew many poems, but this was her + favourite. + + I shot an arrow into the air, + It fell to earth, I knew not where; + For, so swiftly it flew, the sight + Could not follow it in its flight. + + I breathed a song into the air, + It fell to earth, I knew not where; + For who has sight so keen and strong + That it can follow the flight of song? + + Long, long afterward, in an oak + I found the arrow, still unbroke; + And the song, from beginning to end, + I found again in the heart of a friend. + + HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. + + + THE BABIE. + + I found "The Babie" in Stedman's "Anthology." It is placed in this + volume by permission of the poet, Jeremiah Eames Rankin, of Cleveland + (1828-), because it captured the heart of a ten-year-old boy whose + fancy was greatly moved by the two beautiful lines: + + "Her face is like an angel's face, + I'm glad she has no wings." + + + Nae shoon to hide her tiny taes, + Nae stockin' on her feet; + Her supple ankles white as snaw, + Or early blossoms sweet. + + Her simple dress o' sprinkled pink, + Her double, dimplit chin, + Her puckered lips, and baumy mou', + With na ane tooth within. + + Her een sae like her mither's een, + Twa gentle, liquid things; + Her face is like an angel's face: + We're glad she has nae wings. + + JEREMIAH EAMES RANKIN. + + + LET DOGS DELIGHT TO BARK AND BITE. + +"Let Dogs Delight to Bark and Bite," by Isaac Watts (1674-1748), and +"Little Drops of Water," by Ebenezer Cobham Brewer (1810-97), are poems + that the world cannot outgrow. Once in the mind, they fasten. They were + not born to die. + + Let dogs delight to bark and bite, + For God hath made them so; + Let bears and lions growl and fight, + For 'tis their nature too. + + But, children, you should never let + Such angry passions rise; + Your little hands were never made + To tear each other's eyes. + + ISAAC WATTS. + + + LITTLE THINGS. + + Little drops of water, + Little grains of sand, + Make the mighty ocean + And the pleasant land. + + Thus the little minutes, + Humble though they be, + Make the mighty ages + Of eternity. + + EBENEZER COBHAM BREWER. + + + HE PRAYETH BEST. + + These two stanzas, the very heart of that great poem, "The Ancient + Mariner," by Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834), sum up the lesson of + this masterpiece--"Insensibility is a crime." + + Farewell, farewell! but this I tell + To thee, thou Wedding-Guest! + He prayeth well who loveth well + Both man and bird and beast. + + He prayeth best who loveth best + All things, both great and small: + For the dear God who loveth us, + He made and loveth all. + + SAMUEL T. COLERIDGE. + + + TWINKLE, TWINKLE, LITTLE STAR. + + Twinkle, twinkle, little star! + How I wonder what you are, + Up above the world so high, + Like a diamond in the sky. + + When the glorious sun is set, + When the grass with dew is wet, + Then you show your little light, + Twinkle, twinkle all the night. + + In the dark-blue sky you keep, + And often through my curtains peep, + For you never shut your eye, + Till the sun is in the sky. + + As your bright and tiny spark + Guides the traveller in the dark, + Though I know not what you are, + Twinkle, twinkle, little star! + + + PIPPA. + +"Spring's at the Morn," from "Pippa Passes," by Robert Browning + (1812-89), has become a very popular stanza with little folks. "All's + right with the world" is a cheerful motto for the nursery and + schoolroom. + + The year's at the spring, + The day's at the morn; + Morning's at seven; + The hillside's dew pearled; + + The lark's on the wing; + The snail's on the thorn; + God's in His heaven-- + All's right with the world! + + ROBERT BROWNING. + + + THE DAYS OF THE MONTH. + +"The Days of the Month" is a useful bit of doggerel that we need all + through life. It is anonymous. + + Thirty days hath September, + April, June, and November; + February has twenty-eight alone. + All the rest have thirty-one, + Excepting leap-year--that's the time + When February's days are twenty-nine. + + OLD SONG. + + + TRUE ROYALTY. + +"True Royalty" and "Playing Robinson Crusoe" are pleasing stanzas from +"The Just So Stories" of Rudyard Kipling (1865-). + + There was never a Queen like Balkis, + From here to the wide world's end; + But Balkis talked to a butterfly + As you would talk to a friend. + + There was never a King like Solomon, + Not since the world began; + But Solomon talked to a butterfly + As a man would talk to a man. + + _She_ was Queen of Sabaea-- + And _he_ was Asia's Lord-- + But they both of 'em talked to butterflies + When they took their walks abroad. + + RUDYARD KIPLING. + + (In "The Just So Stories.") + + + PLAYING ROBINSON CRUSOE. + + Pussy can sit by the fire and sing, + Pussy can climb a tree, + Or play with a silly old cork and string + To 'muse herself, not me. + But I like Binkie, my dog, because + He knows how to behave; + So, Binkie's the same as the First Friend was, + And I am the Man in the Cave. + + Pussy will play Man-Friday till + It's time to wet her paw + And make her walk on the window-sill + (For the footprint Crusoe saw); + Then she fluffles her tail and mews, + And scratches and won't attend. + But Binkie will play whatever I choose, + And he is my true First Friend. + + Pussy will rub my knees with her head, + Pretending she loves me hard; + But the very minute I go to my bed + Pussy runs out in the yard. + + And there she stays till the morning light; + So I know it is only pretend; + But Binkie, he snores at my feet all night, + And he is my Firstest Friend! + + RUDYARD KIPLING. + + (In "The Just So Stories.") + + + MY SHADOW. + +"My Shadow," by Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-94), is one of the most + popular short poems extant. I have taught it to a great many very young + boys, and not one has ever tried to evade learning it. Older pupils + like it equally well. + + I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me, + And what can be the use of him is more than I can see. + He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head; + And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed. + + The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow-- + Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow; + For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball, + And he sometimes gets so little that there's none of him at all. + + He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play, + And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way. + He stays so close beside me, he's a coward, you can see; + I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me! + + One morning, very early, before the sun was up, + I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup; + But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head, + Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed. + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + LITTLE WHITE LILY. + + This poem (George Macdonald, 1828-) finds a place in this volume + because, as a child, I loved it. It completely filled my heart, and has + made every member of the lily family dear to me. George Macdonald's + charming book, "At the Back of the North Wind," also was my wonder and + delight. + + Little White Lily + Sat by a stone, + Drooping and waiting + Till the sun shone. + Little White Lily + Sunshine has fed; + Little White Lily + Is lifting her head. + + Little White Lily + Said: "It is good + Little White Lily's + Clothing and food." + Little White Lily + Dressed like a bride! + Shining with whiteness, + And crownčd beside! + + Little White Lily + Drooping with pain, + Waiting and waiting + For the wet rain. + Little White Lily + Holdeth her cup; + Rain is fast falling + And filling it up. + + Little White Lily + Said: "Good again, + When I am thirsty + To have the nice rain. + Now I am stronger, + Now I am cool; + Heat cannot burn me, + My veins are so full." + + Little White Lily + Smells very sweet; + On her head sunshine, + Rain at her feet. + Thanks to the sunshine, + Thanks to the rain, + Little White Lily + Is happy again. + + GEORGE MACDONALD. + + + HOW THE LEAVES CAME DOWN. + +"How the Leaves Came Down," by Susan Coolidge (1845-), appeals to + children because it helps to reconcile them to going to bed. "I go to + bed by day" is one of the crosses of childhood. + + "I'll tell you how the leaves came down," + The great Tree to his children said: + "You're getting sleepy, Yellow and Brown, + Yes, very sleepy, little Red. + It is quite time to go to bed." + + "Ah!" begged each silly, pouting leaf, + "Let us a little longer stay; + Dear Father Tree, behold our grief! + 'Tis such a very pleasant day, + We do not want to go away." + + So, for just one more merry day + To the great Tree the leaflets clung, + Frolicked and danced, and had their way, + Upon the autumn breezes swung, + Whispering all their sports among-- + + "Perhaps the great Tree will forget, + And let us stay until the spring, + If we all beg, and coax, and fret." + But the great Tree did no such thing; + He smiled to hear their whispering. + + "Come, children, all to bed," he cried; + And ere the leaves could urge their prayer, + He shook his head, and far and wide, + Fluttering and rustling everywhere, + Down sped the leaflets through the air. + + I saw them; on the ground they lay, + Golden and red, a huddled swarm, + Waiting till one from far away, + White bedclothes heaped upon her arm, + Should come to wrap them safe and warm. + + The great bare Tree looked down and smiled. + "Good-night, dear little leaves," he said. + And from below each sleepy child + Replied, "Good-night," and murmured, + "It is _so_ nice to go to bed!" + + SUSAN COOLIDGE. + + + WILLIE WINKIE. + +"Wee Willie Winkie," by William Miller (1810-72), is included in this + volume out of respect to an eight-year-old child who chose it from + among hundreds. We had one poetry hour every week, and he studied and + recited it with unabated interest to the end of the year. + + Wee Willie Winkie rins through the town, + Up-stairs and doon-stairs, in his nicht-gown, + Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock, + "Are the weans in their bed?--for it's now ten o'clock." + + Hey, Willie Winkie! are ye comin' ben? + The cat's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin' hen, + The doug's speldered on the floor, and disna gie a cheep; + But here's a waukrife laddie that winna fa' asleep. + + Onything but sleep, ye rogue! glow'rin' like the moon, + Rattlin' in an airn jug wi' an airn spoon, + Rumblin' tumblin' roun' about, crowin' like a cock, + Skirlin' like a kenna-what--wauknin' sleepin' folk. + + Hey, Willie Winkie! the wean's in a creel! + Waumblin' aff a body's knee like a vera eel, + Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and ravellin' a' her thrums,-- + Hey, Willie Winkie!--See, there he comes! + + Wearie is the mither that has a storie wean, + A wee stumpie stoussie that canna rin his lane, + That has a battle aye wi' sleep before he'll close an ee; + But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gies strength anew to me. + + WILLIAM MILLER. + + + THE OWL AND THE PUSSY-CAT. + +"The Owl and the Pussy-Cat," by Edward Lear (1812-88), is placed here + because I once found that a timid child was much strengthened and + developed by learning it. It is a song that appeals to the imagination + of children, and they like to sing it. + + The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea + In a beautiful pea-green boat; + They took some honey, and plenty of money + Wrapped up in a five-pound note. + The Owl looked up to the moon above, + And sang to a small guitar, + "O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love! + What a beautiful Pussy you are,-- + You are, + What a beautiful Pussy you are!" + + Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl! + How wonderful sweet you sing! + Oh, let us be married,--too long we have tarried,-- + But what shall we do for a ring?" + They sailed away for a year and a day + To the land where the Bong-tree grows, + And there in a wood a piggy-wig stood + With a ring in the end of his nose,-- + His nose, + With a ring in the end of his nose. + + "Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling + Your ring?" Said the piggy, "I will," + So they took it away, and were married next day + By the turkey who lives on the hill. + They dined upon mince and slices of quince, + Which they ate with a runcible spoon, + And hand in hand on the edge of the sand + They danced by the light of the moon,-- + The moon, + They danced by the light of the moon. + + EDWARD LEAR. + + + WYNKEN, BLYNKEN, AND NOD. + +"Wynken, Blynken, and Nod," by Eugene Field (1850-95), pleases + children, who are all by nature sailors and adventurers. + + Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night + Sailed off in a wooden shoe,-- + Sailed on a river of crystal light + Into a sea of dew. + "Where are you going, and what do you wish?" + The old moon asked the three. + "We have come to fish for the herring-fish + That live in this beautiful sea; + Nets of silver and gold have we," + Said Wynken, + Blynken, + And Nod. + + The old moon laughed and sang a song, + As they rocked in the wooden shoe; + And the wind that sped them all night long + Ruffled the waves of dew; + The little stars were the herring-fish + That lived in the beautiful sea. + "Now cast your nets wherever you wish,-- + Never afeard are we!" + So cried the stars to the fishermen three, + Wynken, + Blynken, + And Nod. + + All night long their nets they threw + To the stars in the twinkling foam,-- + Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe, + Bringing the fishermen home: + 'Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed + As if it could not be; + And some folk thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamed + Of sailing that beautiful sea; + But I shall name you the fishermen three: + Wynken, + Blynken, + And Nod. + + Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes, + And Nod is a little head, + And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies + Is a wee one's trundle-bed; + So shut your eyes while Mother sings + Of wonderful sights that be, + And you shall see the beautiful things + As you rock on the misty sea + Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three, + Wynken, + Blynken, + And Nod. + + EUGENE FIELD. + + + THE DUEL. + +"The Duel," by Eugene Field (1850-95), is almost the most popular + humorous poem that has come under my notice. In making such a + collection as this it is not easy to find poems at once delicate, + witty, and graphic. I have taught "The Duel" hundreds of times, and + children invariably love it. + + The gingham dog and the calico cat + Side by side on the table sat; + 'Twas half-past twelve, and (what do you think!) + Nor one nor t'other had slept a wink! + The old Dutch clock and the Chinese plate + Appeared to know as sure as fate + There was going to be a terrible spat. + (_I wasn't there; I simply state + What was told to me by the Chinese plate_!) + + The gingham dog went "bow-wow-wow!" + And the calico cat replied "mee-ow!" + The air was littered, an hour or so, + With bits of gingham and calico, + While the old Dutch clock in the chimney-place + Up with its hands before its face, + For it always dreaded a family row! + (_Now mind: I'm only telling you + What the old Dutch clock declares is true_!) + + The Chinese plate looked very blue, + And wailed, "Oh, dear! what shall we do!" + But the gingham dog and the calico cat + Wallowed this way and tumbled that, + Employing every tooth and claw + In the awfullest way you ever saw-- + And, oh! how the gingham and calico flew! + (_Don't fancy I exaggerate! + I got my views from the Chinese plate_!) + + Next morning where the two had sat + They found no trace of the dog or cat; + And some folks think unto this day + That burglars stole the pair away! + But the truth about the cat and the pup + Is this: They ate each other up! + Now what do you really think of that! + (_The old Dutch clock it told me so, + And that is how I came to know_.) + + EUGENE FIELD. + + + THE BOY WHO NEVER TOLD A LIE. + +"The Boy Who Never Told a Lie" (anonymous), as well as "Whatever Brawls + Disturb the Street," by Isaac Watts (1674-1748), are real gems. A few + years ago they were more in favour than the poorer verse that has been + put forward. But they are sure to be revived. + + Once there was a little boy, + With curly hair and pleasant eye-- + A boy who always told the truth, + And never, never told a lie. + + And when he trotted off to school, + The children all about would cry, + "There goes the curly-headed boy-- + The boy that never tells a lie." + + And everybody loved him so, + Because he always told the truth, + That every day, as he grew up, + 'Twas said, "There goes the honest youth." + + And when the people that stood near + Would turn to ask the reason why, + The answer would be always this: + "Because he never tells a lie." + + + LOVE BETWEEN BROTHERS AND SISTERS. + + Whatever brawls disturb the street, + There should be peace at home; + Where sisters dwell and brothers meet, + Quarrels should never come. + + Birds in their little nests agree; + And 'tis a shameful sight, + When children of one family + Fall out and chide and fight. + + ISAAC WATTS. + + + THE BLUEBELL OF SCOTLAND. + + Oh where! and oh where! is your Highland laddie gone? + He's gone to fight the French for King George upon the throne; + And it's oh! in my heart how I wish him safe at home. + + Oh where! and oh where! does your Highland laddie dwell? + He dwells in merry Scotland at the sign of the Bluebell; + And it's oh! in my heart that I love my laddie well. + + + IF I HAD BUT TWO LITTLE WINGS. + +"If I Had But Two Little Wings," by Samuel Taylor Coleridge + (1772-1834), is recommended by a number of teachers and school-girls. + + If I had but two little wings + And were a little feathery bird, + To you I'd fly, my dear! + But thoughts like these are idle things + And I stay here. + + But in my sleep to you I fly: + I'm always with you in my sleep! + The world is all one's own. + And then one wakes, and where am I? + All, all alone. + + SAMUEL T. COLERIDGE. + + + A FAREWELL. + +"A Farewell," by Charles Kingsley (1819-75), makes it seem worth while + to be good. + + My fairest child, I have no song to give you; + No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray; + Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you + For every day. + + Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever; + Do noble things, not dream them all day long: + And so make life, death, and that vast forever + One grand, sweet song. + + CHARLES KINGSLEY. + + + CASABIANCA. + +"Casabianca," by Felicia Hemans (1793-1835), is the portrait of a + faithful heart, an example of unreasoning obedience. It is right that a + child should obey even to the death the commands of a loving parent. + + The boy stood on the burning deck, + Whence all but him had fled; + The flame that lit the battle's wreck + Shone round him o'er the dead. + + Yet beautiful and bright he stood, + As born to rule the storm; + A creature of heroic blood, + A proud though childlike form. + + The flames rolled on--he would not go + Without his father's word; + That father, faint in death below, + His voice no longer heard. + + He called aloud, "Say, father, say + If yet my task is done?" + He knew not that the chieftain lay + Unconscious of his son. + + "Speak, father!" once again he cried, + "If I may yet be gone!" + And but the booming shots replied, + And fast the flames rolled on. + + Upon his brow he felt their breath, + And in his waving hair; + And looked from that lone post of death + In still, yet brave despair. + + And shouted but once more aloud + "My father! must I stay?" + While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, + The wreathing fires made way. + + They wrapt the ship in splendour wild, + They caught the flag on high, + And streamed above the gallant child + Like banners in the sky. + + Then came a burst of thunder sound-- + The boy--oh! where was he? + --Ask of the winds that far around + With fragments strew the sea; + + With mast, and helm, and pennon fair. + That well had borne their part-- + But the noblest thing that perished there + Was that young, faithful heart. + + FELICIA HEMANS. + + + THE CAPTAIN'S DAUGHTER. + +"The Captain's Daughter," by James T. Fields (1816-81), carries weight + with every young audience. It is pointed to an end that children + love--viz., trust in a higher power. + + We were crowded in the cabin, + Not a soul would dare to sleep,-- + It was midnight on the waters, + And a storm was on the deep. + + 'Tis a fearful thing in winter + To be shattered by the blast, + And to hear the rattling trumpet + Thunder, "Cut away the mast!" + + So we shuddered there in silence,-- + For the stoutest held his breath, + While the hungry sea was roaring + And the breakers talked with Death. + + As thus we sat in darkness, + Each one busy with his prayers, + "We are lost!" the captain shouted + As he staggered down the stairs. + + But his little daughter whispered, + As she took his icy hand, + "Isn't God upon the ocean, + Just the same as on the land?" + + Then we kissed the little maiden. + And we spoke in better cheer, + And we anchored safe in harbour + When the morn was shining clear. + + JAMES T. FIELDS. + + ["The 'village smithy' stood in Brattle Street, Cambridge. There came a + time when the chestnut-tree that shaded it was cut down, and then the + children of the place put their pence together and had a chair made for + the poet from its wood."] + + + THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. + + Longfellow (1807-82) is truly the children's poet. His poems are as + simple, pathetic, artistic, and philosophical as if they were intended + to tell the plain everyday story of life to older people. "The Village + Blacksmith" has been learned by thousands of children, and there is no + criticism to be put upon it. The age of the child has nothing whatever + to do with his learning it. Age does not grade children nor is poetry + wholly to be so graded. "Time is the false reply." + + Under a spreading chestnut-tree + The village smithy stands; + The smith, a mighty man is he, + With large and sinewy hands, + And the muscles of his brawny arms + Are strong as iron bands. + + His hair is crisp, and black, and long; + His face is like the tan; + His brow is wet with honest sweat, + He earns whate'er he can, + And looks the whole world in the face, + For he owes not any man. + + Week in, week out, from morn till night, + You can hear his bellows blow; + You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, + With measured beat and slow, + Like a sexton ringing the village bell, + When the evening sun is low. + + And children coming home from school + Look in at the open door; + They love to see the flaming forge, + And hear the bellows roar, + And catch the burning sparks that fly + Like chaff from a threshing-floor. + + He goes on Sunday to the church, + And sits among his boys; + He hears the parson pray and preach, + He hears his daughter's voice + Singing in the village choir, + And it makes his heart rejoice. + + It sounds to him like her mother's voice, + Singing in Paradise! + He needs must think of her once more, + How in the grave she lies; + And with his hard, rough hand he wipes + A tear out of his eyes. + + Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing, + Onward through life he goes; + Each morning sees some task begin, + Each evening sees it close; + Something attempted, something done, + Has earned a night's repose. + + Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, + For the lesson thou hast taught! + Thus at the flaming forge of life + Our fortunes must be wrought; + Thus on its sounding anvil shaped + Each burning deed and thought. + + HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. + + + SWEET AND LOW. + + Sweet and low, sweet and low, + Wind of the western sea, + Low, low, breathe and blow, + Wind of the western sea! + Over the rolling waters go, + Come from the dropping moon and blow, + Blow him again to me; + While my little one, while my pretty one sleeps. + + Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, + Father will come to thee soon; + Rest, rest, on mother's breast, + Father will come to thee soon; + Father will come to his babe in the nest, + Silver sails all out of the west + Under the silver moon: + Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. + + ALFRED TENNYSON. + + + THE VIOLET. + +"The Violet," by Jane Taylor (1783-1824), is another of those dear + old-fashioned poems, pure poetry and pure violet. It is included in + this volume out of respect to my own love for it when I was a child. + + Down in a green and shady bed + A modest violet grew; + Its stalk was bent, it hung its head, + As if to hide from view. + + And yet it was a lovely flower, + No colours bright and fair; + It might have graced a rosy bower, + Instead of hiding there. + + Yet there it was content to bloom, + In modest tints arrayed; + And there diffused its sweet perfume, + Within the silent shade. + + Then let me to the valley go, + This pretty flower to see; + That I may also learn to grow + In sweet humility. + + JANE TAYLOR. + + + THE RAINBOW. + + (A FRAGMENT.) + +"The Rainbow," by William Wordsworth (1770-1850), accords with every + child's feelings. It voices the spirit of all ages that would love to + imagine it "a bridge to heaven." + + My heart leaps up when I behold + A rainbow in the sky; + So was it when my life began, + So is it now I am a man, + So be it when I shall grow old, + Or let me die! + The child is father of the man; + And I could wish my days to be + Bound each to each by natural piety. + + WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. + + + A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS. + +"A Visit From St. Nicholas," by Clement Clarke Moore (1779-1863) is the + most popular Christmas poem ever written. It carries Santa Claus on + from year to year and the spirit of Santa Claus. + + 'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house + Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; + The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, + In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there; + The children were nestled all snug in their beds, + While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads; + And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap, + Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap, + When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, + I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter. + Away to the window I flew like a flash, + Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. + The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow + Gave the luster of mid-day to objects below, + When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, + But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer. + With a little old driver, so lively and quick, + I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. + More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, + And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name: + "Now, _Dasher_! now, _Dancer_! now, _Prancer_ and _Vixen_! + On, _Comet_! on, _Cupid_! on, _Donder_ and _Blitzen_! + To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall! + Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!" + As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, + When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky; + So up to the house-top the coursers they flew, + With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas, too. + And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof + The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. + As I drew in my head, and was turning around, + Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. + He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, + And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot; + A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, + And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack. + His eyes--how they twinkled! his dimples how merry! + His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry! + His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, + And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow; + The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, + And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath; + He had a broad face and a little round belly, + That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly. + He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, + And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself; + A wink of his eye and a twist of his head, + Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread; + He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, + And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk, + And laying his finger aside of his nose, + And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose; + He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, + And away they all flew like the down on a thistle. + But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, + "_Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night_." + + CLEMENT CLARKE MOORE. + + + THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER. + + O! say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, + What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming-- + Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight, + O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming! + And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, + Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there; + O! say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave + O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave? + + On that shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep, + Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, + What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep, + As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses? + Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, + In full glory reflected now shines on the stream; + 'Tis the star-spangled banner; O long may it wave + O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave! + + And where is that band who so vauntingly swore + That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion + A home and a country should leave us no more? + Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps, pollution. + No refuge could save the hireling and slave + From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave; + And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave + O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave. + + O! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand + Between their loved homes and the war's desolation! + Blest with victory and peace, may the heav'n-rescued land + Praise the power that hath made and preserved us a nation. + Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just, + And this be our motto--"_In God is our trust_": + And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave + O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave. + + FRANCIS SCOTT KEY. + + + FATHER WILLIAM. + +"Father William" a parody by Lewis Carroll (1833-), is even more clever + than the original. Harmless fun brightens the world. It takes a real + genius to create wit that carries no sting. + + "You are old, Father William," the young man said, + "And your hair has become very white; + And yet you incessantly stand on your head-- + Do you think, at your age, it is right?" + + "In my youth," Father William replied to his son, + "I feared it might injure the brain; + But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none, + Why, I do it again and again." + + "You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before, + And have grown most uncommonly fat; + Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door-- + Pray, what is the reason of that?" + + "In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his gray locks, + "I kept all my limbs very supple + By the use of this ointment--one shilling the box-- + Allow me to sell you a couple." + + "You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weak + For anything tougher than suet; + Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak: + Pray, how did you manage to do it?" + + "In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law, + And argued each case with my wife; + And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw + Has lasted the rest of my life." + + "You are old," said the youth; "one would hardly suppose + That your eye was as steady as ever; + Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose-- + What made you so awfully clever?" + + "I have answered three questions, and that is enough," + Said his father, "don't give yourself airs! + Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff? + Be off, or I'll kick you down-stairs!" + + LEWIS CARROLL. + + ("Alice in Wonderland.") + + + THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE GLOW-WORM. + +"The Nightingale," by William Cowper (1731-1800), is a favourite with a + teacher of good taste, and I include it at her request. + + A nightingale, that all day long + Had cheered the village with his song, + Nor yet at eve his note suspended, + Nor yet when eventide was ended, + Began to feel, as well he might, + The keen demands of appetite; + When, looking eagerly around, + He spied far off, upon the ground, + A something shining in the dark, + And knew the glow-worm by his spark; + So, stooping down from hawthorn top, + He thought to put him in his crop. + The worm, aware of his intent, + Harangued him thus, right eloquent: + "Did you admire my lamp," quoth he, + "As much as I your minstrelsy, + You would abhor to do me wrong, + As much as I to spoil your song; + For 'twas the self-same power divine, + Taught you to sing and me to shine; + That you with music, I with light, + Might beautify and cheer the night." + The songster heard his short oration, + And warbling out his approbation, + Released him, as my story tells, + And found a supper somewhere else. + + WILLIAM COWPER. + + + + + PART II. + + The Little Child + + [Illustration] + + + THE FROST. + +"Jack Frost," by Hannah Flagg Gould (1789-1865), is perhaps a hundred + years old, but he is the same rollicking fellow to-day as of yore. The + poem puts his merry pranks to the front and prepares the way for + science to give him a true analysis. + + The Frost looked forth, one still, clear night, + And whispered, "Now I shall be out of sight; + So through the valley and over the height, + In silence I'll take my way: + I will not go on with that blustering train, + The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain, + Who make so much bustle and noise in vain, + But I'll be as busy as they." + + Then he flew to the mountain and powdered its crest; + He lit on the trees, and their boughs he dressed + In diamond beads--and over the breast + Of the quivering lake he spread + A coat of mail, that it need not fear + The downward point of many a spear + That hung on its margin far and near, + Where a rock could rear its head. + + He went to the windows of those who slept, + And over each pane, like a fairy, crept; + Wherever he breathed, wherever he slept, + By the light of the moon were seen + Most beautiful things--there were flowers and trees; + There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees; + There were cities with temples and towers, and these + All pictured in silver sheen! + + But he did one thing that was hardly fair; + He peeped in the cupboard, and finding there + That all had forgotten for him to prepare-- + "Now just to set them a-thinking, + I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he, + "This costly pitcher I'll burst in three, + And the glass of water they've left for me + Shall '_tchich!_' to tell them I'm drinking." + + HANNAH FLAGG GOULD. + + + THE OWL. + + When cats run home and light is come, + And dew is cold upon the ground, + And the far-off stream is dumb, + And the whirring sail goes round, + And the whirring sail goes round; + Alone and warming his five wits, + The white owl in the belfry sits. + + When merry milkmaids click the latch, + And rarely smells the new-mown hay, + And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch + Twice or thrice his roundelay, + Twice or thrice his roundelay; + Alone and warming his five wits, + The white owl in the belfry sits. + + ALFRED TENNYSON. + + + LITTLE BILLEE. + +"Little Billee," by William Makepeace Thackeray (1811-63), finds a + place here because it carries a good lesson good-naturedly rendered. An + accomplished teacher recommends it, and I recollect two young children + in Chicago who sang it frequently for years without getting tired of + it. + + There were three sailors of Bristol city + Who took a boat and went to sea. + But first with beef and captain's biscuits + And pickled pork they loaded she. + + There was gorging Jack and guzzling Jimmy, + And the youngest he was little Billee. + Now when they got so far as the Equator + They'd nothing left but one split pea. + + Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, + "I am extremely hungaree." + To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy, + "We've nothing left, us must eat we." + + Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, + "With one another, we shouldn't agree! + There's little Bill, he's young and tender, + We're old and tough, so let's eat he." + + "Oh! Billy, we're going to kill and eat you, + So undo the button of your chemie." + When Bill received this information + He used his pocket-handkerchie. + + "First let me say my catechism, + Which my poor mammy taught to me." + "Make haste, make haste," says guzzling Jimmy + While Jack pulled out his snickersnee. + + So Billy went up to the main-topgallant mast, + And down he fell on his bended knee. + He scarce had come to the Twelfth Commandment + When up he jumps, "There's land I see. + + "Jerusalem and Madagascar, + And North and South Amerikee: + There's the British flag a-riding at anchor, + With Admiral Napier, K.C.B." + + So when they got aboard of the Admiral's + He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee; + But as for little Bill, he made him + The Captain of a Seventy-three. + + WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. + + + THE BUTTERFLY AND THE BEE. + +"The Butterfly and the Bee," by William Lisle Bowles (1762-1850), is + recommended by some school-girls. It carries a lesson in favour of the + worker. + + Methought I heard a butterfly + Say to a labouring bee: + "Thou hast no colours of the sky + On painted wings like me." + + "Poor child of vanity! those dyes, + And colours bright and rare," + With mild reproof, the bee replies, + "Are all beneath my care. + + "Content I toil from morn to eve, + And scorning idleness, + To tribes of gaudy sloth I leave + The vanity of dress." + + WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES. + + + AN INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP. + +"An Incident of the French Camp," by Robert Browning (1812-89), is + included in this volume out of regard to a boy of eight years who did + not care for many poems, but this one stirred his heart to its depths. + + You know, we French storm'd Ratisbon: + A mile or so away + On a little mound, Napoleon + Stood on our storming-day; + With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, + Legs wide, arms lock'd behind, + As if to balance the prone brow + Oppressive with its mind. + + Just as perhaps he mus'd "My plans + That soar, to earth may fall, + Let once my army leader Lannes + Waver at yonder wall,"-- + Out 'twixt the battery smokes there flew + A rider, bound on bound + Full-galloping; nor bridle drew + Until he reach'd the mound. + + Then off there flung in smiling joy, + And held himself erect + By just his horse's mane, a boy: + You hardly could suspect-- + (So tight he kept his lips compress'd, + Scarce any blood came through) + You look'd twice ere you saw his breast + Was all but shot in two. + + "Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace + We've got you Ratisbon! + The Marshal's in the market-place, + And you'll be there anon + To see your flag-bird flap his vans + Where I, to heart's desire, + Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his plans + Soared up again like fire. + + The chief's eye flashed; but presently + Softened itself, as sheathes + A film the mother-eagle's eye + When her bruised eaglet breathes; + "You're wounded!" "Nay," the soldier's pride + Touched to the quick, he said: + "I'm killed, Sire!" And his chief beside, + Smiling the boy fell dead. + + ROBERT BROWNING. + + + ROBERT OF LINCOLN. + +"Robert of Lincoln," by William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878), is one of + the finest bird poems ever written. It finds a place here because I + have seen it used effectively as a memory gem in the Cook County Normal + School (Colonel Parker's school), year after year, and because my own + pupils invariably like to commit it to memory. With the child of six to + the student of twenty years it stands a source of delight. + + Merrily swinging on brier and weed, + Near to the nest of his little dame, + Over the mountain-side or mead, + Robert of Lincoln is telling his name. + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink, + Snug and safe is this nest of ours, + Hidden among the summer flowers. + Chee, chee, chee. + + Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed, + Wearing a bright, black wedding-coat; + White are his shoulders, and white his crest, + Hear him call in his merry note, + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink, + Look what a nice, new coat is mine; + Sure there was never a bird so fine. + Chee, chee, chee. + + Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, + Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, + Passing at home a patient life, + Broods in the grass while her husband sings, + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink, + Brood, kind creature, you need not fear + Thieves and robbers while I am here. + Chee, chee, chee. + + Modest and shy as a nun is she; + One weak chirp is her only note; + Braggart, and prince of braggarts is he, + Pouring boasts from his little throat, + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink, + Never was I afraid of man, + Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can. + Chee, chee, chee. + + Six white eggs on a bed of hay, + Flecked with purple, a pretty sight: + There as the mother sits all day, + Robert is singing with all his might, + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink, + Nice good wife that never goes out, + Keeping house while I frolic about. + Chee, chee, chee. + + Soon as the little ones chip the shell, + Six wide mouths are open for food; + Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, + Gathering seeds for the hungry brood: + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink, + This new life is likely to be + Hard for a gay young fellow like me. + Chee, chee, chee. + + Robert of Lincoln at length is made + Sober with work, and silent with care, + Off is his holiday garment laid, + Half forgotten that merry air, + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink, + Nobody knows but my mate and I, + Where our nest and our nestlings lie. + Chee, chee, chee. + + Summer wanes; the children are grown; + Fun and frolic no more he knows; + Robert of Lincoln's a hum-drum drone; + Off he flies, and we sing as he goes, + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink, + When you can pipe that merry old strain, + Robert of Lincoln, come back again. + Chee, chee, chee. + + WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. + + + OLD GRIMES. + +"Old Grimes" is an heirloom, an antique gem. We learn it as a matter of + course for its sparkle and glow. + + Old Grimes is dead; that good old man, + We ne'er shall see him more; + He used to wear a long, black coat, + All buttoned down before. + + His heart was open as the day, + His feelings all were true; + His hair was some inclined to gray, + He wore it in a queue. + + He lived at peace with all mankind, + In friendship he was true; + His coat had pocket-holes behind, + His pantaloons were blue. + + He modest merit sought to find, + And pay it its desert; + He had no malice in his mind, + No ruffles on his shirt. + + His neighbours he did not abuse, + Was sociable and gay; + He wore large buckles on his shoes, + And changed them every day. + + His knowledge, hid from public gaze, + He did not bring to view, + Nor make a noise town-meeting days, + As many people do. + + His worldly goods he never threw + In trust to fortune's chances, + But lived (as all his brothers do) + In easy circumstances. + + Thus undisturbed by anxious cares + His peaceful moments ran; + And everybody said he was + A fine old gentleman. + + ALBERT GORTON GREENE. + + + SONG OF LIFE. + + A traveller on a dusty road + Strewed acorns on the lea; + And one took root and sprouted up, + And grew into a tree. + Love sought its shade at evening-time, + To breathe its early vows; + And Age was pleased, in heights of noon, + To bask beneath its boughs. + The dormouse loved its dangling twigs, + The birds sweet music bore-- + It stood a glory in its place, + A blessing evermore. + + A little spring had lost its way + Amid the grass and fern; + A passing stranger scooped a well + Where weary men might turn. + He walled it in, and hung with care + A ladle on the brink; + He thought not of the deed he did, + But judged that Toil might drink. + He passed again; and lo! the well, + By summer never dried, + Had cooled ten thousand parchéd tongues, + And saved a life beside. + + A nameless man, amid the crowd + That thronged the daily mart, + Let fall a word of hope and love, + Unstudied from the heart, + A whisper on the tumult thrown, + A transitory breath, + It raised a brother from the dust, + It saved a soul from death. + O germ! O fount! O word of love! + O thought at random cast! + Ye were but little at the first, + But mighty at the last. + + CHARLES MACKAY. + + + FAIRY SONG. + + Shed no tear! O shed no tear! + The flower will bloom another year. + Weep no more! O, weep no more! + Young buds sleep in the root's white core. + Dry your eyes! Oh! dry your eyes! + For I was taught in Paradise + To ease my breast of melodies-- + Shed no tear. + + Overhead! look overhead! + 'Mong the blossoms white and red-- + Look up, look up. I flutter now + On this flush pomegranate bough. + See me! 'tis this silvery bell + Ever cures the good man's ill. + Shed no tear! O, shed no tear! + The flowers will bloom another year. + Adieu, adieu--I fly, adieu, + I vanish in the heaven's blue-- + Adieu, adieu! + + JOHN KEATS. + + + A BOY'S SONG + +"A Boy's Song," by James Hogg (1770-1835), is a sparkling poem, very + attractive to children. + + Where the pools are bright and deep, + Where the gray trout lies asleep, + Up the river and o'er the lea, + That's the way for Billy and me. + + Where the blackbird sings the latest, + Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest, + Where the nestlings chirp and flee, + That's the way for Billy and me. + + Where the mowers mow the cleanest, + Where the hay lies thick and greenest, + There to trace the homeward bee, + That's the way for Billy and me. + + Where the hazel bank is steepest, + Where the shadow falls the deepest, + Where the clustering nuts fall free. + That's the way for Billy and me. + + Why the boys should drive away, + Little sweet maidens from the play, + Or love to banter and fight so well, + That's the thing I never could tell. + + But this I know, I love to play, + Through the meadow, among the hay; + Up the water and o'er the lea, + That's the way for Billy and me. + + JAMES HOGG. + + + BUTTERCUPS AND DAISIES. + + Buttercups and daisies, + Oh, the pretty flowers, + Coming ere the spring time, + To tell of sunny hours. + While the tree are leafless, + While the fields are bare, + Buttercups and daisies + Spring up here and there. + + Ere the snowdrop peepeth, + Ere the crocus bold, + Ere the early primrose + Opes its paly gold, + Somewhere on the sunny bank + Buttercups are bright; + Somewhere 'mong the frozen grass + Peeps the daisy white. + + Little hardy flowers, + Like to children poor, + Playing in their sturdy health + By their mother's door, + Purple with the north wind, + Yet alert and bold; + Fearing not, and caring not, + Though they be a-cold! + + What to them is winter! + What are stormy showers! + Buttercups and daisies + Are these human flowers! + He who gave them hardships + And a life of care, + Gave them likewise hardy strength + And patient hearts to bear. + + MARY HOWITT. + + + THE RAINBOW. + + Triumphal arch, that fills the sky + When storms prepare to part, + I ask not proud Philosophy + To teach me what thou art. + + Still seem, as to my childhood's sight, + A midway station given, + For happy spirits to alight, + Betwixt the earth and heaven. + + THOMAS CAMPBELL. + + + OLD IRONSIDES. + +"Old Ironsides," by Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809-94), is learned + readily. Children are untouched by the commercial spirit which is the + reproach of this age. "Ingratitude is the vice of republics," and this + poem puts to shame the love of money and the spirit of ingratitude that + could let a national servant become a wreck. + + Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! + Long has it waved on high, + And many an eye has danced to see + That banner in the sky; + Beneath it rung the battle shout, + And burst the cannon's roar;-- + The meteor of the ocean air + Shall sweep the clouds no more. + + Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, + Where knelt the vanquished foe, + When winds were hurrying o'er the flood + And waves were white below. + No more shall feel the victor's tread, + Or know the conquered knee; + The harpies of the shore shall pluck + The eagle of the sea! + + O, better that her shattered hulk + Should sink beneath the wave; + Her thunders shook the mighty deep, + And there should be her grave; + Nail to the mast her holy flag, + Set every threadbare sail, + And give her to the god of storms, + The lightning and the gale! + + OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. + + + LITTLE ORPHANT ANNIE. + +"Little Orphant Annie" certainly earns her "board and keep" when she + has "washed the dishes," "swept up the crumbs," "driven the chickens + from the porch," and done all the other odds and ends of work on a + farm. The poet, James Whitcomb Riley (1853-), has shown how truly a + little child may be overtaxed and yet preserve a brave spirit and keen + imagination. Children invariably love to learn this poem. + + Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay, + An' wash the cups and saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away, + An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep, + An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board-an'-keep; + An' all us other children, when the supper things is done, + We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun + A-list'nin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells about, + An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits you + Ef you + Don't + Watch + Out! + + Onc't they was a little boy wouldn't say his pray'rs-- + An' when he went to bed at night, away up-stairs, + His mammy heerd him holler, an' his daddy heerd him bawl, + An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wasn't there at all! + An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubby hole, an' press, + An' seeked him up the chimbly flue, an' ever'-wheres, I guess; + But all they ever found was thist his pants an' roundabout! + An' the Gobble-uns'll git you + Ef you + Don't + Watch + Out! + + An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh an' grin, + An' make fun of ever' one, an' all her blood-an'-kin; + An' onc't when they was "company," an' ole folks was there, + She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care! + An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide, + They was two great big Black Things a-standin' by her side, + An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she + knowed what she's about! + An' the Gobble-uns'll git you + Ef you + Don't + Watch + Out! + + An' little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue, + An' the lampwick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo! + An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray, + An' the lightnin'-bugs in dew is all squenched away,-- + You better mind yer parents, an' yer teachers fond an' dear, + An' churish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear, + An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about, + Er the Gobble-uns'll git you + Ef you + Don't + Watch + Out! + + JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. + + + O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! + +"O Captain! My Captain!" by Walt Whitman (1819-92), is placed here out + of compliment to a little boy aged ten who wanted to recite it once a + week for a year. This song and Edwin Markham's poem on Lincoln are two + of the greatest tributes ever paid to that hero. + + O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, + The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won, + The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, + While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; + But O heart! heart! heart! + O the bleeding drops of red, + Where on the deck my Captain lies, + Fallen cold and dead. + + O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; + Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills, + For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding, + For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; + Here Captain! dear father! + This arm beneath your head! + It is some dream that on the deck + You've fallen cold and dead. + + My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, + My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will. + The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, + From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; + Exult O shores, and ring O bells! + But I, with mournful tread, + Walk the deck my Captain lies, + Fallen cold and dead. + + WALT WHITMAN. + + + INGRATITUDE. + +"Ingratitude," by William Shakespeare (1564-1616), is an incisive + thrust at a refined vice. It is a part of education to learn to be + grateful. + + Blow, blow, thou winter wind, + Thou are not so unkind + As man's ingratitude; + Thy tooth is not so keen + Because thou are not seen, + Although thy breath be rude. + + Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, + Thou dost not bite so nigh + As benefits forgot; + Though thou the waters warp, + Thy sting is not so sharp + As friend remembered not. + + WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. + + + THE IVY GREEN. + +"The Ivy Green," by Charles Dickens (1812-70), is a hardy poem in + honour of a hardy plant. There is a wonderful ivy growing at Rhudlan, + in northern Wales. Its roots are so large and strong that they form a + comfortable seat for many persons, and no one can remember when they + were smaller. This ivy envelops a great castle in ruins. Every child in + that locality loves the old ivy. It is typical of the ivy as seen all + through Wales and England. + + O, a dainty plant is the ivy green, + That creepeth o'er ruins old! + Of right choice food are his meals, I ween, + In his cell so lone and cold. + The walls must be crumbled, the stones decayed. + To pleasure his dainty whim; + And the mouldering dust that years have made + Is a merry meal for him. + Creeping where no life is seen, + A rare old plant is the ivy green. + + Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, + And a staunch old heart has he! + How closely he twineth, how tight he clings + To his friend, the huge oak tree! + And slyly he traileth along the ground, + And his leaves he gently waves, + And he joyously twines and hugs around + The rich mould of dead men's graves. + Creeping where no life is seen, + A rare old plant is the ivy green. + + Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed, + And nations have scattered been; + But the stout old ivy shall never fade + From its hale and hearty green. + The brave old plant in its lonely days + Shall fatten upon the past; + For the stateliest building man can raise + Is the ivy's food at last. + Creeping where no life is seen, + A rare old plant is the ivy green. + + CHARLES DICKENS. + + + THE NOBLE NATURE. + +"The Noble Nature," by Ben Jonson (1574-1637), needs no plea. A small + virtue well polished is better than none. + + It is not growing like a tree + In bulk doth make man better be; + Or standing long an oak, three hundred year + To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear + A lily of a day + Is fairer far in May, + Although it fall and die that night,-- + It was the plant and flower of light. + In small proportions we just beauties see; + And in short measures life may perfect be. + + BEN JONSON. + + + THE FLYING SQUIRREL. + +"The Flying Squirrel" is an honest account of a live creature that won + his way into scores of hearts by his mad pranks and affectionate ways. + It is enough that John Burroughs has commended the poem. + + Of all the woodland creatures, + The quaintest little sprite + Is the dainty flying squirrel + In vest of shining white, + In coat of silver gray, + And vest of shining white. + + His furry Quaker jacket + Is trimmed with stripe of black; + A furry plume to match it + Is curling o'er his back; + New curved with every motion, + His plume curls o'er his back. + + No little new-born baby + Has pinker feet than he; + Each tiny toe is cushioned + With velvet cushions three; + Three wee, pink, velvet cushions + Almost too small to see. + + Who said, "The foot of baby + Might tempt an angel's kiss"? + I know a score of school-boys + Who put their lips to this,-- + This wee foot of the squirrel, + And left a loving kiss. + + The tiny thief has hidden + My candy and my plum; + Ah, there he comes unbidden + To gently nip my thumb,-- + Down in his home (my pocket) + He gently nips my thumb. + + How strange the food he covets, + The restless, restless wight;-- + Fred's old stuffed armadillo + He found a tempting bite, + Fred's old stuffed armadillo, + With ears a perfect fright. + + The Lady Ruth's great bureau, + Each foot a dragon's paw! + The midget ate the nails from + His famous antique claw. + Oh, what a cruel beastie + To hurt a dragon's claw! + + To autographic copies + Upon my choicest shelf,-- + To every dainty volume + The rogue has helped himself. + My books! Oh dear! No matter! + The rogue has helped himself. + + And yet, my little squirrel, + Your taste is not so bad; + You've swallowed Caird completely + And psychologic Ladd. + Rosmini you've digested, + And Kant in rags you've clad. + + Gnaw on, my elfish rodent! + Lay all the sages low! + My pretty lace and ribbons, + They're yours for weal or woe! + My pocket-book's in tatters + Because you like it so. + + MARY E. BURT. + + + WARREN'S ADDRESS TO THE AMERICAN SOLDIERS. + + There is never a boy who objects to learning "Warren's Address," by + John Pierpont (1785-1866). To stand by one's own rights is inherent in + every true American. This poem is doubtless developed from Robert + Burns's "Bannockburn." (1785-1866.) + + Stand! the ground's your own, my braves! + Will ye give it up to slaves? + Will ye look for greener graves? + Hope ye mercy still? + What's the mercy despots feel? + Hear it in that battle-peal! + Read it on yon bristling steel! + Ask it,--ye who will. + + Fear ye foes who kill for hire? + Will ye to your homes retire? + Look behind you! they're afire! + And, before you, see + Who have done it!--From the vale + On they come!--And will ye quail?-- + Leaden rain and iron hail + Let their welcome be! + + In the God of battles trust! + Die we may,--and die we must; + But, O, where can dust to dust + Be consigned so well, + As where Heaven its dews shall shed + On the martyred patriot's bed, + And the rocks shall raise their head, + Of his deeds to tell! + + JOHN PIERPONT. + + + THE SONG IN CAMP. + +"The Song in Camp" is Bayard Taylor's best effort as far as young boys + and girls are concerned. It is a most valuable poem. I once heard a + clergyman in Chicago use it as a text for his sermon. Since then "Annie + Laurie" has become the song of the Labour party. "The Song in Camp" + voices a universal feeling. (1825-78.) + + "Give us a song!" the soldiers cried, + The outer trenches guarding, + When the heated guns of the camps allied + Grew weary of bombarding. + + The dark Redan, in silent scoff, + Lay, grim and threatening, under; + And the tawny mound of the Malakoff + No longer belched its thunder. + + There was a pause. A guardsman said, + "We storm the forts to-morrow; + Sing while we may, another day + Will bring enough of sorrow." + + They lay along the battery's side, + Below the smoking cannon: + Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde, + And from the banks of Shannon. + + They sang of love, and not of fame; + Forgot was Britain's glory: + Each heart recalled a different name, + But all sang "Annie Laurie." + + Voice after voice caught up the song, + Until its tender passion + Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,-- + Their battle-eve confession. + + Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, + But, as the song grew louder, + Something upon the soldier's cheek + Washed off the stains of powder. + + Beyond the darkening ocean burned + The bloody sunset's embers, + While the Crimean valleys learned + How English love remembers. + + And once again a fire of hell + Rained on the Russian quarters, + With scream of shot, and burst of shell, + And bellowing of the mortars! + + And Irish Nora's eyes are dim + For a singer, dumb and gory; + And English Mary mourns for him + Who sang of "Annie Laurie." + + Sleep, soldiers! still in honoured rest + Your truth and valour wearing: + The bravest are the tenderest,-- + The loving are the daring. + + BAYARD TAYLOR. + + + THE BUGLE SONG. + +"The Bugle Song" (by Alfred Tennyson, 1809-90), says Heydrick, "has for + its central theme the undying power of human love. The music is notable + for sweetness and delicacy." + + The splendour falls on castle walls + And snowy summits old in story: + The long light shakes across the lakes + And the wild cataract leaps in glory. + Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, + Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. + + O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, + And thinner, clearer, farther going! + O sweet and far from cliff and scar + The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! + Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: + Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. + + O love, they die in yon rich sky, + They faint on hill or field or river: + Our echoes roll from soul to soul, + And grow forever and forever. + Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, + And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. + + ALFRED TENNYSON. + + + THE "THREE BELLS" OF GLASGOW. + +"The Three Bells of Glasgow," by Whittier (1807-92), cannot be praised + too highly for its ethical value. Children always love to learn it + after hearing it read correctly and by one who understands and + appreciates it. "Stand by" is the motto. My pupils teach it to me once + a year and learn it themselves, too. + + Beneath the low-hung night cloud + That raked her splintering mast + The good ship settled slowly, + The cruel leak gained fast. + + Over the awful ocean + Her signal guns pealed out. + Dear God! was that Thy answer + From the horror round about? + + A voice came down the wild wind, + "Ho! ship ahoy!" its cry: + "Our stout _Three Bells_ of Glasgow + Shall stand till daylight by!" + + Hour after hour crept slowly, + Yet on the heaving swells + Tossed up and down the ship-lights, + The lights of the _Three Bells_! + + And ship to ship made signals, + Man answered back to man, + While oft, to cheer and hearten, + The _Three Bells_ nearer ran: + + And the captain from her taffrail + Sent down his hopeful cry. + "Take heart! Hold on!" he shouted, + "The _Three Bells_ shall stand by!" + + All night across the waters + The tossing lights shone clear; + All night from reeling taffrail + The _Three Bells_ sent her cheer. + + And when the dreary watches + Of storm and darkness passed, + Just as the wreck lurched under, + All souls were saved at last. + + Sail on, _Three Bells_, forever, + In grateful memory sail! + Ring on, _Three Bells_ of rescue, + Above the wave and gale! + + Type of the Love eternal, + Repeat the Master's cry, + As tossing through our darkness + The lights of God draw nigh! + + JOHN G. WHITTIER. + + + SHERIDAN'S RIDE. + + There never was a boy who did not like "Sheridan's Ride," by T. + Buchanan Read (1822-72). The swing and gallop in it take every boy off + from his feet. The children never teach this poem to me, because they + love to learn it at first sight. It is easily memorised. + + Up from the South at break of day, + Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, + The affrighted air with a shudder bore, + Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door, + The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar, + Telling the battle was on once more, + And Sheridan twenty miles away. + + And wider still those billows of war + Thundered along the horizon's bar; + And louder yet into Winchester rolled + The roar of that red sea uncontrolled, + Making the blood of the listener cold + As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, + And Sheridan twenty miles away. + + But there is a road from Winchester town, + A good, broad highway leading down; + And there, through the flush of the morning light, + A steed as black as the steeds of night + Was seen to pass as with eagle flight; + As if he knew the terrible need, + He stretched away with his utmost speed; + Hills rose and fell; but his heart was gay, + With Sheridan fifteen miles away. + + Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering South, + The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth; + Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster, + Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster. + The heart of the steed and the heart of the master + Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, + Impatient to be where the battle-field calls; + Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, + With Sheridan only ten miles away. + + Under his spurning feet the road + Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, + And the landscape sped away behind + Like an ocean flying before the wind. + And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace fire, + Swept on, with his wild eye full of ire. + But lo! he is nearing his heart's desire; + He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, + With Sheridan only five miles away. + + The first that the General saw were the groups + Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops. + What was done--what to do? A glance told him both, + Then striking his spurs, with a terrible oath, + He dashed down the line, mid a storm of huzzas, + And the wave of retreat checked its course there, because + The sight of the master compelled it to pause. + With foam and with dust the black charger was gray; + By the flash of his eye, and the red nostrils' play, + He seemed to the whole great army to say: + "I have brought you Sheridan all the way + From Winchester down to save the day!" + + Hurrah! hurrah for Sheridan! + Hurrah! hurrah for horse and man! + And when their statues are placed on high, + Under the dome of the Union sky, + The American soldiers' Temple of Fame, + There with the glorious General's name + Be it said, in letters both bold and bright: + "Here is the steed that saved the day, + By carrying Sheridan into the fight + From Winchester, twenty miles away!" + + THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. + + + THE SANDPIPER. + +"The Sandpiper," by Celia Thaxter (1836-94), is placed here because a + goodly percentage of the children who read it want to learn it. + + Across the lonely beach we flit, + One little sandpiper and I, + And fast I gather, bit by bit, + The scattered driftwood, bleached and dry. + The wild waves reach their hands for it, + The wild wind raves, the tide runs high, + As up and down the beach we flit, + One little sandpiper and I. + + Above our heads the sullen clouds + Scud, black and swift, across the sky; + Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds + Stand out the white lighthouses high. + Almost as far as eye can reach + I see the close-reefed vessels fly, + As fast we flit along the beach, + One little sandpiper and I. + + I watch him as he skims along, + Uttering his sweet and mournful cry; + He starts not at my fitful song, + Nor flash of fluttering drapery. + He has no thought of any wrong, + He scans me with a fearless eye; + Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong, + The little sandpiper and I. + + Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night, + When the loosed storm breaks furiously? + My driftwood fire will burn so bright! + To what warm shelter canst thou fly? + I do not fear for thee, though wroth + The tempest rushes through the sky; + For are we not God's children both, + Thou, little sandpiper, and I? + + CELIA THAXTER. + + + LADY CLARE. + + Girls always love "Lady Clare" and "The Lord of Burleigh." They like to + think that it is enough to be a splendid woman without title or wealth. + They want to be loved, if they are loved at all, for their good hearts + and graces of mind. Tennyson (1809-92) makes this point repeatedly + through his poems. + + It was the time when lilies blow + And clouds are highest up in air; + Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe + To give his cousin, Lady Clare. + + I trow they did not part in scorn: + Lovers long-betroth'd were they: + They too will wed the morrow morn: + God's blessing on the day! + + "He does not love me for my birth, + Nor for my lands so broad and fair; + He loves me for my own true worth, + And that is well," said Lady Clare. + + In there came old Alice the nurse; + Said: "Who was this that went from thee?" + "It was my cousin," said Lady Clare; + "To-morrow he weds with me." + + "O God be thank'd!" said Alice the nurse, + "That all comes round so just and fair: + Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands, + And you are not the Lady Clare." + + "Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse," + Said Lady Clare, "that ye speak so wild?" + "As God's above," said Alice the nurse, + "I speak the truth: you are my child. + + "The old Earl's daughter died at my breast; + I speak the truth, as I live by bread! + I buried her like my own sweet child, + And put my child in her stead." + + "Falsely, falsely have ye done, + O mother," she said, "if this be true, + To keep the best man under the sun + So many years from his due." + + "Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, + "But keep the secret for your life, + And all you have will be Lord Ronald's + When you are man and wife." + + "If I'm a beggar born," she said, + "I will speak out, for I dare not lie. + Pull off, pull off the brooch of gold, + And fling the diamond necklace by." + + "Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, + "But keep the secret all ye can." + She said: "Not so: but I will know + If there be any faith in man." + + "Nay now, what faith?" said Alice the nurse, + "The man will cleave unto his right," + "And he shall have it," the lady replied, + "Tho' I should die to-night." + + "Yet give one kiss to your mother dear! + Alas! my child, I sinn'd for thee." + "O mother, mother, mother," she said, + "So strange it seems to me. + + "Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear, + My mother dear, if this be so, + And lay your hand upon my head, + And bless me, mother, ere I go." + + She clad herself in a russet gown, + She was no longer Lady Clare: + She went by dale, and she went by down, + With a single rose in her hair. + + The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought + Leapt up from where she lay, + Dropt her head in the maiden's hand, + And follow'd her all the way. + + Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower: + "O Lady Clare, you shame your worth! + Why come you drest like a village maid, + That are the flower of the earth?" + + "If I come drest like a village maid, + I am but as my fortunes are: + I am a beggar born," she said, + "And not the Lady Clare." + + "Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, + "For I am yours in word and in deed. + Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, + "Your riddle is hard to read." + + O and proudly stood she up! + Her heart within her did not fail: + She look'd into Lord Ronald's eyes, + And told him all her nurse's tale. + + He laugh'd a laugh of merry scorn: + He turn'd and kiss'd her where she stood: + "If you are not the heiress born? + And I," said he, "the next in blood-- + + "If you are not the heiress born, + And I," said he, "the lawful heir, + We two will wed to-morrow morn, + And you shall still be Lady Clare." + + ALFRED TENNYSON. + + + THE LORD OF BURLEIGH. + + In her ear he whispers gaily, + "If my heart by signs can tell, + Maiden, I have watched thee daily, + And I think thou lov'st me well." + She replies, in accents fainter, + "There is none I love like thee." + He is but a landscape-painter, + And a village maiden she. + + He to lips, that fondly falter, + Presses his without reproof; + Leads her to the village altar, + And they leave her father's roof. + + "I can make no marriage present; + Little can I give my wife. + Love will make our cottage pleasant, + And I love thee more than life." + + They by parks and lodges going + See the lordly castles stand; + Summer woods, about them blowing, + Made a murmur in the land. + + From deep thought himself he rouses, + Says to her that loves him well, + "Let us see these handsome houses + Where the wealthy nobles dwell." + + So she goes by him attended, + Hears him lovingly converse, + Sees whatever fair and splendid + Lay betwixt his home and hers. + + Parks with oak and chestnut shady, + Parks and order'd gardens great, + Ancient homes of lord and lady, + Built for pleasure and for state. + + All he shows her makes him dearer; + Evermore she seems to gaze + On that cottage growing nearer, + Where they twain will spend their days. + + O but she will love him truly! + He shall have a cheerful home; + She will order all things duly + When beneath his roof they come. + + Thus her heart rejoices greatly + Till a gateway she discerns + With armorial bearings stately, + And beneath the gate she turns; + Sees a mansion more majestic + Than all those she saw before; + Many a gallant gay domestic + Bows before him at the door. + + And they speak in gentle murmur + When they answer to his call, + While he treads with footstep firmer, + Leading on from hall to hall. + + And while now she wanders blindly, + Nor the meaning can divine, + Proudly turns he round and kindly, + "All of this is mine and thine." + + Here he lives in state and bounty, + Lord of Burleigh, fair and free. + Not a lord in all the county + Is so great a lord as he. + All at once the colour flushes + Her sweet face from brow to chin; + As it were with same she blushes, + And her spirit changed within. + + Then her countenance all over + Pale again as death did prove: + But he clasp'd her like a lover, + And he cheer'd her soul with love. + + So she strove against her weakness, + Tho' at times her spirits sank; + Shaped her heart with woman's meekness + To all duties of her rank; + And a gentle consort made he, + And her gentle mind was such + That she grew a noble lady, + And the people loved her much. + But a trouble weigh'd upon her + And perplex'd her, night and morn, + With the burden of an honour + Unto which she was not born. + + Faint she grew and ever fainter. + As she murmur'd, "Oh, that he + Were once more that landscape-painter + Which did win my heart from me!" + + So she droop'd and droop'd before him, + Fading slowly from his side; + Three fair children first she bore him, + Then before her time she died. + + Weeping, weeping late and early, + Walking up and pacing down, + Deeply mourn'd the Lord of Burleigh, + Burleigh-house by Stamford-town. + + And he came to look upon her, + And he look'd at her and said, + "Bring the dress and put it on her + That she wore when she was wed." + + Then her people, softly treading, + Bore to earth her body, drest + In the dress that she was wed in, + That her spirit might have rest. + + ALFRED TENNYSON. + + + HIAWATHA'S CHILDHOOD. + +"Hiawatha" needs no commendation. Hundreds of thousands of children in + our land know snatches of it It is a child's poem, every line of it. + One summer in Boston more than 50,000 people went to take a peep at the + poet's house. (1807-82.) + + By the shores of Gitche Gumee, + By the shining Big-Sea-Water, + Stood the wigwam of Nokomis, + Daughter of the Moon, Nokomis. + Dark behind it rose the forest, + Rose the black and gloomy pine-trees, + Rose the firs with cones upon them; + Bright before it beat the water, + Beat the clear and sunny water, + Beat the shining Big-Sea-Water. + + There the wrinkled old Nokomis + Nursed the little Hiawatha, + Rocked him in his linden cradle, + Bedded soft in moss and rushes, + Safely bound with reindeer sinews; + Stilled his fretful wail by saying, + "Hush! the Naked Bear will hear thee!" + Lulled him into slumber, singing, + "Ewa-yea! my little owlet! + Who is this that lights the wigwam? + With his great eyes lights the wigwam? + Ewa-yea! my little owlet!" + + Many things Nokomis taught him + Of the stars that shine in heaven; + Showed him Ishkoodah, the comet, + Ishkoodah, with fiery tresses; + Showed the Death-Dance of the spirits, + Warriors with their plumes and war-clubs, + Flaring far away to northward + In the frosty nights of winter; + Showed the broad, white road in heaven, + Pathway of the ghosts, the shadows, + Running straight across the heavens, + Crowded with the ghosts, the shadows. + + At the door, on summer evenings, + Sat the little Hiawatha; + Heard the whispering of the pine-trees, + Heard the lapping of the water, + Sounds of music, words of wonder; + "Minnie-wawa!" said the pine-trees, + "Mudway-aushka!" said the water; + Saw the fire-fly, Wah-wah-taysee, + Flitting through the dusk of evening, + With the twinkle of its candle + Lighting up the brakes and bushes, + And he sang the song of children. + Sang the song Nokomis taught him: + "Wah-wah-taysee, little fire-fly, + Little, flitting, white-fire insect, + Little, dancing, white-fire creature, + Light me with your little candle, + Ere upon my bed I lay me, + Ere in sleep I close my eyelids!" + + Saw the moon rise from the water + Rippling, rounding from the water, + Saw the flecks and shadows on it, + Whispered, "What is that, Nokomis?" + And the good Nokomis answered: + "Once a warrior, very angry, + Seized his grandmother, and threw her + Up into the sky at midnight; + Right against the moon he threw her; + 'Tis her body that you see there." + + Saw the rainbow in the heaven, + In the eastern sky, the rainbow, + Whispered, "What is that, Nokomis?" + And the good Nokomis answered: + "Tis the heaven of flowers you see there; + All the wild-flowers of the forest, + All the lilies of the prairie, + When on earth they fade and perish, + Blossom in that heaven above us." + + When he heard the owls at midnight, + Hooting, laughing in the forest, + "What is that?" he cried, in terror; + "What is that," he said, "Nokomis?" + And the good Nokomis answered: + "That is but the owl and owlet, + Talking in their native language, + Talking, scolding at each other." + + Then the little Hiawatha + Learned of every bird its language, + Learned their names and all their secrets, + How they built their nests in summer, + Where they hid themselves in winter, + Talked with them whene'er he met them, + Called them "Hiawatha's Chickens." + + Of all beasts he learned the language, + Learned their names and all their secrets, + How the beavers built their lodges, + Where the squirrels hid their acorns, + How the reindeer ran so swiftly, + Why the rabbit was so timid, + Talked with them whene'er he met them, + Called them "Hiawatha's Brothers." + + HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. + + + I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD. + +"The Daffodil" is here out of compliment to a splendid school and a + splendid teacher at Poughkeepsie. I found the pupils learning the poem, + the teacher having placed a bunch of daffodils in a vase before them. + It was a charming lesson. (1770-96.) + + I wandered lonely as a cloud + That floats on high o'er vales and hills, + When all at once I saw a crowd, + A host of golden daffodils: + Beside the lake, beneath the trees, + Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. + + Continuous as the stars that shine + And twinkle on the milky way, + They stretched in never-ending line + Along the margin of a bay; + Ten thousand saw I at a glance, + Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. + + The waves beside them danced, but they + Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:-- + A poet could not but be gay + In such a jocund company; + I gazed--and gazed--but little thought + What wealth the show to me had brought. + + For oft, when on my couch I lie + In vacant or in pensive mood, + They flash upon that inward eye + Which is the bliss of solitude; + And then my heart with pleasure fills, + And dances with the daffodils. + + WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. + + + JOHN BARLEYCORN. + +"John Barleycorn" is a favourite with boys because it pictures a + successful struggle. One editor has made a temperance poem of it, + mistaking its true intent. The poem is a strong expression of a + plow-man's love for a hardy, food-giving grain which has sprung to life + through his efforts. (1759-96.) + + There were three kings into the East, + Three kings both great and high; + And they ha'e sworn a solemn oath + John Barleycorn should die. + + They took a plow and plowed him down, + Put clods upon his head; + And they ha'e sworn a solemn oath + John Barleycorn was dead. + + But the cheerful spring came kindly on, + And showers began to fall; + John Barleycorn got up again, + And sore surprised them all. + + The sultry suns of summer came, + And he grew thick and strong; + His head well arm'd wi' pointed spears, + That no one should him wrong. + + The sober autumn entered mild, + And he grew wan and pale; + His bending joints and drooping head + Showed he began to fail. + + His colour sickened more and more, + He faded into age; + And then his enemies began + To show their deadly rage. + + They took a weapon long and sharp, + And cut him by the knee, + Then tied him fast upon a cart, + Like a rogue for forgery. + + They laid him down upon his back, + And cudgelled him full sore; + They hung him up before the storm, + And turn'd him o'er and o'er. + + They filled up then a darksome pit + With water to the brim, + And heaved in poor John Barleycorn, + To let him sink or swim. + + They laid him out upon the floor, + To work him further woe; + And still as signs of life appeared, + They tossed him to and fro. + + They wasted o'er a scorching flame + The marrow of his bones; + But a miller used him worst of all-- + He crushed him 'tween two stones. + + And they have taken his very heart's blood, + And drunk it round and round; + And still the more and more they drank, + Their joy did more abound. + + ROBERT BURNS. + + + A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE. + +"A Life on the Ocean Wave," by Epes Sargent (1813-80), gives the swing + and motion of the water of the great ocean. Children remember it almost + unconsciously after hearing it read several times. + + A life on the ocean wave, + A home on the rolling deep, + Where the scattered waters rave, + And the winds their revels keep! + Like an eagle caged, I pine + On this dull, unchanging shore: + Oh! give me the flashing brine, + The spray and the tempest's roar! + + Once more on the deck I stand + Of my own swift-gliding craft: + Set sail! farewell to the land! + The gale follows fair abaft. + We shoot through the sparkling foam + Like an ocean-bird set free;-- + Like the ocean-bird, our home + We'll find far out on the sea. + + The land is no longer in view, + The clouds have begun to frown; + But with a stout vessel and crew, + We'll say, Let the storm come down! + And the song of our hearts shall be, + While the winds and the waters rave, + A home on the rolling sea! + A life on the ocean wave! + + EPES SARGENT. + + + THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. + + It is customary, every New Year's eve in America, to ring bells, fire + guns, send up rockets, and, in many other ways, to show joy and + gratitude that the old year has been so kind, and that the new year is + so auspicious. The emphasis in Tennyson's poem is laid on gratitude for + past benefits so easily forgotten rather than upon the possible + advantages of the unknown and untried future. + + Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, + And the winter winds are wearily sighing: + Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, + And tread softly and speak low, + For the old year lies a-dying. + Old year, you must not die; + You came to us so readily, + You lived with us so steadily, + Old year, you shall not die. + + He lieth still: he doth not move: + He will not see the dawn of day. + He hath no other life above. + He gave me a friend, and a true true-love, + And the New-year will take 'em away. + Old year, you must not go; + So long as you have been with us, + Such joy as you have seen with us, + Old year, you shall not go. + + He froth'd his bumpers to the brim; + A jollier year we shall not see. + But tho' his eyes are waxing dim, + And tho' his foes speak ill of him, + He was a friend to me. + Old year, you shall not die; + We did so laugh and cry with you, + I've half a mind to die with you, + Old year, if you must die. + + He was full of joke and jest, + But all his merry quips are o'er. + To see him die, across the waste + His son and heir doth ride post-haste, + But he'll be dead before. + Every one for his own. + The night is starry and cold, my friend, + And the New-year blithe and bold, my friend, + Comes up to take his own. + + How hard he breathes! over the snow + I heard just now the crowing cock. + The shadows flicker to and fro: + The cricket chirps: the light burns low: + 'Tis nearly twelve o'clock. + Shake hands, before you die. + Old year, we'll dearly rue for you: + What is it we can do for you? + Speak out before you die. + + His face is growing sharp and thin. + Alack! our friend is gone. + Close up his eyes: tie up his chin: + Step from the corpse, and let him in + That standeth there alone, + And waiteth at the door. + There's a new foot on the floor, my friend, + And a new face at the door, my friend, + A new face at the door. + + ALFRED TENNYSON. + + + ABOU BEN ADHEM. + +"Abou Ben Adhem" has won its way to the popular heart because the +"Brotherhood of Man" is the motto of this age. (1784-1859.) + + Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) + Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, + And saw within the moonlight in his room, + Making it rich and like a lily in bloom, + An angel writing in a book of gold. + + Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold; + And to the presence in the room he said, + "What writest thou?" The vision raised its head, + And, with a look made of all sweet accord, + Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord." + + "And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so," + Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low, + But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then, + Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." + + The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night + It came again, with a great wakening light, + And showed the names whom love of God had blessed; + And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest. + + LEIGH HUNT. + + + FARM-YARD SONG. + +"A Farm-Yard Song" was popular years ago with Burbank, the great + reader. How the boys and girls loved it! The author, J.T. Trowbridge + (1827-still living), "is a boy-hearted man," says John Burroughs. The + poem is just as popular as it ever was. + + Over the hill the farm-boy goes, + His shadow lengthens along the land, + A giant staff in a giant hand; + In the poplar-tree, above the spring, + The katydid begins to sing; + The early dews are falling;-- + Into the stone-heap darts the mink; + The swallows skim the river's brink; + And home to the woodland fly the crows, + When over the hill the farm-boy goes, + Cheerily calling,-- + "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!" + Farther, farther over the hill, + Faintly calling, calling still,-- + "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!" + + Into the yard the farmer goes, + With grateful heart, at the close of day; + Harness and chain are hung away; + In the wagon-shed stand yoke and plow; + The straw's in the stack, the hay in the mow; + The cooling dews are falling;-- + The friendly sheep his welcome bleat, + The pigs come grunting to his feet, + The whinnying mare her master knows, + When into the yard the farmer goes, + His cattle calling,-- + "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!" + While still the cow-boy, far away, + Goes seeking those that have gone astray,-- + "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!" + + Now to her task the milkmaid goes. + The cattle come crowding through the gate, + Lowing, pushing, little and great; + About the trough, by the farm-yard pump, + The frolicsome yearlings frisk and jump, + While the pleasant dews are falling;-- + The new-milch heifer is quick and shy, + But the old cow waits with tranquil eye; + And the white stream into the bright pail flows, + When to her task the milkmaid goes, + Soothingly calling,-- + "So, boss! so, boss! so! so! so!" + The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool, + And sits and milks in the twilight cool, + Saying, "So! so, boss! so! so!" + + To supper at last the farmer goes. + The apples are pared, the paper read, + The stories are told, then all to bed. + Without, the crickets' ceaseless song + Makes shrill the silence all night long; + The heavy dews are falling. + The housewife's hand has turned the lock; + Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock; + The household sinks to deep repose; + But still in sleep the farm-boy goes. + Singing, calling,-- + "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!" + And oft the milkmaid, in her dreams, + Drums in the pail with the flashing streams, + Murmuring, "So, boss! so!" + + J.T. TROWBRIDGE. + + + TO A MOUSE, + + ON TURNING UP HER NEST WITH THE PLOW, NOVEMBER, 1785 + +"To a Mouse" and "To a Mountain Daisy," by Robert Burns (1759-96), are + the ineffable touches of tenderness that illumine the sturdy plowman. + The contrast between the strong man and the delicate flower or creature + at his mercy makes tenderness in man a vital point in character. + + The lines "To a Mouse" seem by report to have been composed while Burns + was actually plowing. One of the poet's first editors wrote: "John + Blane, who had acted as gaudsman to Burns, and who lived sixty years + afterward, had a distinct recollection of the turning up of the mouse. + Like a thoughtless youth as he was, he ran after the creature to kill + it, but was checked and recalled by his master, who he observed became + thereafter thoughtful and abstracted. Burns, who treated his servants + with the familiarity of fellow-labourers, soon afterward read the poem + to Blane." + + Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, + Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie! + Thou needna start awa' sae hasty, + Wi' bickering brattle! + I wad be laith to rin and chase thee, + Wi' murd'ring pattle! + + I'm truly sorry man's dominion + Has broken Nature's social union, + And justifies that ill opinion, + Which makes thee startle + At me, thy poor earth-born companion + And fellow-mortal! + + I doubtna, whiles, but thou may thieve; + What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! + A daimen icker in a thrave + 'S a sma' request: + I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave, + And never miss 't! + + Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! + Its silly wa's the win's are strewin'! + And naething now to big a new ane + O' foggage green, + And bleak December's winds ensuin', + Baith snell and keen! + + Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste, + And weary winter comin' fast, + And cozie here, beneath the blast, + Thou thought to dwell, + Till, crash! the cruel coulter passed + Out through thy cell. + + That wee bit heap o' leaves and stibble + Has cost thee monie a weary nibble! + Now thou's turned out for a' thy trouble, + But house or hald, + To thole the winter's sleety dribble, + And cranreuch cauld! + + But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, + In proving foresight may be vain: + The best-laid schemes o' mice and men + Gang aft a-gley, + And lea'e us naught but grief and pain, + For promised joy. + + Still thou art blest, compared wi' me! + The present only toucheth thee: + But, och! I backward cast my e'e + On prospects drear! + And forward, though I canna see, + I guess and fear. + + ROBERT BURNS. + + + TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, + + ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOW IN APRIL, 1786 + + Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower, + Thou's met me in an evil hour; + For I maun crush amang the stoure + Thy slender stem: + To spare thee now is past my power, + Thou bonny gem. + + Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, + The bonny lark, companion meet, + Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, + Wi' speckled breast, + When upward-springing, blithe, to greet + The purpling east! + + Cauld blew the bitter biting north + Upon thy early, humble birth; + Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth + Amid the storm, + Scarce reared above the parent earth + Thy tender form. + + The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, + High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield, + But thou, beneath the random bield + O' clod or stane, + Adorns the histie stibble-field, + Unseen, alane. + + There, in thy scanty mantle clad, + Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, + Thou lifts thy unassuming head + In humble guise; + But now the share uptears thy bed, + And low thou lies! + + Such is the fate of artless maid, + Sweet floweret of the rural shade! + By love's simplicity betrayed, + And guileless trust, + Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid + Low i' the dust. + + Such is the fate of simple bard, + On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd! + Unskilful he to note the card + Of prudent lore, + Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, + And whelm him o'er! + + Such fate to suffering worth is given, + Who long with wants and woes has striven, + By human pride or cunning driven + To misery's brink, + Till wrenched of every stay but Heaven, + He, ruined, sink! + + Even thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, + That fate is thine--no distant date; + Stern Ruin's plowshare drives, elate, + Full on thy bloom, + Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight + Shall be thy doom. + + ROBERT BURNS. + + + BARBARA FRIETCHIE. + +"Barbara Frietchie" will be beloved of all times because she was an old + woman (not necessarily an old lady) _worthy of her years_. Old age is + honourable if it carries a head that has a halo. (1807-92.) + + Up from the meadows rich with corn, + Clear in the cool September morn, + + The clustered spires of Frederick stand + Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. + + Roundabout them orchards sweep, + Apple and peach tree fruited deep, + + Fair as the garden of the Lord + To the eyes of the famished rebel horde, + + On that pleasant morn of the early fall + When Lee marched over the mountain-wall, + + Over the mountains winding down, + Horse and foot, into Frederick town. + + Forty flags with their silver stars, + Forty flags with their crimson bars, + + Flapped in the morning wind: the sun + Of noon looked down, and saw not one. + + Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, + Bowed with her fourscore years and ten, + + Bravest of all in Frederick town, + She took up the flag the men hauled down. + + In her attic window the staff she set, + To show that one heart was loyal yet. + + Up the street came the rebel tread, + Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. + + Under his slouched hat left and right + He glanced: the old flag met his sight. + + "Halt!"--the dust-brown ranks stood fast. + "Fire!"--out blazed the rifle-blast. + + It shivered the window, pane and sash; + It rent the banner with seam and gash. + + Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff + Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf. + + She leaned far out on the window-sill, + And shook it forth with a royal will. + + "Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, + But spare your country's flag," she said. + + A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, + Over the face of the leader came; + + The nobler nature within him stirred + To life at that woman's deed and word: + + "Who touches a hair of yon gray head + Dies like a dog! March on!" he said. + + All day long through Frederick street + Sounded the tread of marching feet: + + All day long that free flag tost + Over the heads of the rebel host. + + Even its torn folds rose and fell + On the loyal winds that loved it well; + + And through the hill-gaps sunset light + Shone over it with a warm good-night. + + Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, + And the rebel rides on his raids no more. + + Honour to her! and let a tear + Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. + + Over Barbara Frietchie's grave, + Flag of Freedom and Union, wave! + + Peace and order and beauty draw + Round thy symbol of light and law; + + And ever the stars above look down + On thy stars below in Frederick town! + + JOHN G. WHITTIER. + + + + + PART III. + + The Day's at the Morn + + + LOCHINVAR. + +"Lochinvar" and "Lord Ullin's Daughter," the first by Scott (1771-1832) + and the second by Campbell (1777-1844), are companions in sentiment and + equally popular with boys who love to win anything desirable by heroic + effort. + + Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west. + Through all the wide Border his steed was the best, + And save his good broadsword he weapons had none; + He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. + So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, + There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. + + He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone, + He swam the Eske River where ford there was none; + But ere he alighted at Netherby gate + The bride had consented, the gallant came late: + For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war + Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. + + So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, + Among bridesmen and kinsmen and brothers and all: + Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword + (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word), + "Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, + Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?" + + "I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied;-- + Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide-- + And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, + To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. + There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, + That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar." + + The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up; + He quaffed of the wine, and he threw down the cup. + She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, + With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. + He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar,-- + "Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar. + + So stately his form, and so lovely her face, + That never a hall such a galliard did grace; + While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, + And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume, + And the bridemaidens whispered, "'Twere better by far + To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar." + + One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, + When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood near; + So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, + So light to the saddle before her he sprung! + "She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; + They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar. + + There was mounting 'mong Grćmes of the Netherby clan; + Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran: + There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie Lee, + But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. + So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, + Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? + + SIR WALTER SCOTT. + + + LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. + + A chieftain, to the Highlands bound, + Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry! + And I'll give thee a silver pound, + To row us o'er the ferry." + + "Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, + This dark and stormy water?" + "O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, + And this Lord Ullin's daughter. + + "And fast before her father's men + Three days we've fled together, + For should he find us in the glen, + My blood would stain the heather. + + "His horsemen hard behind us ride; + Should they our steps discover, + Then who will cheer my bonny bride + When they have slain her lover?" + + Outspoke the hardy Highland wight, + "I'll go, my chief--I'm ready; + It is not for your silver bright, + But for your winsome lady: + + "And by my word! the bonny bird + In danger shall not tarry; + So though the waves are raging white, + I'll row you o'er the ferry." + + By this the storm grew loud apace, + The water-wraith was shrieking; + And in the scowl of heaven each face + Grew dark as they were speaking. + + But still as wilder blew the wind, + And as the night grew drearer, + Adown the glen rode armčd men, + Their trampling sounded nearer. + + "O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, + "Though tempests round us gather; + I'll meet the raging of the skies, + But not an angry father." + + The boat has left a stormy land, + A stormy sea before her,-- + When, oh! too strong for human hand, + The tempest gathered o'er her. + + And still they row'd amid the roar + Of waters fast prevailing: + Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore, + His wrath was changed to wailing. + + For sore dismay'd through storm and shade, + His child he did discover:-- + One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid, + And one was round her lover. + + "Come back! come back!" he cried in grief, + "Across this stormy water: + And I'll forgive your Highland chief, + My daughter!--oh my daughter!" + + 'Twas vain the loud waves lashed the shore, + Return or aid preventing;-- + The waters wild went o'er his child,-- + And he was left lamenting. + + THOMAS CAMPBELL. + + + THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. + +"The Charge of the Light Brigade" (1809-92) unlike "Casabianca" shows + obedience under stern necessity. Obedience is the salvation of any + army. John Burroughs says: "I never hear that poem but what it thrills + me through and through." + + Half a league, half a league, + Half a league onward, + All in the valley of Death + Rode the six hundred. + "Forward, the Light Brigade! + Charge for the guns!" he said: + Into the valley of Death + Rode the six hundred. + + "Forward, the Light Brigade!" + Was there a man dismay'd? + Not tho' the soldier knew + Some one had blunder'd: + Theirs not to make reply, + Theirs not to reason why. + Theirs but to do and die: + Into the valley of Death + Rode the six hundred. + + Cannon to right of them, + Cannon to left of them, + Cannon in front of them + Volley'd and thunder'd; + Storm'd at with shot and shell + Boldly they rode and well, + Into the jaws of Death, + Into the mouth of Hell + Rode the six hundred. + + Flash'd all their sabers bare, + Flash'd as they turn'd in air + Sab'ring the gunners there, + Charging an army, while + All the world wonder'd: + Plunged in the battery-smoke + Right thro' the line they broke; + Cossack and Russian + Reel'd from the saber-stroke + Shatter'd and sunder'd. + Then they rode back, but not + Not the six hundred. + + Cannon to right of them, + Cannon to left of them, + Cannon behind them + Volleyed and thundered: + Stormed at with shot and shell, + While horse and hero fell, + They that had fought so well + Came through the jaws of death + Back from the mouth of hell, + All that was left of them-- + Left of six hundred. + + When can their glory fade? + Oh, the wild charge they made! + All the world wondered. + Honour the charge they made! + Honour the Light Brigade-- + Noble six hundred! + + ALFRED TENNYSON. + + + THE TOURNAMENT. + + There are several of Sidney Lanier's (1842-81) poems that children love + to learn. "Tampa Robins," "The Tournament" (Joust 1.), "Barnacles," +"The Song of the Chattahoochee," and "The First Steamboat Up the + Alabama" are among them. At our "poetry contests" the children have + plainly demonstrated that this great poet has reached his hand down to + the youngest. The time will doubtless come when it will be a part of + education to be acquainted with Lanier, as it is now to be acquainted + with Longfellow or Tennyson. + + + I. + + Bright shone the lists, blue bent the skies, + And the knights still hurried amain + To the tournament under the ladies' eyes, + Where the jousters were Heart and Brain. + + + II. + + Flourished the trumpets, entered Heart, + A youth in crimson and gold; + Flourished again; Brain stood apart, + Steel-armoured, dark and cold. + + + III. + + Heart's palfrey caracoled gaily round, + Heart tra-li-ra'd merrily; + But Brain sat still, with never a sound, + So cynical-calm was he. + + + IV. + + Heart's helmet-crest bore favours three + From his lady's white hand caught; + While Brain wore a plumeless casque; not he + Or favour gave or sought. + + + V. + + The trumpet blew; Heart shot a glance + To catch his lady's eye. + But Brain gazed straight ahead, his lance + To aim more faithfully. + + + VI. + + They charged, they struck; both fell, both bled; + Brain rose again, ungloved; + Heart, dying, smiled and faintly said, + "My love to my beloved." + + SIDNEY LANIER. + + + THE WIND AND THE MOON. + + Little Laddie, do you remember learning "The Wind and the Moon"? You + were eight or nine years old, and you shut your eyes and puffed out + your cheeks when you came to the line "He blew and He blew." The saucy + wind made a great racket and the calm moon never noticed it. That gave + you a great deal of pleasure, didn't it? We did not care much for the + noisy, conceited wind. (1824-.) + + Said the Wind to the Moon, "I will blow you out, + You stare + In the air + Like a ghost in a chair, + Always looking what I am about-- + I hate to be watched; I'll blow you out." + + The Wind blew hard, and out went the Moon. + So, deep + On a heap + Of clouds to sleep, + Down lay the Wind, and slumbered soon, + Muttering low, "I've done for that Moon." + + He turned in his bed; she was there again! + On high + In the sky, + With her one ghost eye, + The Moon shone white and alive and plain. + Said the Wind, "I will blow you out again." + + The Wind blew hard, and the Moon grew dim. + "With my sledge, + And my wedge, + I have knocked off her edge! + If only I blow right fierce and grim, + The creature will soon be dimmer than dim." + + He blew and he blew, and she thinned to a thread. + "One puff + More's enough + To blow her to snuff! + One good puff more where the last was bred, + And glimmer, glimmer, glum will go the thread." + + He blew a great blast, and the thread was gone + In the air + Nowhere + Was a moonbeam bare; + Far off and harmless the shy stars shone-- + Sure and certain the Moon was gone! + + The Wind he took to his revels once more; + On down, + In town, + Like a merry-mad clown, + He leaped and hallooed with whistle and roar-- + "What's that?" The glimmering thread once more! + + He flew in a rage--he danced and blew; + But in vain + Was the pain + Of his bursting brain; + For still the broader the Moon-scrap grew, + The broader he swelled his big cheeks and blew. + + Slowly she grew--till she filled the night, + And shone + On her throne + In the sky alone, + A matchless, wonderful silvery light, + Radiant and lovely, the queen of the night. + + Said the Wind: "What a marvel of power am I + With my breath, + Good faith! + I blew her to death-- + First blew her away right out of the sky-- + Then blew her in; what strength have I!" + + But the Moon she knew nothing about the affair; + For high + In the sky, + With her one white eye, + Motionless, miles above the air, + She had never heard the great Wind blare. + + GEORGE MACDONALD. + + + JESUS THE CARPENTER. + +"Jesus the Carpenter"--"same trade as me"--strikes a high note in + favour of honest toil. (1848-.) + + "Isn't this Joseph's son?"--ay, it is He; + Joseph the carpenter--same trade as me-- + I thought as I'd find it--I knew it was here-- + But my sight's getting queer. + + I don't know right where as His shed must ha' stood-- + But often, as I've been a-planing my wood, + I've took off my hat, just with thinking of He + At the same work as me. + + He warn't that set up that He couldn't stoop down + And work in the country for folks in the town; + And I'll warrant He felt a bit pride, like I've done, + At a good job begun. + + The parson he knows that I'll not make too free, + But on Sunday I feels as pleased as can be, + When I wears my clean smock, and sits in a pew, + And has taught a few. + + I think of as how not the parson hissen, + As is teacher and father and shepherd o' men, + Not he knows as much of the Lord in that shed, + Where He earned His own bread. + + And when I goes home to my missus, says she, + "Are ye wanting your key?" + For she knows my queer ways, and my love for the shed + (We've been forty years wed). + + So I comes right away by mysen, with the book, + And I turns the old pages and has a good look + For the text as I've found, as tells me as He + Were the same trade as me. + + Why don't I mark it? Ah, many say so, + But I think I'd as lief, with your leaves, let it go: + It do seem that nice when I fall on it sudden-- + Unexpected, you know! + + CATHERINE C. LIDDELL. + + + LETTY'S GLOBE. + +"Letty's Globe" gives us the picture of a little golden-haired girl who + covers all Europe with her dainty hands and tresses while giving a kiss + to England, her own dear native land. (1808-79.) + + When Letty had scarce pass'd her third glad year, + And her young, artless words began to flow, + One day we gave the child a colour'd sphere + Of the wide earth, that she might mark and know, + By tint and outline, all its sea and land. + She patted all the world; old empires peep'd + Between her baby fingers; her soft hand + Was welcome at all frontiers. How she leap'd, + And laugh'd and prattled in her world-wide bliss! + But when we turn'd her sweet unlearned eye + On our own isle, she rais'd a joyous cry, + "Oh! yes, I see it! Letty's home is there!" + And, while she hid all England with a kiss, + Bright over Europe fell her golden hair! + + CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER. + + + A DREAM. + + Once a dream did wave a shade + O'er my angel-guarded bed, + That an emmet lost its way + When on grass methought I lay. + + Troubled, 'wildered, and forlorn, + Dark, benighted, travel-worn, + Over many a tangled spray, + All heart-broke, I heard her say: + + "Oh, my children! do they cry? + Do they hear their father sigh? + Now they look abroad to see. + Now return and weep for me." + + Pitying, I dropped a tear; + But I saw a glow-worm near, + Who replied, "What wailing wight + Calls the watchman of the night? + + "I am set to light the ground + While the beetle goes his round. + Follow now the beetle's hum-- + Little wanderer, hie thee home!" + + WILLIAM BLAKE. + + + HEAVEN IS NOT REACHED AT A SINGLE BOUND. + + (A FRAGMENT.) + +"We build the ladder by which we climb" is a line worthy of any poet. + J.G. Holland (1819-81) has immortalised himself in this line, at least. + + Heaven is not reached at a single bound, + But we build the ladder by which we rise + From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies, + And we mount to its summit round by round. + + I count this thing to be grandly true: + That a noble deed is a step toward God,-- + Lifting the soul from the common clod + To a purer air and a broader view. + + J.G. HOLLAND. + + + THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM. + + Have you been to Woodstock, near Oxford, England? If so, you have seen + the palace of the Duke of Marlborough, who won the battle of Blenheim. + The main point of the poem is the doubtful honour in killing in our + great wars. Southey, the poet, lived from 1774 to 1843. + + It was a summer's evening, + Old Kaspar's work was done, + And he before his cottage door + Was sitting in the sun; + And by him sported on the green + His little grandchild Wilhelmine. + + She saw her brother Peterkin + Roll something large and round, + Which he, beside the rivulet, + In playing there, had found. + He came to ask what he had found, + That was so large, and smooth, and round. + + Old Kaspar took it from the boy, + Who stood expectant by; + And then the old man shook his head, + And, with a natural sigh, + "'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, + "Who fell in the great victory! + + "I find them in the garden, + For there's many hereabout; + And often when I go to plow, + The plowshare turns them out; + For many thousand men," said he, + "Were slain in that great victory!" + + "Now tell us what 'twas all about," + Young Peterkin he cries; + And little Wilhelmine looks up + With wonder-waiting eyes; + "Now tell us all about the war, + And what they killed each other for." + + "It was the English," Kaspar cried, + "Who put the French to rout; + But what they killed each other for + I could not well make out. + But everybody said," quoth he, + "That 'twas a famous victory! + + "My father lived at Blenheim then, + Yon little stream hard by: + They burned his dwelling to the ground + And he was forced to fly; + So with his wife and child he fled, + Nor had he where to rest his head. + + "With fire and sword the country round + Was wasted far and wide; + And many a childing mother then + And new-born baby died. + But things like that, you know, must be + At every famous victory. + + "They say it was a shocking sight + After the field was won; + For many thousand bodies here + Lay rotting in the sun. + But things like that, you know, must be + After a famous victory. + + "Great praise the Duke of Marlborough won, + And our good Prince Eugene." + "Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!" + Said little Wilhelmine. + "Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he, + "It was a famous victory! + + "And everybody praised the Duke + Who this great fight did win." + "But what good came of it at last?" + Quoth little Peterkin. + "Why, that I cannot tell," said he, + "But 'twas a famous victory." + + ROBERT SOUTHEY. + + + FIDELITY. + +"Fidelity," by William Wordsworth (1770-1850), is placed here out of + respect to a boy of eleven years who liked the poem well enough to + recite it frequently. The scene is laid on Helvellyn, to me the most + impressive mountain of the Lake District of England. Wordsworth is a + part of this country. I once heard John Burroughs say: "I went to the + Lake District to see what kind of a country it could be that would + produce a Wordsworth." + + A barking sound the Shepherd hears, + A cry as of a dog or fox; + He halts--and searches with his eyes + Among the scattered rocks; + And now at distance can discern + A stirring in a brake of fern; + And instantly a Dog is seen, + Glancing through that covert green. + + The Dog is not of mountain breed; + Its motions, too, are wild and shy; + With something, as the Shepherd thinks, + Unusual in its cry: + Nor is there any one in sight + All round, in hollow or on height; + Nor shout, nor whistle strikes his ear; + What is the Creature doing here? + + It was a cove, a huge recess, + That keeps, till June, December's snow. + A lofty precipice in front, + A silent tarn below! + Far in the bosom of Helvellyn, + Remote from public road or dwelling, + Pathway, or cultivated land; + From trace of human foot or hand. + + There sometimes doth a leaping fish + Send through the tarn a lonely cheer; + The crags repeat the raven's croak, + In symphony austere; + Thither the rainbow comes--the cloud-- + And mists that spread the flying shroud; + And sunbeams; and the sounding blast, + That, if it could, would hurry past, + But that enormous barrier binds it fast. + + Not free from boding thoughts, a while + The Shepherd stood: then makes his way + Toward the Dog, o'er rocks and stones, + As quickly as he may; + Nor far had gone, before he found + A human skeleton on the ground; + The appalled discoverer with a sigh + Looks round, to learn the history. + + From those abrupt and perilous rocks + The Man had fallen, that place of fear! + At length upon the Shepherd's mind + It breaks, and all is clear: + He instantly recalled the name, + And who he was, and whence he came; + Remembered, too, the very day + On which the traveller passed this way. + + But hear a wonder, for whose sake + This lamentable tale I tell! + A lasting monument of words + This wonder merits well. + The Dog, which still was hovering nigh, + Repeating the same timid cry, + This Dog had been through three months space + A dweller in that savage place. + + Yes, proof was plain that, since the day + When this ill-fated traveller died, + The Dog had watched about the spot, + Or by his master's side: + How nourished here through such long time + He knows, who gave that love sublime; + And gave that strength of feeling, great + Above all human estimate. + + WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. + + + THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS. + + People are more and more coming to recognise the fact that each + individual soul has a right to its own stages of development. "The + Chambered Nautilus" is for that reason beloved of the masses. It is one + of the grandest poems ever written. "Build thee more stately mansions, + O my soul!" This line alone would make the poem immortal. (1809-94.) + + This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, + Sailed the unshadowed main,-- + The venturous bark that flings + On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings + In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, + And coral reefs lie bare, + Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. + + Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; + Wrecked is the ship of pearl! + And every chambered cell, + Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, + As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, + Before thee lies revealed,-- + Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed! + + Year after year beheld the silent toil + That spread his lustrous coil; + Still, as the spiral grew, + He left the past year's dwelling for the new, + Stole with soft step its shining archway through, + Built up its idle door, + Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more. + + Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, + Child of the wandering sea, + Cast from her lap, forlorn! + From thy dead lips a clearer note is born + Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn! + While on mine ear it rings, + Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:-- + + Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, + As the swift seasons roll! + Leave thy low-vaulted past! + Let each new temple, nobler than the last, + Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, + Till thou at length art free, + Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea! + + OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. + + + CROSSING THE BAR + + Tennyson's (1809-92) "Crossing the Bar" is one of the noblest + death-songs ever written. I include it in this volume out of respect to + a young Philadelphia publisher who recited it one stormy night before + the passengers of a ship when I was crossing the Atlantic, and also + because so many young people have the good taste to love it. It has + been said that next to Browning's "Prospice" it is the greatest + death-song ever written. + + Sunset and evening star, + And one clear call for me! + And may there be no moaning of the bar, + When I put out to sea, + + But such a tide as moving seems asleep, + Too full for sound and foam, + When that which drew from out the boundless deep + Turns again home. + + Twilight and evening bell, + And after that the dark! + And may there be no sadness of farewell, + When I embark; + + For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place + The flood may bear me far, + I hope to see my Pilot face to face + When I have cross'd the bar. + + ALFRED TENNYSON. + + + THE OVERLAND-MAIL. + +"The Overland-Mail" is a most desirable poem for children to learn. + When one boy learns it the others want to follow. It takes as a hero + the man who gives common service--the one who does not lead or command, + but follows the line of duty. (1865-.) + + In the name of the Empress of India, make way, + O Lords of the Jungle wherever you roam, + The woods are astir at the close of the day-- + We exiles are waiting for letters from Home-- + Let the robber retreat; let the tiger turn tail, + In the name of the Empress the Overland-Mail! + + With a jingle of bells as the dusk gathers in, + He turns to the foot-path that leads up the hill-- + The bags on his back, and a cloth round his chin, + And, tucked in his belt, the Post-Office bill;-- + "Despatched on this date, as received by the rail, + _Per_ runner, two bags of the Overland-Mail." + + Is the torrent in spate? He must ford it or swim. + Has the rain wrecked the road? He must climb by the cliff. + Does the tempest cry "Halt"? What are tempests to him? + The service admits not a "but" or an "if"; + While the breath's in his mouth, he must bear without fail, + In the name of the Empress the Overland-Mail. + + From aloe to rose-oak, from rose-oak to fir, + From level to upland, from upland to crest, + From rice-field to rock-ridge, from rock-ridge to spur, + Fly the soft-sandalled feet, strains the brawny brown chest. + From rail to ravine--to the peak from the vale-- + Up, up through the night goes the Overland-Mail. + + There's a speck on the hillside, a dot on the road-- + A jingle of bells on the foot-path below-- + There's a scuffle above in the monkeys' abode-- + The world is awake, and the clouds are aglow-- + For the great Sun himself must attend to the hail;-- + In the name of the Empress the Overland-Mail. + + RUDYARD KIPLING. + + + GATHERING SONG OF DONALD DHU. + + Jon, do you remember when you used to spout "Pibroch of Donald Dhu"? I + think you were ten years old. Sir Walter Scott's men all have a genius + for standing up to their guns, and boys gather up the man's genius when + reciting his verse. (1771-1832.) + + Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, + Pibroch of Donuil, + Wake thy wild voice anew, + Summon Clan Conuil. + Come away, come away, + Hark to the summons! + Come in your war-array, + Gentles and commons. + + Come from deep glen, and + From mountain so rocky, + The war-pipe and pennon + Are at Inverlochy. + Come every hill-plaid, and + True heart that wears one, + Come every steel blade, and + Strong hand that bears one. + + Leave untended the herd, + The flock without shelter; + Leave the corpse uninterr'd, + The bride at the altar; + Leave the deer, leave the steer, + Leave nets and barges: + Come with your fighting gear, + Broadswords and targes. + + Come as the winds come, when + Forests are rended; + Come as the waves come, when + Navies are stranded: + Faster come, faster come, + Faster and faster, + Chief, vassal, page, and groom, + Tenant and master. + + Fast they come, fast they come; + See how they gather! + Wide waves the eagle plume + Blended with heather, + Cast your plaids, draw your blades, + Forward each man set! + Pibroch of Donuil Dhu + Knell for the onset! + + SIR WALTER SCOTT. + + + MARCO BOZZARIS. + +"Marco Bozzaris," by Fitz-Greene Halleck (1790-1867), was in my old + school-reader. Boys and girls liked it then and they like it now. This + is another of the poems that was not born to die. + + At midnight, in his guarded tent, + The Turk was dreaming of the hour + When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, + Should tremble at his power: + In dreams, through camp and court, he bore + The trophies of a conqueror; + In dreams his song of triumph heard; + Then wore his monarch's signet ring: + Then pressed that monarch's throne--a king; + As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, + As Eden's garden bird. + + At midnight, in the forest shades, + Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band, + True as the steel of their tried blades, + Heroes in heart and hand. + There had the Persian's thousands stood, + There had the glad earth drunk their blood + On old Platća's day; + And now there breathed that haunted air + The sons of sires who conquered there, + With arm to strike and soul to dare, + As quick, as far as they. + + An hour passed on--the Turk awoke; + That bright dream was his last; + He woke--to hear his sentries shriek, + "To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!" + He woke--to die midst flame, and smoke, + And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke, + And death-shots falling thick and fast + As lightnings from the mountain-cloud; + And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, + Bozzaris cheer his band: + "Strike--till the last armed foe expires; + Strike--for your altars and your fires; + Strike--for the green graves of your sires; + God--and your native land!" + + They fought--like brave men, long and well; + They piled that ground with Moslem slain, + They conquered--but Bozzaris fell, + Bleeding at every vein. + His few surviving comrades saw + His smile when rang their proud hurrah, + And the red field was won; + Then saw in death his eyelids close + Calmly, as to a night's repose, + Like flowers at set of sun. + + Come to the bridal-chamber, Death! + Come to the mother's, when she feels, + For the first time, her first-born's breath; + Come when the blessed seals + That close the pestilence are broke, + And crowded cities wail its stroke; + Come in consumption's ghastly form, + The earthquake shock, the ocean storm; + Come when the heart beats high and warm + With banquet-song, and dance, and wine; + And thou art terrible--the tear, + The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, + And all we know, or dream, or fear + Of agony, are thine. + + But to the hero, when his sword + Has won the battle for the free, + Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word; + And in its hollow tones are heard + The thanks of millions yet to be. + Come, when his task of fame is wrought-- + Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought-- + Come in her crowning hour--and then + Thy sunken eye's unearthly light + To him is welcome as the sight + Of sky and stars to prisoned men; + Thy grasp is welcome as the hand + Of brother in a foreign land; + Thy summons welcome as the cry + That told the Indian isles were nigh + To the world-seeking Genoese, + When the land wind, from woods of palm, + And orange-groves, and fields of balm, + Blew o'er the Haytian seas. + + Bozzaris! with the storied brave + Greece nurtured in her glory's time, + Rest thee--there is no prouder grave, + Even in her own proud clime. + She wore no funeral-weeds for thee, + Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume + Like torn branch from death's leafless tree + In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, + The heartless luxury of the tomb; + But she remembers thee as one + Long loved and for a season gone; + For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, + Her marble wrought, her music breathed; + For thee she rings the birthday bells; + Of thee her babe's first lisping tells; + For thine her evening prayer is said + At palace-couch and cottage-bed; + Her soldier, closing with the foe, + Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow, + His plighted maiden, when she fears + For him the joy of her young years, + Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears; + And she, the mother of thy boys, + Though in her eye and faded cheek + Is read the grief she will not speak, + The memory of her buried joys, + And even she who gave thee birth, + Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth, + Talk of thy doom without a sigh; + For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's: + One of the few, the immortal names, + That were not born to die. + + FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. + + + THE DEATH OF NAPOLEON. + +"The Death of Napoleon," by Isaac McClellan (1806-99), was yet another + of the good old reader songs taught us by a teacher of good taste. We + love those teachers more the older we grow. + + Wild was the night, yet a wilder night + Hung round the soldier's pillow; + In his bosom there waged a fiercer fight + Than the fight on the wrathful billow. + + A few fond mourners were kneeling by, + The few that his stern heart cherished; + They knew, by his glazed and unearthly eye, + That life had nearly perished. + + They knew by his awful and kingly look, + By the order hastily spoken, + That he dreamed of days when the nations shook, + And the nations' hosts were broken. + + He dreamed that the Frenchman's sword still slew, + And triumphed the Frenchman's eagle, + And the struggling Austrian fled anew, + Like the hare before the beagle. + + The bearded Russian he scourged again, + The Prussian's camp was routed, + And again on the hills of haughty Spain + His mighty armies shouted. + + Over Egypt's sands, over Alpine snows, + At the pyramids, at the mountain, + Where the wave of the lordly Danube flows, + And by the Italian fountain, + + On the snowy cliffs where mountain streams + Dash by the Switzer's dwelling, + He led again, in his dying dreams, + His hosts, the proud earth quelling. + + Again Marengo's field was won, + And Jena's bloody battle; + Again the world was overrun, + Made pale at his cannon's rattle. + + He died at the close of that darksome day, + A day that shall live in story; + In the rocky land they placed his clay, + "And left him alone with his glory." + + ISAAC MCCLELLAN. + + + HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE. + + How sleep the brave, who sink to rest + By all their country's wishes blest! + When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, + Returns to deck their hallow'd mould, + She there shall dress a sweeter sod + Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. + + By fairy hands their knell is rung, + By forms unseen their dirge is sung: + There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray, + To bless the turf that wraps their clay; + And Freedom shall a while repair + To dwell a weeping hermit there! + + WILLIAM COLLINS. + + + THE FLAG GOES BY. + +"The Flag Goes By" is included out of regard to a boy of eleven years + who pleased me by his great appreciation of it. It teaches the lesson + of reverence to our great national symbol. It is published by + permission of the author, Henry Holcomb Bennett, of Ohio. (1863-.) + + Hats off! + Along the street there comes + A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums, + A flash of colour beneath the sky: + Hats off! + The flag is passing by! + + Blue and crimson and white it shines + Over the steel-tipped, ordered lines. + Hats off! + The colours before us fly; + But more than the flag is passing by. + + Sea-fights and land-fights, grim and great, + Fought to make and to save the State: + Weary marches and sinking ships; + Cheers of victory on dying lips; + + Days of plenty and years of peace; + March of a strong land's swift increase; + Equal justice, right, and law, + Stately honour and reverend awe; + + Sign of a nation, great and strong + Toward her people from foreign wrong: + Pride and glory and honour,--all + Live in the colours to stand or fall. + + Hats off! + Along the street there comes + A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums; + And loyal hearts are beating high: + Hats off! + The flag is passing by! + + HENRY HOLCOMB BENNETT. + + + HOHENLINDEN. + + On Linden, when the sun was low, + All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow; + And dark as winter was the flow + Of Iser, rolling rapidly. + + But Linden saw another sight, + When the drum beat, at dead of night, + Commanding fires of death to light + The darkness of her scenery. + + By torch and trumpet fast array'd + Each horseman drew his battle-blade, + And furious every charger neigh'd + To join the dreadful revelry. + + Then shook the hills with thunder riven, + Then rush'd the steed to battle driven, + And louder than the bolts of Heaven, + Far flashed the red artillery. + + But redder yet that light shall glow + On Linden's hills or stainčd snow; + And bloodier yet the torrent flow + Of Iser, rolling rapidly. + + 'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun + Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, + Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, + Shout in their sulphurous canopy. + + The combat deepens. On, ye brave + Who rush to glory or the grave! + Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave, + And charge with all thy chivalry! + + Few, few shall part, where many meet! + The snow shall be their winding-sheet, + And every turf beneath their feet + Shall be a soldier's sepulcher. + + THOMAS CAMPBELL. + + + MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME. + + The sun shines bright in the old Kentucky home; + 'Tis summer, the darkeys are gay; + The corn-top's ripe, and the meadow's in the bloom, + While the birds make music all the day. + The young folks roll on the little cabin floor, + All merry, all happy and bright; + By-'n'-by hard times comes a-knocking at the door:-- + Then my old Kentucky home, good-night! + + Weep no more, my lady, + O, weep no more to-day! + We will sing one song for the old Kentucky home, + For the old Kentucky home, far away. + + They hunt no more for the 'possum and the coon, + On the meadow, the hill, and the shore; + They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon, + On the bench by the old cabin door. + The day goes by like a shadow o'er the heart, + With sorrow, where all was delight; + The time has come when the darkeys have to part:-- + Then my old Kentucky home, good-night! + + The head must bow, and the back will have to bend, + Wherever the darkey may go; + A few more days, and the trouble all will end, + In the field where the sugar-canes grow. + A few more days for to tote the weary load,-- + No matter, 'twill never be light; + A few more days till we totter on the road:-- + Then my old Kentucky home, good-night! + + Weep no more, my lady, + O, weep no more to-day! + We will sing one song for the old Kentucky home, + For the old Kentucky home, far away. + + STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER. + + + OLD FOLKS AT HOME. + + Way down upon de Swanee Ribber, + Far, far away, + Dere's wha my heart is turning ebber, + Dere's wha de old folks stay. + All up and down de whole creation + Sadly I roam, + Still longing for de old plantation, + And for de old folks at home. + + All de world am sad and dreary, + Eberywhere I roam; + Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary, + Far from de old folks at home! + + All round de little farm I wandered + When I was young, + Den many happy days I squandered, + Many de songs I sung. + When I was playing wid my brudder + Happy was I; + Oh, take me to my kind old mudder! + Dere let me live and die. + + One little hut among de bushes, + One dat I love, + Still sadly to my memory rushes, + No matter where I rove. + When will I see de bees a-humming + All round de comb? + When will I hear de banjo tumming, + Down in my good old home? + + All de world am sad and dreary, + Eberywhere I roam; + Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary, + Far from de old folks at home! + + STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER. + + + THE WRECK OF THE "HESPERUS." + +"The Wreck of the _Hesperus_," by Longfellow (1807-82), on "Norman's + Woe," off the coast near Cape Ann, is a historic poem as well as an + imaginative composition. + + It was the schooner _Hesperus_, + That sailed the wintry sea; + And the skipper had taken his little daughter, + To bear him company. + + Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, + Her cheeks like the dawn of day, + And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds + That ope in the month of May. + + The skipper he stood beside the helm, + His pipe was in his mouth, + And he watched how the veering flaw did blow + The smoke now west, now south. + + Then up and spake an old sailor, + Had sailed the Spanish Main, + "I pray thee put into yonder port, + For I fear a hurricane. + + "Last night the moon had a golden ring, + And to-night no moon we see!" + The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe, + And a scornful laugh laughed he. + + Colder and louder blew the wind, + A gale from the northeast, + The snow fell hissing in the brine, + And the billows frothed like yeast. + + Down came the storm, and smote amain + The vessel in its strength; + She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, + Then leaped her cable's length. + + "Come hither! come hither! my little daughter, + And do not tremble so; + For I can weather the roughest gale + That ever wind did blow." + + He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat + Against the stinging blast; + He cut a rope from a broken spar, + And bound her to the mast. + + "O father! I hear the church-bells ring, + O say, what may it be?" + "Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!"-- + And he steered for the open sea. + + "O father! I hear the sound of guns, + O say, what may it be?" + "Some ship in distress, that cannot live + In such an angry sea!" + + "O father! I see a gleaming light, + O say, what may it be?" + But the father answered never a word, + A frozen corpse was he. + + Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, + With his face turned to the skies, + The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow + On his fixed and glassy eyes. + + Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed + That savčd she might be; + And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave + On the Lake of Galilee. + + And fast through the midnight dark and drear, + Through the whistling sleet and snow, + Like a sheeted ghost the vessel swept + Toward the reef of Norman's Woe. + + And ever the fitful gusts between + A sound came from the land; + It was the sound of the trampling surf + On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. + + The breakers were right beneath her bows, + She drifted a dreary wreck, + And a whooping billow swept the crew + Like icicles from her deck. + + She struck where the white and fleecy waves + Looked soft as carded wool, + But the cruel rocks they gored her side + Like the horns of an angry bull. + + Her rattling shrouds all sheathed in ice, + With the masts went by the board; + Like a vessel of glass she stove and sank,-- + Ho! ho! the breakers roared! + + At daybreak on the bleak sea-beach + A fisherman stood aghast, + To see the form of a maiden fair + Lashed close to a drifting mast. + + The salt sea was frozen on her breast, + The salt tears in her eyes; + And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, + On the billows fall and rise. + + Such was the wreck of the _Hesperus_, + In the midnight and the snow! + Christ save us all from a death like this, + On the reef of Norman's Woe! + + HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. + + + BANNOCKBURN. + + ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY. + + You can look down on the battle-field of Bannockburn from Stirling + Castle, Scotland, near which stands a magnificent statue of Robert, the + Bruce. How often have I trodden over the old battle-field. The monument + of William Wallace, too, looms up on the Ochil Hills, not far away. + (1759-96.) + + Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, + Scots, wham Bruce has aften led; + Welcome to your gory bed, + Or to victorie. + + Now's the day, and now's the hour; + See the front o' battle lower; + See approach proud Edward's power-- + Chains and slaverie! + + Wha will be a traitor knave? + Wha can fill a coward's grave? + Wha sae base as be a slave? + Let him turn and flee! + + Wha for Scotland's King and law + Freedom's sword will strongly draw, + Freeman stand, or freeman fa'? + Let him follow me! + + By oppression's woes and pains! + By your sons in servile chains! + We will drain our dearest veins, + But they shall be free! + + Lay the proud usurpers low! + Tyrants fall in every foe! + Liberty's in every blow! + Let us do, or die! + + ROBERT BURNS. + + + + + PART IV. + + Lad and Lassie + + [Illustration] + + + THE INCHCAPE ROCK. + + The man is wrecked and his ship is sunken before he ever steps on board + or sees the water if his heart is hard and his estimate of human beings + low. "The Inchcape Rock" is a thrust at hard-heartedness. "What is the + use of life?" To bear one another's burdens, to develop a genius for + pulling people through hard places--that's the use of life. It is the + last resort of a mean mind to crack jokes that wreck innocent voyagers + on life's sea. (1774-1843.) + + No stir in the air, no stir in the sea, + The ship was still as she could be; + Her sails from heaven received no motion; + Her keel was steady in the ocean. + + Without either sign or sound of their shock, + The waves flowed over the Inchcape Rock; + So little they rose, so little they fell, + They did not move the Inchcape Bell. + + The Abbot of Aberbrothok + Had placed that Bell on the Inchcape Rock; + On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung, + And over the waves its warning rung. + + When the Rock was hid by the surge's swell, + The mariners heard the warning Bell; + And then they knew the perilous Rock, + And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok. + + The sun in heaven was shining gay; + All things were joyful on that day; + The sea-birds screamed as they wheeled round, + And there was joyance in their sound. + + The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen, + A dark spot on the ocean green; + Sir Ralph the Rover walked his deck, + And he fixed his eye on the darker speck. + + He felt the cheering power of spring; + It made him whistle, it made him sing: + His heart was mirthful to excess, + But the Rover's mirth was wickedness. + + His eye was on the Inchcape float. + Quoth he, "My men, put out the boat + And row me to the Inchcape Rock, + And I'll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok." + + The boat is lowered, the boatmen row, + And to the Inchcape Rock they go; + Sir Ralph bent over from the boat, + And he cut the Bell from the Inchcape float. + + Down sank the Bell with a gurgling sound; + The bubbles rose and burst around. + Quoth Sir Ralph, "The next who comes to the Rock + Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok." + + Sir Ralph the Rover sailed away; + He scoured the sea for many a day; + And now grown rich with plundered store, + He steers his course for Scotland's shore. + + So thick a haze o'erspread the sky, + They cannot see the sun on high: + The wind hath blown a gale all day, + At evening it hath died away. + + On the deck the Rover takes his stand; + So dark it is they see no land. + Quoth Sir Ralph, "It will be brighter soon, + For there is the dawn of the rising moon." + + "Canst hear," said one, "the broken roar? + For methinks we should be near the shore." + "Now where we are I cannot tell, + But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell." + + They hear no sound; the swell is strong; + Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along + Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock: + "O Christ! it is the Inchcape Rock!" + + Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair, + He curst himself in his despair: + The waves rush in on every side, + The ship is sinking beneath the tide. + + But, even in his dying fear, + One dreadful sound could the Rover hear,-- + A sound as if with the Inchcape Bell + The Devil below was ringing his knell. + + ROBERT SOUTHEY. + + + THE FINDING OF THE LYRE. + + Once a year my pupils teach me "The Finding of the Lyre." By the time I + have learned it they know the meaning of every line and have caught the + spirit of the verse. There is an ancient "lyre," or violin, made in + northern Africa, in the possession of a Boston lady, and I have found + the mud-turtle rattle among the Indians on the Indian reservation at + Syracuse, New York. They use it as a musical instrument in their + Thanksgiving dances. The poem helps to build an interest in history and + mythology while it develops a child's reverence and insight. (1819-91.) + + There lay upon the ocean's shore + What once a tortoise served to cover; + A year and more, with rush and roar, + The surf had rolled it over, + Had played with it, and flung it by, + As wind and weather might decide it, + Then tossed it high where sand-drifts dry + Cheap burial might provide it. + + It rested there to bleach or tan, + The rains had soaked, the sun had burned it; + With many a ban the fisherman + Had stumbled o'er and spurned it; + And there the fisher-girl would stay, + Conjecturing with her brother + How in their play the poor estray + Might serve some use or other. + + So there it lay, through wet and dry, + As empty as the last new sonnet, + Till by and by came Mercury, + And, having mused upon it, + "Why, here," cried he, "the thing of things + In shape, material, and dimension! + Give it but strings, and, lo, it sings, + A wonderful invention!" + + So said, so done; the chords he strained, + And, as his fingers o'er them hovered, + The shell disdained a soul had gained, + The lyre had been discovered. + O empty world that round us lies, + Dead shell, of soul and thought forsaken, + Brought we but eyes like Mercury's, + In thee what songs should waken! + + JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. + + + A CHRYSALIS. + +"A Chrysalis" is a favourite poem with John Burroughs, and is found, + too, in Stedman's collection. We all come to a point in life where we + need to burst the shell and fly away into the new realm. (1835-98.) + + My little Mädchen found one day + A curious something in her play, + That was not fruit, nor flower, nor seed; + It was not anything that grew, + Or crept, or climbed, or swam, or flew; + Had neither legs nor wings, indeed; + And yet she was not sure, she said, + Whether it was alive or dead. + + She brought it in her tiny hand + To see if I would understand, + And wondered when I made reply, + "You've found a baby butterfly." + "A butterfly is not like this," + With doubtful look she answered me. + So then I told her what would be + Some day within the chrysalis: + How, slowly, in the dull brown thing + Now still as death, a spotted wing, + And then another, would unfold, + Till from the empty shell would fly + A pretty creature, by and by, + All radiant in blue and gold. + + "And will it, truly?" questioned she-- + Her laughing lips and eager eyes + All in a sparkle of surprise-- + "And shall your little Mädchen see?" + "She shall!" I said. How could I tell + That ere the worm within its shell + Its gauzy, splendid wings had spread, + My little Mädchen would be dead? + + To-day the butterfly has flown,-- + She was not here to see it fly,-- + And sorrowing I wonder why + The empty shell is mine alone. + Perhaps the secret lies in this: + I too had found a chrysalis, + And Death that robbed me of delight + Was but the radiant creature's flight! + + MARY EMILY BRADLEY. + + + FOR A' THAT. + + Robert Burns, the plowman and poet, "dinnered wi' a lord." The story + goes that he was put at the second table. That lord is dead, but Robert + Burns still lives. He is immortal. It is "the survival of the fittest" +"For a' That and a' That" is a poem that wipes out the superficial + value put on money and other externalities. This poem is more valuable + in education than good penmanship or good spelling. (1759-96.) + + Is there, for honest poverty, + That hangs his head, and a' that? + The coward slave, we pass him by, + We dare be poor for a' that; + For a' that, and a' that, + Our toils obscure, and a' that; + The rank is but the guinea's stamp, + The man's the gowd for a' that! + + What though on hamely fare we dine, + Wear hoddin-gray,[1] and a' that; + Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, + A man's a man for a' that! + For a' that, and a' that, + Their tinsel show, and a' that; + The honest man, though e'er sae poor, + Is king o' men for a' that! + + Ye see yon birkie[2] ca'd a lord, + Wha struts, and stares, and a' that; + Though hundreds worship at his word, + He's but a coof[3] for a' that; + For a' that, and a' that, + His riband, star, and a' that, + The man of independent mind, + He looks and laughs at a' that. + + A prince can make a belted knight, + A marquis, duke, and a' that; + But an honest man's aboon his might. + Guid faith he maunna fa' that! + For a' that, and a' that, + Their dignities, and a' that, + The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, + Are higher rank than a' that. + + Then let us pray that come it may-- + As come it will for a' that-- + That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, + May bear the gree, and a' that; + For a' that, and a' that, + It's coming yet for a' that, + That man to man, the warld o'er, + Shall brothers be for a' that! + + FOOTNOTES: + + [1] Coarse woolen clothes. + + [2] Impudent fellow. + + [3] Fool: blockhead. + + ROBERT BURNS. + + + A NEW ARRIVAL. + +"The New Arrival" is a valuable poem because it expresses the joy of a + young father over his new baby. If girls should be educated to be good + mothers, so should boys be taught that fatherhood is the highest and + holiest joy and right of man. The child is educator to the man. He + teaches him how to take responsibility, how to give unbiased judgments, + and how to be fatherly like "Our Father who is in Heaven." (1844-.) + + There came to port last Sunday night + The queerest little craft, + Without an inch of rigging on; + I looked and looked and laughed. + It seemed so curious that she + Should cross the Unknown water, + And moor herself right in my room, + My daughter, O my daughter! + + Yet by these presents witness all + She's welcome fifty times, + And comes consigned to Hope and Love + And common-meter rhymes. + She has no manifest but this, + No flag floats o'er the water, + She's too new for the British Lloyds-- + My daughter, O my daughter! + + Ring out, wild bells, and tame ones too! + Ring out the lover's moon! + Ring in the little worsted socks! + Ring in the bib and spoon! + Ring out the muse! ring in the nurse! + Ring in the milk and water! + Away with paper, pen, and ink-- + My daughter, O my daughter! + + GEORGE W. CABLE. + + + THE BROOK. + + Tennyson's "The Brook" is included out of love to a dear old schoolmate + in Colorado. The real brook, near Cambridge, England, is tame compared + to your Colorado streams, O beloved comrade. This poem is well liked by + the majority of pupils. (1809-92.) + + I chatter, chatter, as I flow + To join the brimming river; + For men may come and men may go, + But I go on forever. + + I wind about, and in and out, + With here a blossom sailing, + And here and there a lusty trout, + And here and there a grayling. + + I steal by lawns and grassy plots, + I slide by hazel covers; + I move the sweet forget-me-nots + That grow for happy lovers. + + I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, + Among my skimming swallows; + I make the netted sunbeams dance + Against my sandy shallows. + + I murmur under moon and stars + In brambly wildernesses; + I linger by my shingly bars; + I loiter round my cresses. + + And out again I curve and flow + To join the brimming river; + For men may come and men may go, + But I go on forever. + + ALFRED TENNYSON. + + + THE BALLAD OF THE "CLAMPHERDOWN." + +"The Ballad of the _Clampherdown_," by Rudyard Kipling, is included + because my boys always like it. It needs a great deal of explanation, + and few boys will hold out to the end in learning it. But "it pays." + (1865-.) + + It was our war-ship _Clampherdown_ + Would sweep the Channel clean, + Wherefore she kept her hatches close + When the merry Channel chops arose, + To save the bleached marine. + + She had one bow-gun of a hundred ton, + And a great stern-gun beside; + They dipped their noses deep in the sea, + They racked their stays and stanchions free + In the wash of the wind-whipped tide. + + It was our war-ship _Clampherdown_, + Fell in with a cruiser light + That carried the dainty Hotchkiss gun + And a pair o' heels wherewith to run, + From the grip of a close-fought fight. + + She opened fire at seven miles-- + As ye shoot at a bobbing cork-- + And once she fired and twice she fired, + Till the bow-gun drooped like a lily tired + That lolls upon the stalk. + + "Captain, the bow-gun melts apace, + The deck-beams break below, + 'Twere well to rest for an hour or twain, + And botch the shattered plates again." + And he answered, "Make it so." + + She opened fire within the mile-- + As ye shoot at the flying duck-- + And the great stern-gun shot fair and true, + With the heave of the ship, to the stainless blue, + And the great stern-turret stuck. + + "Captain, the turret fills with steam, + The feed-pipes burst below-- + You can hear the hiss of helpless ram, + You can hear the twisted runners jam." + And he answered, "Turn and go!" + + It was our war-ship _Clampherdown_, + And grimly did she roll; + Swung round to take the cruiser's fire + As the White Whale faces the Thresher's ire, + When they war by the frozen Pole. + + "Captain, the shells are falling fast, + And faster still fall we; + And it is not meet for English stock, + To bide in the heart of an eight-day clock, + The death they cannot see." + + "Lie down, lie down, my bold A.B., + We drift upon her beam; + We dare not ram, for she can run; + And dare ye fire another gun, + And die in the peeling steam?" + + It was our war-ship _Clampherdown_ + That carried an armour-belt; + But fifty feet at stern and bow, + Lay bare as the paunch of the purser's sow, + To the hail of the Nordenfeldt. + + "Captain, they lack us through and through; + The chilled steel bolts are swift! + We have emptied the bunkers in open sea, + Their shrapnel bursts where our coal should be." + And he answered, "Let her drift." + + It was our war-ship _Clampherdown_, + Swung round upon the tide. + Her two dumb guns glared south and north, + And the blood and the bubbling steam ran forth, + And she ground the cruiser's side. + + "Captain, they cry the fight is done, + They bid you send your sword." + And he answered, "Grapple her stern and bow. + They have asked for the steel. They shall have it now; + Out cutlasses and board!" + + It was our war-ship _Clampherdown_, + Spewed up four hundred men; + And the scalded stokers yelped delight, + As they rolled in the waist and heard the fight, + Stamp o'er their steel-walled pen. + + They cleared the cruiser end to end, + From conning-tower to hold. + They fought as they fought in Nelson's fleet; + They were stripped to the waist, they were bare to the feet, + As it was in the days of old. + + It was the sinking _Clampherdown_ + Heaved up her battered side-- + And carried a million pounds in steel, + To the cod and the corpse-fed conger-eel, + And the scour of the Channel tide. + + It was the crew of the _Clampherdown_ + Stood out to sweep the sea, + On a cruiser won from an ancient foe, + As it was in the days of long-ago, + And as it still shall be. + + RUDYARD KIPLING. + + + THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. + +"The Destruction of Sennacherib," by Lord Byron, finds a place in this + collection because Johnnie, a ten-year-old, and many of his friends + say, "It's great." (1788-1824.) + + The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold, + And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; + And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, + When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. + + Like the leaves of the forest when the Summer is green, + That host with their banners at sunset were seen: + Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, + That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. + + For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, + And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; + And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, + And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still! + + And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, + But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride; + And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, + And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. + + And there lay the rider distorted and pale, + With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail, + And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, + The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. + + And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, + And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; + And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, + Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord! + + LORD BYRON. + + + I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. + + I remember, I remember + The house where I was born, + The little window where the sun + Came peeping in at morn; + He never came a wink too soon + Nor brought too long a day; + But now, I often wish the night + Had borne my breath away. + + I remember, I remember + The roses, red and white, + The violets, and the lily-cups-- + Those flowers made of light! + The lilacs where the robin built, + And where my brother set + The laburnum on his birthday,-- + The tree is living yet! + + I remember, I remember + Where I was used to swing, + And thought the air must rush as fresh + To swallows on the wing; + My spirit flew in feathers then + That is so heavy now, + And summer pools could hardly cool + The fever on my brow. + + I remember, I remember + The fir trees dark and high; + I used to think their slender tops + Were close against the sky: + It was a childish ignorance, + But now 'tis little joy + To know I'm farther off from Heaven + Than when I was a boy. + + THOMAS HOOD. + + + DRIVING HOME THE COWS. + + Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass + He turned them into the river lane; + One after another he let them pass, + Then fastened the meadow bars again. + + Under the willows and over the hill, + He patiently followed their sober pace; + The merry whistle for once was still, + And something shadowed the sunny face. + + Only a boy! and his father had said + He never could let his youngest go: + Two already were lying dead, + Under the feet of the trampling foe. + + But after the evening work was done, + And the frogs were loud in the meadow-swamp, + Over his shoulder he slung his gun, + And stealthily followed the footpath damp. + + Across the clover, and through the wheat, + With resolute heart and purpose grim: + Though the dew was on his hurrying feet, + And the blind bat's flitting startled him. + + Thrice since then had the lanes been white, + And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom; + And now, when the cows came back at night, + The feeble father drove them home. + + For news had come to the lonely farm + That three were lying where two had lain; + And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm + Could never lean on a son's again. + + The summer day grew cool and late: + He went for the cows when the work was done; + But down the lane, as he opened the gate, + He saw them coming one by one: + + Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, + Shaking their horns in the evening wind; + Cropping the buttercups out of the grass, + But who was it following close behind? + + Loosely swung in the idle air + The empty sleeve of army blue; + And worn and pale, from the crisping hair, + Looked out a face that the father knew. + + For close-barred prisons will sometimes yawn, + And yield their dead unto life again; + And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn, + In golden glory at last may wane. + + The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes; + For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb, + And under the silent evening skies + Together they followed the cattle home. + + KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD. + + + KRINKEN. + +"Krinken" is the dearest of poems. + + "Krinken was a little child. + It was summer when he smiled!" + + Eugene Field, above all other poets, paid the finest tribute to + children. This poet only, could make the whole ocean warm because a + child's heart was there to warm it. + + Krinken was a little child,-- + It was summer when he smiled. + Oft the hoary sea and grim + Stretched its white arms out to him, + Calling, "Sun-child, come to me; + Let me warm my heart with thee!" + But the child heard not the sea + Calling, yearning evermore + For the summer on the shore. + + Krinken on the beach one day + Saw a maiden Nis at play; + On the pebbly beach she played + In the summer Krinken made. + Fair, and very fair, was she, + Just a little child was he. + "Krinken," said the maiden Nis, + "Let me have a little kiss,-- + Just a kiss, and go with me + To the summer-lands that be + Down within the silver sea." + + Krinken was a little child-- + By the maiden Nis beguiled, + Hand in hand with her went he + And 'twas summer in the sea. + And the hoary sea and grim + To its bosom folded him-- + Clasped and kissed the little form, + And the ocean's heart was warm. + + Now the sea calls out no more; + It is winter on the shore,-- + Winter where that little child + Made sweet summer when he smiled; + Though 'tis summer on the sea + Where with maiden Nis went he,-- + It is winter on the shore, + Winter, winter evermore. + + Of the summer on the deep + Come sweet visions in my sleep; + _His_ fair face lifts from the sea, + _His_ dear voice calls out to me,-- + These my dreams of summer be. + + Krinken was a little child, + By the maiden Nis beguiled; + Oft the hoary sea and grim + Reached its longing arms to him, + Crying, "Sim-child, come to me; + Let me warm my heart with thee!" + But the sea calls out no more; + It is winter on the shore,-- + Winter, cold and dark and wild. + + Krinken was a little child,-- + It was summer when he smiled; + Down he went into the sea, + And the winter bides with me, + Just a little child was he. + + EUGENE FIELD. + + + STEVENSON'S BIRTHDAY. + + "How I should like a birthday!" said the child, + "I have so few, and they so far apart." + She spoke to Stevenson--the Master smiled-- + "Mine is to-day; I would with all my heart + That it were yours; too many years have I! + Too swift they come, and all too swiftly fly" + + So by a formal deed he there conveyed + All right and title in his natal day, + To have and hold, to sell or give away,-- + Then signed, and gave it to the little maid. + + Joyful, yet fearing to believe too much, + She took the deed, but scarcely dared unfold. + Ah, liberal Genius! at whose potent touch + All common things shine with transmuted gold! + A day of Stevenson's will prove to be + Not part of Time, but Immortality. + + KATHERINE MILLER. + + + A MODEST WIT. + + I learned "A Modest Wit" as a reading-lesson when I was a child. It has + clung to me and so I cling to it. It is just as good as it ever was. It + is a sharp thrust at power that depends on externalities. Selleck + Osborne. (----.) + + A supercilious nabob of the East-- + Haughty, being great--purse-proud, being rich-- + A governor, or general, at the least, + I have forgotten which-- + Had in his family a humble youth, + Who went from England in his patron's suit, + An unassuming boy, in truth + A lad of decent parts, and good repute. + + This youth had sense and spirit; + But yet with all his sense, + Excessive diffidence + Obscured his merit. + + One day, at table, flushed with pride and wine, + His honour, proudly free, severely merry, + Conceived it would be vastly fine + To crack a joke upon his secretary. + + "Young man," he said, "by what art, craft, or trade, + Did your good father gain a livelihood?"-- + "He was a saddler, sir," Modestus said, + "And in his time was reckon'd good." + + "A saddler, eh! and taught you Greek, + Instead of teaching you to sew! + Pray, why did not your father make + A saddler, sir, of you?" + + Each parasite, then, as in duty bound, + The joke applauded, and the laugh went round. + At length Modestus, bowing low, + Said (craving pardon, if too free he made), + "Sir, by your leave, I fain would know + Your father's trade!" + + "My father's trade! by heaven, that's too bad! + My father's trade? Why, blockhead, are you mad? + My father, sir, did never stoop so low-- + He was a gentleman, I'd have you know." + + "Excuse the liberty I take," + Modestus said, with archness on his brow, + "Pray, why did not your father make + A gentleman of you?" + + SELLECK OSBORNE. + + + THE LEGEND OF BISHOP HATTO. + +"The Legend of Bishop Hatto" is doubtless a myth (Robert Southey, + 1774-1843). But "The Mouse-Tower on the Rhine" is an object of interest + to travellers, and the story has a point + + The summer and autumn had been so wet, + That in winter the corn was growing yet: + 'Twas a piteous sight to see, all around, + The grain lie rotting on the ground. + + Every day the starving poor + Crowded around Bishop Hatto's door; + For he had a plentiful last-year's store, + And all the neighbourhood could tell + His granaries were furnished well. + + At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day + To quiet the poor without delay: + He bade them to his great barn repair, + And they should have food for winter there. + + Rejoiced such tidings good to hear, + The poor folk flocked from far and near; + The great barn was full as it could hold + Of women and children, and young and old. + + Then, when he saw it could hold no more, + Bishop Hatto, he made fast the door; + And while for mercy on Christ they call, + He set fire to the barn and burned them all. + + "I' faith, 'tis an excellent bonfire!" quoth he; + "And the country is greatly obliged to me + For ridding it in these times forlorn + Of Rats that only consume the corn." + + So then to his palace returnčd he, + And he sat down to supper merrily, + And he slept that night like an innocent man; + But Bishop Hatto never slept again. + + In the morning as he entered the hall, + Where his picture hung against the wall, + A sweat-like death all over him came; + For the Rats had eaten it out of the frame. + + As he looked, there came a man from his farm; + He had a countenance white with alarm: + "My Lord, I opened your granaries this morn, + And the Rats had eaten all your corn." + + Another came running presently, + And he was pale as pale could be: + "Fly, my Lord Bishop, fly!" quoth he, + "Ten thousand Rats are coming this way; + The Lord forgive you yesterday!" + + "I'll go to my town on the Rhine," replied he; + "'Tis the safest place in Germany; + The walls are high, and the shores are steep, + And the stream is strong, and the water deep." + + Bishop Hatto fearfully hastened away, + And he crossed the Rhine without delay, + And reached his tower, and barred with care + All windows, doors, and loop-holes there. + + He laid him down, and closed his eyes; + But soon a scream made him arise: + He started and saw two eyes of flame + On his pillow, from whence the screaming came. + + He listened and looked; it was only the cat: + But the Bishop he grew more fearful for that; + For she sat screaming, mad with fear + At the army of Rats that was drawing near. + + For they have swum over the river so deep, + And they have climbed the shore so steep; + And up the tower their way is bent, + To do the work for which they were sent. + + They are not to be told by the dozen or score; + By thousands they come, and by myriads and more; + Such numbers had never been heard of before, + Such a judgment had never been witnessed of yore. + + Down on his knees the Bishop fell, + And faster and faster his beads did tell, + As, louder and louder drawing near, + The gnawing of their teeth he could hear. + + And in at the windows and in at the door, + And through the walls, helter-skelter they pour, + And down from the ceiling and up through the floor, + From the right and the left, from behind and before, + And all at once to the Bishop they go. + + They have whetted their teeth against the stones; + And now they pick the Bishop's bones: + They gnawed the flesh from every limb; + For they were sent to do judgment on him! + + ROBERT SOUTHEY. + + + COLUMBUS. + + We are greatly indebted to Joaquin Miller for his "Sail On! Sail On!" + Endurance is the watchword of the poem and the watchword of our + republic. Every man to his gun! Columbus discovered America in his own + mind before he realised it or proved its existence. I have often drawn + a chart of Columbus's life and voyages to show what need he had of the + motto "Sail On!" to accomplish his end. This is one of our greatest + American poems. The writer still lives in California. + + Behind him lay the gray Azores, + Behind the gates of Hercules; + Before him not the ghost of shores, + Before him only shoreless seas. + The good mate said: "Now must we pray, + For lo! the very stars are gone; + Speak, Admiral, what shall I say?" + "Why say, sail on! and on!" + + "My men grow mut'nous day by day; + My men grow ghastly wan and weak." + The stout mate thought of home; a spray + Of salt wave wash'd his swarthy cheek. + "What shall I say, brave Admiral, + If we sight naught but seas at dawn?" + "Why, you shall say, at break of day: + 'Sail on! sail on! and on!'" + + They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow, + Until at last the blanch'd mate said; + "Why, now, not even God would know + Should I and all my men fall dead. + These very winds forget their way, + For God from these dread seas is gone. + Now speak, brave Admiral, and say----" + He said: "Sail on! and on!" + + They sailed, they sailed, then spoke his mate: + "This mad sea shows his teeth to-night, + He curls his lip, he lies in wait, + With lifted teeth as if to bite! + Brave Admiral, say but one word; + What shall we do when hope is gone?" + The words leaped as a leaping sword: + "Sail on! sail on! and on!" + + Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck, + And thro' the darkness peered that night. + Ah, darkest night! and then a speck,-- + A light! a light! a light! a light! + It grew--a star-lit flag unfurled! + It grew to be Time's burst of dawn; + He gained a world! he gave that world + Its watch-word: "On! and on!" + + JOAQUIN MILLER. + + + THE SHEPHERD OF KING ADMETUS. + + Once a year the children learn "The Shepherd of King Admetus," which is + one of the finest poems ever written as showing the possible growth of + real history into mythology, the tendency of mankind to deify what is + fine or sublime in human action. Not every child will learn this entire + poem, because it is too long. But every child will learn the best lines + in it while the children are teaching it to me and when I take my turn + in teaching it to them. No child fails to catch the spirit and intent + of the poem and to become entirely familiar with it. (1819-91.) + + There came a youth upon the earth, + Some thousand years ago, + Whose slender hands were nothing worth, + Whether to plow, or reap, or sow. + + Upon an empty tortoise-shell + He stretched some chords, and drew + Music that made men's bosoms swell + Fearless, or brimmed their eyes with dew. + + Then King Admetus, one who had + Pure taste by right divine, + Decreed his singing not too bad + To hear between the cups of wine: + + And so, well pleased with being soothed + Into a sweet half-sleep, + Three times his kingly beard he smoothed, + And made him viceroy o'er his sheep. + + His words were simple words enough, + And yet he used them so, + That what in other mouths was rough + In his seemed musical and low. + + Men called him but a shiftless youth, + In whom no good they saw; + And yet, unwittingly, in truth, + They made his careless words their law. + + They knew not how he learned at all, + For idly, hour by hour, + He sat and watched the dead leaves fall, + Or mused upon a common flower. + + It seemed the loveliness of things + Did teach him all their use, + For, in mere weeds, and stones, and springs, + He found a healing power profuse. + + Men granted that his speech was wise, + But, when a glance they caught + Of his slim grace and woman's eyes, + They laughed, and called him good-for-naught. + + Yet after he was dead and gone, + And e'en his memory dim, + Earth seemed more sweet to live upon, + More full of love, because of him. + + And day by day more holy grew + Each spot where he had trod, + Till after-poets only knew + Their first-born brother as a god. + + JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. + + + HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX. + + I have an old essay written by a lad of fourteen years on "How They + Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix." I should judge from this + essay that any boy at that age would like the poem, even if he had not + himself been over the ground as this boy had. (1812-89.) + + I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he; + I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three; + "Good speed!" cried the watch as the gate-bolts undrew; + "Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through; + Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, + And into the midnight we galloped abreast. + + Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace + Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place; + I turned in my saddle and made its girth tight, + Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, + Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, + Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. + + 'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near + Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear; + At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see; + At Düffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be; + And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime, + So Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is time!" + + At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, + And against him the cattle stood black every one, + To stare through the mist at us galloping past, + And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last, + With resolute shoulders, each butting away + The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray: + + And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back + For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; + And one eye's black intelligence,--ever that glance + O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance! + And the thick, heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon + His fierce lips shook upward in galloping on. + + By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur! + Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her, + We'll remember at Aix"--for one heard the quick wheeze + Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees, + And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, + As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. + + So, we were left galloping, Joris and I, + Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky; + The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, + 'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; + Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, + And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!" + + "How they'll greet us!"--and all in a moment his roan + Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; + And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight + Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate, + With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, + And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. + + Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall, + Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, + Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, + Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer; + Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, + Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. + + And all I remember is--friends flocking round + As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground; + And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, + As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, + Which (the burgesses voting by common consent) + Was no more than his due who brought the good news from Ghent. + + ROBERT BROWNING. + + + THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA. + +"The Burial of Sir John Moore" was one of my reading-lessons when I was + a child. A distinguished teacher says: "It has become a part of popular + education," as has also "The Eve of Waterloo" and "The Death of + Napoleon." They are all poems of great rhythmical swing, intense and + graphic. (1791-1823.) + + Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, + As his corse to the rampart we hurried; + Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot + O'er the grave where our hero we buried. + + We buried him darkly at dead of night, + The sods with our bayonets turning; + By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, + And the lantern dimly burning. + + No useless coffin enclosed his breast, + Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; + But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, + With his martial cloak around him. + + Few and short were the prayers we said, + And we spoke not a word of sorrow; + But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, + And we bitterly thought of the morrow. + + We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, + And smoothed down his lonely pillow, + That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, + And we far away on the billow! + + Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, + And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,-- + But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on + In the grave where a Briton has laid him. + + But half of our heavy task was done + When the clock struck the hour for retiring; + And we heard the distant and random gun + That the foe was sullenly firing. + + Slowly and sadly we laid him down, + From the field of his fame fresh and gory; + We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone-- + But we left him alone with his glory! + + C. WOLFE. + + + THE EVE OF WATERLOO. + +"The Eve of Waterloo," by Lord Byron (1788-1824). Here is another old + reading-book gem that will always be dear to every boy's heart if he + only reads it a few times. + + There was a sound of revelry by night, + And Belgium's capital had gathered then + Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright + The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men. + A thousand hearts beat happily; and when + Music arose with its voluptuous swell, + Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, + And all went merry as a marriage-bell: + But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell! + + Did ye not hear it? No; 'twas but the wind, + Or the car rattling o'er the stony street. + On with the dance! let joy be unconfined! + No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet + To chase the glowing hours with flying feet! + But hark!--that heavy sound breaks in once more, + As if the clouds its echo would repeat; + And nearer, clearer, deadlier, than before! + Arm! arm! it is--it is the cannon's opening roar! + + Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, + And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress + And cheeks all pale, which, but an hour ago, + Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; + And there were sudden partings, such as press + The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs + Which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess + If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, + Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise? + + And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, + The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, + Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, + And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; + And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; + And near, the beat of the alarming drum + Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; + While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, + Or whispering with white lips, "The foe! They come! They come!" + + And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, + Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pass, + Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, + Over the unreturning brave--alas! + Ere evening to be trodden like the grass + Which, now beneath them, but above shall grow + In its next verdure, when this fiery mass + Of living valour, rolling on the foe, + And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low. + + Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, + Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay; + The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, + The morn the marshalling in arms,--the day, + Battle's magnificently stern array! + The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which, when rent, + The earth is covered thick with other clay, + Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, + Rider, and horse--friend, foe--in one red burial blent! + + LORD BYRON. + + + IVRY. + + A SONG OF THE HUGUENOTS. + + Laddie, aged eleven, do you remember how you studied and recited "King + Henry of Navarre" every poetry hour for a year? It was a long poem, but + you stuck to it to the end. We did not know the meaning of a certain + word, but I found it up in Switzerland. It is the name of a little + town. (1800-59.) + + Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are! + And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre! + + Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, + Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, O pleasant + land of France! + And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, + Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters. + As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, + For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy. + Hurrah! Hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war, + Hurrah! Hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre. + + Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, + We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array; + With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, + And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears. + There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land; + And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand; + And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood, + And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood; + And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war, + To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre. + + The King is come to marshal us, in all his armour drest, + And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest. + He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; + He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. + Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, + Down all our line, a deafening shout, "God save our Lord the King!" + "And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may, + For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray, + Press where ye see my white plume shine, amid the ranks of war, + And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre." + + Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din + Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin. + The fiery Duke is pricking fast across St. André's plain, + With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. + Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, + Charge for the golden lilies,--upon them with the lance. + A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, + A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest; + And in they burst, and on they rushed, while like a guiding star, + Amid the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre. + + Now, God be praised, the day is ours. Mayenne hath turned his rein. + D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish count is slain. + Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale; + The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail. + And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van, + "Remember St. Bartholomew!" was passed from man to man. + But out spake gentle Henry, "No Frenchman is my foe: + Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go." + Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, + As our Sovereign Lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre? + + Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France to-day; + And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey. + But we of the Religion have borne us best in fight; + And the good lord of Rosny has ta'en the cornet white. + Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en, + The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false Lorraine. + Up with it high; unfurl it wide; that all the host may know + How God hath humbled the proud house which wrought His church such woe. + Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest points of war, + Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henry of Navarre. + + Ho! maidens of Vienna; Ho! matrons of Lucerne; + Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return. + Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, + That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearman's souls. + Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright; + Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night. + For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave, + And mocked the counsel of the wise, the valour of the brave. + Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are; + And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre. + + THOMAS B. MACAULAY. + + + THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS. + +"The Glove and the Lions" was one of my early reading-lessons. It is an + incisive thrust at the vanity of "fair" women. A woman be a "true + knight" as well as a man. Leigh Hunt (1784-1859.) + + King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport, + And one day as his lions fought, sat looking on the court; + The nobles filled the benches, with the ladies in their pride, + And 'mong them sat the Count de Lorge with one for whom he sighed: + And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show, + Valour, and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below. + + Ramp'd and roar'd the lions, with horrid laughing jaws; + They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind + went with their paws; + With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled on one another, + Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a thunderous smother; + The bloody foam above the bars came whisking through the air; + Said Francis then, "Faith, gentlemen, we're better here than there." + + De Lorge's love o'erheard the King,--a beauteous lively dame + With smiling lips and sharp, bright eyes, which always seem'd the same: + She thought, "The Count, my lover, is brave as brave can be; + He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me; + King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine; + I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be mine." + + She dropped her glove, to prove his love, then look'd + at him and smiled; + He bowed, and in a moment leapt among the lions wild: + His leap was quick, return was quick, he has regain'd his place, + Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face. + "Well done!" cried Francis, "bravely done!" and he rose + from where he sat: + "No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that." + + LEIGH HUNT. + + + THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE. + + I found the Well of St. Keyne in Cornwall, England--not the poem, but + the real well. The poem is of the great body of world-lore. Southey + (1774-1843). + + A well there is in the west country, + And a clearer one never was seen; + There is not a wife in the west-country + But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne. + + An oak and an elm tree stand beside, + And behind does an ash tree grow, + And a willow from the bank above + Droops to the water below. + + A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne: + Pleasant it was to his eye, + For from cock-crow he had been travelling + And there was not a cloud in the sky. + + He drank of the water so cool and clear, + For thirsty and hot was he, + And he sat down upon the bank, + Under the willow tree. + + There came a man from the neighbouring town + At the well to fill his pail; + On the well-side he rested it, + And bade the stranger hail. + + "Now, art thou a bachelor, stranger?" quoth he, + "For an if thou hast a wife, + The happiest draught thou hast drunk this day + That ever thou didst in thy life. + + "Or has your good woman, if one you have, + In Cornwall ever been? + For an if she have, I'll venture my life + She has drunk of the Well of St. Keyne." + + "I have left a good woman who never was here," + The stranger he made reply; + "But that my draught should be better for that, + I pray you answer me why," + + "St. Keyne," quoth the countryman, "many a time + Drank of this crystal well, + And before the angel summoned her + She laid on the water a spell. + + "If the husband of this gifted well + Shall drink before his wife, + A happy man thenceforth is he, + For he shall be master for life. + + "But if the wife should drink of it first, + God help the husband then!" + The stranger stoop'd to the Well of St. Keyne, + And drank of the waters again. + + "You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes?" + He to the countryman said; + But the countryman smiled as the stranger spake, + And sheepishly shook his head. + + "I hastened as soon as the wedding was done, + And left my wife in the porch, + But i' faith she had been wiser than me, + For she took a bottle to church," + + ROBERT SOUTHEY. + + + THE NAUTILUS AND THE AMMONITE. + +"The Nautilus and the Ammonite" finds a place here out of respect to a + twelve-year-old girl who recited it at one of our poetry hours years + ago. It made a profound impression on the fifty pupils assembled, I + never read it without feeling that it stands test. Anonymous. + + The nautilus and the ammonite + Were launched in friendly strife, + Each sent to float in its tiny boat + On the wide, wide sea of life. + + For each could swim on the ocean's brim, + And, when wearied, its sail could furl, + And sink to sleep in the great sea-deep, + In its palace all of pearl. + + And theirs was a bliss more fair than this + Which we taste in our colder clime; + For they were rife in a tropic life-- + A brighter and better clime. + + They swam 'mid isles whose summer smiles + Were dimmed by no alloy; + Whose groves were palm, whose air was balm, + And life one only joy. + + They sailed all day through creek and bay, + And traversed the ocean deep; + And at night they sank on a coral bank, + In its fairy bowers to sleep. + + And the monsters vast of ages past + They beheld in their ocean caves; + They saw them ride in their power and pride, + And sink in their deep-sea graves. + + And hand in hand, from strand to strand, + They sailed in mirth and glee; + These fairy shells, with their crystal cells, + Twin sisters of the sea. + + And they came at last to a sea long past, + But as they reached its shore, + The Almighty's breath spoke out in death, + And the ammonite was no more. + + So the nautilus now in its shelly prow, + As over the deep it strays, + Still seems to seek, in bay and creek, + Its companion of other days. + + And alike do we, on life's stormy sea, + As we roam from shore to shore, + Thus tempest-tossed, seek the loved, the lost, + And find them on earth no more. + + Yet the hope how sweet, again to meet, + As we look to a distant strand, + Where heart meets heart, and no more they part + Who meet in that better land. + + ANONYMOUS. + + + THE SOLITUDE OF ALEXANDER SELKIRK. + + I am monarch of all I survey, + My right there is none to dispute, + From the center all round to the sea, + I am lord of the fowl and the brute. + O Solitude! where are the charms + That sages have seen in thy face? + Better dwell in the midst of alarms + Than reign in this horrible place. + + I am out of humanity's reach, + I must finish my journey alone, + Never hear the sweet music of speech,-- + I start at the sound of my own. + The beasts that roam over the plain + My form with indifference see; + They are so unacquainted with man, + Their tameness is shocking to me. + + Society, Friendship, and Love, + Divinely bestow'd upon man, + Oh, had I the wings of a dove, + How soon would I taste you again! + My sorrows I then might assuage + In the ways of religion and truth, + Might learn from the wisdom of age, + And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth. + + Ye winds that have made me your sport, + Convey to this desolate shore + Some cordial endearing report + Of a land I shall visit no more! + + My friends--do they now and then send + A wish or a thought after me? + Oh, tell me I yet have a friend, + Though a friend I am never to see. + + How fleet is a glance of the mind! + Compared with the speed of its flight, + The tempest itself lags behind, + And the swift-wingčd arrows of light. + When I think of my own native land, + In a moment I seem to be there; + But alas! recollection at hand + Soon hurries me back to despair. + + But the seafowl is gone to her nest, + The beast is laid down in his lair, + Even here is a season of rest, + And I to my cabin repair. + There's mercy in every place, + And mercy, encouraging thought! + Gives even affliction a grace, + And reconciles man to his lot. + + WILLIAM COWPER. + + + THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. + + I wonder if the English people appreciate "The Homes of England." It is + a stately poem worthy of a Goethe or a Shakespeare. England is + distinctively a country of homes, pretty, little, humble homes as well + as stately palaces and castles, homes well made of stone or brick for + the most part, and clad with ivy and roses. Who would not be proud to + have had such a home as Ann Hathaway's humble cottage or one of the + little huts in the Lake District? The homes of America are often more + palatial, especially in small cities, but the use of wood in America + makes them less substantial than the slate-and-brick houses of England. + (1749-1835.) + + The stately homes of England! + How beautiful they stand, + Amidst their tall ancestral trees, + O'er all the pleasant land! + The deer across their greensward bound + Through shade and sunny gleam, + And the swan glides past them with the sound + Of some rejoicing stream. + + The merry homes of England! + Around their hearths by night + What gladsome looks of household love + Meet in the ruddy light! + There woman's voice flows forth in song, + Or childish tale is told, + Or lips move tunefully along + Some glorious page of old. + + The blessčd homes of England! + How softly on their bowers + Is laid the holy quietness + That breathes from Sabbath hours! + Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime + Floats through their woods at morn; + All other sounds, in that still time, + Of breeze and leaf are born. + + The cottage homes of England! + By thousands on her plains, + They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, + And round the hamlets' fanes. + Through glowing orchards forth they peep, + Each from its nook of leaves; + And fearless there the lowly sleep, + As the bird beneath their eaves. + + The free, fair homes of England! + Long, long, in hut and hall + May hearts of native proof be reared + To guard each hallowed wall! + And green forever be the groves, + And bright the flowery sod, + Where first the child's glad spirit loves + Its country and its God! + + FELICIA HEMANS. + + + HORATIUS AT THE BRIDGE. + +"Horatius at the Bridge" is too long a poem for children to memorise. + But I never saw a boy who did not want some stanzas of it. "Hold the + bridge with me!" Boys like that motto instinctively. T.B. Macaulay + (1800-59). + + Lars Porsena of Clusium, + By the Nine Gods he swore + That the great house of Tarquin + Should suffer wrong no more. + By the Nine Gods he swore it, + And named a trysting-day, + And bade his messengers ride forth, + East and west and south and north, + To summon his array. + + East and west and south and north + The messengers ride fast, + And tower and town and cottage + Have heard the trumpet's blast. + Shame on the false Etruscan + Who lingers in his home + When Porsena of Clusium + Is on the march for Rome! + + The horsemen and the footmen + Are pouring in amain, + From many a stately market-place, + From many a fruitful plain; + From many a lonely hamlet, + Which, hid by beech and pine, + Like an eagle's nest, hangs on the crest + Of purple Apennine. + + The harvests of Arretium, + This year, old men shall reap; + This year, young boys in Umbro + Shall plunge the struggling sheep; + And in the vats of Luna, + This year, the must shall foam + Round the white feet of laughing girls + Whose sires have marched to Rome. + + There be thirty chosen prophets, + The wisest of the land, + Who alway by Lars Porsena + Both morn and evening stand: + Evening and morn the Thirty + Have turned the verses o'er, + Traced from the right on linen white + By mighty seers of yore. + + And with one voice the Thirty + Have their glad answer given: + "Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena; + Go forth, beloved of Heaven; + Go, and return in glory + To Clusium's royal dome; + And hang round Nurscia's altars + The golden shields of Rome." + + And now hath every city + Sent up her tale of men; + The foot are fourscore thousand, + The horse are thousands ten. + Before the gates of Sutrium + Is met the great array. + A proud man was Lars Porsena + Upon the trysting-day. + + For all the Etruscan armies + Were ranged beneath his eye, + And many a banished Roman, + And many a stout ally; + And with a mighty following + To join the muster came + The Tusculan Mamilius, + Prince of the Latian name. + + But by the yellow Tiber + Was tumult and affright: + From all the spacious champaign + To Rome men took their flight. + A mile around the city, + The throng stopped up the ways; + A fearful sight it was to see + Through two long nights and days. + + Now, from the rock Tarpeian, + Could the wan burghers spy + The line of blazing villages + Red in the midnight sky. + The Fathers of the City, + They sat all night and day, + For every hour some horseman came + With tidings of dismay. + + To eastward and to westward + Have spread the Tuscan bands; + Nor house, nor fence, nor dovecot, + In Crustumerium stands. + Verbenna down to Ostia + Hath wasted all the plain; + Astur hath stormed Janiculum, + And the stout guards are slain. + + I wis, in all the Senate, + There was no heart so bold, + But sore it ached, and fast it beat, + When that ill news was told. + Forthwith up rose the Consul, + Up rose the Fathers all; + In haste they girded up their gowns, + And hied them to the wall. + + They held a council standing + Before the River Gate; + Short time was there, ye well may guess, + For musing or debate. + Out spoke the Consul roundly: + "The bridge must straight go down; + For, since Janiculum is lost, + Naught else can save the town." + + Just then a scout came flying, + All wild with haste and fear: + "To arms! to arms! Sir Consul; + Lars Porsena is here." + On the low hills to westward + The Consul fixed his eye, + And saw the swarthy storm of dust + Rise fast along the sky. + + And nearer, fast, and nearer + Doth the red whirlwind come; + And louder still, and still more loud, + From underneath that rolling cloud, + Is heard the trumpet's war-note proud, + The trampling and the hum. + And plainly and more plainly + Now through the gloom appears, + Far to left and far to right, + In broken gleams of dark-blue light, + The long array of helmets bright, + The long array of spears. + + And plainly and more plainly, + Above the glimmering line, + Now might ye see the banners + Of twelve fair cities shine; + But the banner of proud Clusium + Was the highest of them all, + The terror of the Umbrian, + The terror of the Gaul. + + Fast by the royal standard, + O'erlooking all the war, + Lars Porsena of Clusium + Sat in his ivory car. + By the right wheel rode Mamilius, + Prince of the Latian name, + And by the left false Sextus, + That wrought the deed of shame. + + But when the face of Sextus + Was seen among the foes, + A yell that rent the firmament + From all the town arose. + On the house-tops was no woman + But spat toward him and hissed, + No child but screamed out curses, + And shook its little fist. + + But the Consul's brow was sad, + And the Consul's speech was low, + And darkly looked he at the wall, + And darkly at the foe. + "Their van will be upon us + Before the bridge goes down; + And if they once may win the bridge, + What hope to save the town?" + + Then out spake brave Horatius, + The Captain of the Gate: + "To every man upon this earth + Death cometh soon or late; + And how can man die better + Than facing fearful odds, + For the ashes of his fathers, + And the temples of his gods. + + "And for the tender mother + Who dandled him to rest, + And for the wife who nurses + His baby at her breast, + And for the holy maidens + Who feed the eternal flame, + To save them from false Sextus + That wrought the deed of shame? + + "Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, + With all the speed ye may; + I, with two more to help me, + Will hold the foe in play. + In yon straight path a thousand + May well be stopped by three. + Now who will stand on either hand, + And keep the bridge with me?" + + Then out spake Spurius Lartius-- + A Ramnian proud was he-- + I will stand at thy right hand, + And keep the bridge with thee." + And out spake strong Herminius-- + Of Titian blood was he-- + "I will abide on thy left side, + And keep the bridge with thee." + + "Horatius," quoth the Consul, + "As thou say'st, so let it be," + And straight against that great array + Forth went the dauntless Three. + For Romans in Rome's quarrel + Spared neither land nor gold, + Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life, + In the brave days of old. + + Now while the Three were tightening + Their harness on their backs, + The Consul was the foremost man + To take in hand an ax; + And Fathers mixed with Commons + Seized hatchet, bar, and crow, + And smote upon the planks above, + And loosed the props below. + Meanwhile the Tuscan army, + Right glorious to behold, + Came flashing back the noonday light, + Rank behind rank, like surges bright + Of a broad sea of gold. + + Four hundred trumpets sounded + A peal of warlike glee, + As that great host, with measured tread, + And spears advanced, and ensigns spread, + Rolled slowly toward the bridge's head, + Where stood the dauntless Three. + + The Three stood calm and silent, + And looked upon the foes, + And a great shout of laughter + From all the vanguard rose: + And forth three chiefs came spurring + Before that deep array; + To earth they sprang, their swords they drew, + And lifted high their shields, and flew + To win the narrow way; + + Aunus from green Tifernum, + Lord of the Hill of Vines; + And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves + Sicken in Ilva's mines; + And Picus, long to Clusium + Vassal in peace and war, + Who led to fight his Umbrian powers + From that gray crag where, girt with towers, + The fortress of Nequinum lowers + O'er the pale waves of Nar. + + Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus + Into the stream beneath; + Herminius struck at Seius, + And clove him to the teeth; + At Picus brave Horatius + Darted one fiery thrust; + And the proud Umbrian's gilded arms + Clashed in the bloody dust. + + Then Ocnus of Falerii + Rushed on the Roman Three; + And Lausulus of Urgo, + The rover of the sea; + And Aruns of Volsinium, + Who slew the great wild boar, + The great wild boar that had his den + Amid the reeds of Cosa's fen. + And wasted fields and slaughtered men + Along Albinia's shore. + + Herminius smote down Aruns; + Lartius laid Ocnus low; + Right to the heart of Lausulus + Horatius sent a blow. + "Lie there," he cried, "fell pirate! + No more, aghast and pale, + From Ostia's walls the crowd shall mark + The tracks of thy destroying bark, + No more Campania's hinds shall fly + To woods and caverns when they spy + Thy thrice accurséd sail." + + But now no sound of laughter + Was heard among the foes. + A wild and wrathful clamour + From all the vanguard rose. + Six spears' length from the entrance + Halted that deep array, + And for a space no man came forth + To win the narrow way. + + But hark! the cry is Astur: + And lo! the ranks divide; + And the great Lord of Luna + Comes with his stately stride. + Upon his ample shoulders + Clangs loud the fourfold shield, + And in his hand he shakes the brand + Which none but he can wield. + + He smiled on those bold Romans, + A smile serene and high; + He eyed the flinching Tuscans, + And scorn was in his eye. + Quoth he: "The she-wolf's litter + Stand savagely at bay; + But will ye dare to follow, + If Astur clears the way?" + + Then, whirling up his broadsword + With both hands to the height, + He rushed against Horatius, + And smote with all his might. + With shield and blade Horatius + Right deftly turned the blow. + The blow, though turned, came yet too nigh; + It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh: + The Tuscans raised a joyful cry + To see the red blood flow. + + He reeled, and on Herminius + He leaned one breathing space; + Then, like a wildcat mad with wounds, + Sprang right at Astur's face. + Through teeth, and skull, and helmet, + So fierce a thrust he sped, + The good sword stood a handbreadth out + Behind the Tuscan's head. + + And the great Lord of Luna + Fell at the deadly stroke, + As falls on Mount Alvernus + A thunder-smitten oak. + Far o'er the crashing forest + The giant arms lie spread; + And the pale augurs, muttering low, + Gaze on the blasted head. + + On Astur's throat Horatius + Right firmly pressed his heel, + And thrice and four times tugged amain + Ere he wrenched out the steel. + "And see," he cried, "the welcome, + Fair guests, that waits you here! + What noble Lucumo comes next + To taste our Roman cheer?" + + But at his haughty challenge + A sullen murmur ran, + Mingled of wrath, and shame, and dread, + Along that glittering van. + There lacked not men of prowess, + Nor men of lordly race; + For all Etruria's noblest + Were round the fatal place. + + But all Etruria's noblest + Felt their hearts sink to see + On the earth the bloody corpses, + In the path the dauntless Three: + And, from the ghastly entrance + Where those bold Romans stood, + All shrank, like boys who unaware, + Ranging the woods to start a hare, + Come to the mouth of the dark lair + Where, growling low, a fierce old bear + Lies amid bones and blood. + + Was none who would be foremost + To lead such dire attack? + But those behind cried "Forward!" + And those before cried "Back!" + And backward now and forward + Wavers the deep array; + And on the tossing sea of steel + To and fro the standards reel; + And the victorious trumpet peal + Dies fitfully away. + + Yet one man for one moment + Strode out before the crowd; + Well known was he to all the Three, + And they gave him greeting loud: + "Now welcome, welcome, Sextus! + Now welcome to thy home! + Why dost thou stay, and turn away? + Here lies the road to Rome." + + Thrice looked he at the city; + Thrice looked he at the dead; + And thrice came on in fury, + And thrice turned back in dread: + And, white with fear and hatred, + Scowled at the narrow way + Where, wallowing in a pool of blood, + The bravest Tuscans lay. + + But meanwhile ax and lever + Have manfully been plied, + And now the bridge hangs tottering + Above the boiling tide. + "Come back, come back, Horatius!" + Loud cried the Fathers all. + "Back, Lartius! Back, Herminius! + Back, ere the ruin fall!" + + Back darted Spurius Lartius; + Herminius darted back: + And, as they passed, beneath their feet + They felt the timbers crack. + But when they turned their faces, + And on the farther shore + Saw brave Horatius stand alone, + They would have crossed once more. + + But with a crash like thunder + Fell every loosened beam, + And, like a dam, the mighty wreck + Lay right athwart the stream; + And a long shout of triumph + Rose from the walls of Rome, + As to the highest turret tops + Was splashed the yellow foam. + + And, like a horse unbroken + When first he feels the rein, + The furious river struggled hard, + And tossed his tawny mane; + And burst the curb, and bounded, + Rejoicing to be free, + And whirling down, in fierce career, + Battlement, and plank, and pier, + Rushed headlong to the sea. + + Alone stood brave Horatius, + But constant still in mind; + Thrice thirty thousand foes before, + And the broad flood behind. + "Down with him!" cried false Sextus, + With a smile on his pale face. + "Now yield thee," cried Lars Porsena, + "Now yield thee to our grace." + + Round turned he, as not deigning + Those craven ranks to see; + Naught spake he to Lars Porsena, + To Sextus naught spake he; + But he saw on Palatinus + The white porch of his home; + And he spake to the noble river + That rolls by the towers of Rome: + + "O Tiber! Father Tiber! + To whom the Romans pray, + A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, + Take thou in charge this day!" + So he spake, and speaking sheathed + The good sword by his side, + And, with his harness on his back, + Plunged headlong in the tide. + + No sound of joy or sorrow + Was heard from either bank; + But friends and foes in dumb surprise, + With parted lips and straining eyes, + Stood gazing where he sank; + And when above the surges + They saw his crest appear, + All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, + And even the ranks of Tuscany + Could scarce forbear to cheer. + + And fiercely ran the current, + Swollen high by months of rain; + And fast his blood was flowing, + And he was sore in pain, + And heavy with his armour, + And spent with changing blows: + And oft they thought him sinking, + But still again he rose. + + Never, I ween, did swimmer, + In such an evil case, + Struggle through such a raging flood + Safe to the landing place; + But his limbs were borne up bravely + By the brave heart within, + And our good Father Tiber + Bore bravely up his chin. + + "Curse on him!" quoth false Sextus; + "Will not the villain drown? + But for this stay, ere close of day + We should have sacked the town!" + "Heaven help him!" quoth Lars Porsena, + "And bring him safe to shore; + For such a gallant feat of arms + Was never seen before." + + And now he feels the bottom; + Now on dry earth he stands; + Now round him throng the Fathers + To press his gory hands; + And now with shouts and clapping, + And noise of weeping loud, + He enters through the River Gate, + Borne by the joyous crowd. + + They gave him of the corn land, + That was of public right. + As much as two strong oxen + Could plow from morn till night: + And they made a molten image, + And set it up on high, + And there it stands unto this day + To witness if I lie. + + It stands in the Comitium, + Plain for all folk to see,-- + Horatius in his harness, + Halting upon one knee: + And underneath is written, + In letters all of gold, + How valiantly he kept the bridge + In the brave days of old. + + And still his name sounds stirring + Unto the men of Rome, + As the trumpet blast that cries to them + To charge the Volscian home; + And wives still pray to Juno + For boys with hearts as bold + As his who kept the bridge so well + In the brave days of old. + + And in the nights of winter, + When the cold north winds blow, + And the long howling of the wolves + Is heard amid the snow; + When round the lonely cottage + Roars loud the tempest's din, + And the good logs of Algidus + Roar louder yet within; + + When the oldest cask is opened, + And the largest lamp is lit; + When the chestnuts glow in the embers, + And the kid turns on the spit; + When young and old in circle + Around the firebrands close; + When the girls are weaving baskets, + And the lads are shaping bows; + + When the goodman mends his armour, + And trims his helmet's plume; + When the goodwife's shuttle merrily + Goes flashing through the loom,-- + With weeping and with laughter + Still is the story told, + How well Horatius kept the bridge + In the brave days of old. + + THOMAS B. MACAULAY. + + + THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE-TREE. + +"The Planting of the Apple-Tree" has become a favourite for "Arbour + Day" exercises. The planting of trees as against their destruction is a + vital point in our political and national welfare. William Cullen + Bryant (1794-1878). + + Come, let us plant the apple-tree. + Cleave the tough greensward with the spade; + Wide let its hollow bed be made; + There gently lay the roots, and there + Sift the dark mould with kindly care, + And press it o'er them tenderly, + As round the sleeping infant's feet + We softly fold the cradle sheet; + So plant we the apple-tree. + + What plant we in this apple-tree? + Buds, which the breath of summer days + Shall lengthen into leafy sprays; + Boughs where the thrush, with crimson breast, + Shall haunt, and sing, and hide her nest; + We plant, upon the sunny lea, + A shadow for the noontide hour, + A shelter from the summer shower, + When we plant the apple-tree. + + What plant we in this apple-tree? + Sweets for a hundred flowery springs, + To load the May wind's restless wings, + When, from the orchard row, he pours + Its fragrance through our open doors; + A world of blossoms for the bee, + Flowers for the sick girl's silent room, + For the glad infant sprigs of bloom, + We plant with the apple-tree. + + What plant we in this apple-tree? + Fruits that shall swell in sunny June, + And redden in the August noon, + And drop, when gentle airs come by, + That fan the blue September sky, + While children come, with cries of glee, + And seek them where the fragrant grass + Betrays their bed to those who pass, + At the foot of the apple-tree. + + And when, above this apple-tree, + The winter stars are quivering bright, + The winds go howling through the night, + Girls, whose eyes o'erflow with mirth, + Shall peel its fruit by cottage hearth, + And guests in prouder homes shall see, + Heaped with the grape of Cintra's vine, + And golden orange of the line, + The fruit of the apple-tree. + + The fruitage of this apple-tree, + Winds and our flag of stripe and star + Shall bear to coasts that lie afar, + Where men shall wonder at the view, + And ask in what fair groves they grew; + And sojourners beyond the sea + Shall think of childhood's careless day, + And long, long hours of summer play, + In the shade of the apple-tree. + + Each year shall give this apple-tree + A broader flush of roseate bloom, + A deeper maze of verdurous gloom, + And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower, + The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower. + The years shall come and pass, but we + Shall hear no longer, where we lie, + The summer's songs, the autumn's sigh, + In the boughs of the apple-tree. + + And time shall waste this apple-tree. + Oh, when its aged branches throw + Thin shadows on the ground below, + Shall fraud and force and iron will + Oppress the weak and helpless still! + What shall the tasks of mercy be, + Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears + Of those who live when length of years + Is wasting this apple-tree? + + "Who planted this old apple-tree?" + The children of that distant day + Thus to some aged man shall say; + And, gazing on its mossy stem, + The gray-haired man shall answer them: + "A poet of the land was he, + Born in the rude but good old times; + 'Tis said he made some quaint old rhymes + On planting the apple-tree." + + WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. + + [Illustration] + + + + + PART V. + + On and On + + + JUNE. + +"June" (by James Russell Lowell, 1819-91), is a fragment from "The + Vision of Sir Launfal." It finds a place in this volume because it is + the most perfect description of a charming day ever written. + + What is so rare as a day in June? + Then, if ever, come perfect days; + Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, + And over it softly her warm ear lays: + Whether we look, or whether we listen, + We hear life murmur, or see it glisten; + Every clod feels a stir of might, + An instinct within it that reaches and towers, + And, groping blindly above it for light, + Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; + The flush of life may well be seen + Thrilling back over hills and valleys; + The cowslip startles in meadows green. + The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, + And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean + To be some happy creature's palace; + The little bird sits at his door in the sun, + Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, + And lets his illumined being o'errun + With the deluge of summer it receives; + His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, + And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings; + He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,-- + In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best? + + JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. + + + A PSALM OF LIFE. + + WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST. + +"A Psalm of Life," by Henry W. Longfellow (1807-82), is like a treasure + laid up in heaven. It should be learned for its future value to the + child, not necessarily because the child likes it. Its value will dawn + on him. + + Tell me not, in mournful numbers, + Life is but an empty dream!-- + For the soul is dead that slumbers, + And things are not what they seem. + + Life is real! Life is earnest! + And the grave is not its goal; + Dust thou art, to dust returnest, + Was not spoken of the soul. + + Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, + Is our destined end or way; + But to act, that each to-morrow + Find us farther than to-day. + + Art is long, and Time is fleeting, + And our hearts, though stout and brave, + Still, like muffled drums, are beating + Funeral marches to the grave. + + In the world's broad field of battle, + In the bivouac of Life, + Be not like dumb, driven cattle! + Be a hero in the strife! + + Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! + Let the dead Past bury its dead! + Act,--act in the living Present! + Heart within, and God o'erhead! + + Lives of great men all remind us + We can make our lives sublime, + And, departing, leave behind us + Footprints on the sands of time; + + Footprints, that perhaps another, + Sailing o'er life's solemn main, + A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, + Seeing, shall take heart again. + + Let us, then, be up and doing, + With a heart for any fate; + Still achieving, still pursuing, + Learn to labour and to wait. + + HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. + + + BARNACLES. + +"Barnacles" (by Sidney Lanier, 1842-81), is a poem that I teach in + connection with my lessons on natural history. We have a good specimen + of a barnacle, and the children see them on the shells on the coast. + The ethical point is invaluable. + + My soul is sailing through the sea, + But the Past is heavy and hindereth me. + The Past hath crusted cumbrous shells + That hold the flesh of cold sea-mells + About my soul. + The huge waves wash, the high waves roll, + Each barnacle clingeth and worketh dole + And hindereth me from sailing! + + Old Past, let go, and drop i' the sea + Till fathomless waters cover thee! + For I am living, but thou art dead; + Thou drawest back, I strive ahead + The Day to find. + Thy shells unbind! Night comes behind; + I needs must hurry with the wind + And trim me best for sailing. + + SIDNEY LANIER. + + + A HAPPY LIFE. + + How happy is he born and taught + That serveth not another's will; + Whose armour is his honest thought, + And simple truth his utmost skill! + + Whose passions not his master's are, + Whose soul is still prepared for death, + Not tied unto the world with care + Of public fame, or private breath. + + SIR HENRY WOTTON. + + + HOME, SWEET HOME! + +"Home, Sweet Home" (John Howard Payne, 1791-1852) is a poem that + reaches into the heart. What is home? A place where we experience + independence, safety, privacy, and where we can dispense hospitality. +"The family is the true unit." + + 'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, + Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home; + A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there, + Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere. + Home! Home! sweet, sweet Home! + There's no place like Home! there's no place like Home! + + An exile from Home, splendour dazzles in vain; + O, give me my lowly thatched cottage again! + The birds singing gaily, that came at my call,-- + Give me them,--and the peace of mind, dearer than all! + Home! Home! sweet, sweet Home! + There's no place like Home! there's no place like Home! + + How sweet 'tis to sit 'neath a fond father's smile, + And the cares of a mother to soothe and beguile! + Let others delight 'mid new pleasures to roam, + But give me, oh, give me, the pleasures of Home! + Home! Home! sweet, sweet Home! + There's no place like Home! there's no place like Home! + + To thee I'll return, overburdened with care; + The heart's dearest solace will smile on me there; + No more from that cottage again will I roam; + Be it ever so humble, there's no place like Home. + Home! Home! sweet, sweet Home! + There's no place like Home! there's no place like Home! + + JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. + + + FROM CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. + + JULIET OF NATIONS. + + I heard last night a little child go singing + 'Neath Casa Guidi windows, by the church, + _O bella libertŕ, O bella!_--stringing + The same words still on notes he went in search + So high for, you concluded the upspringing + Of such a nimble bird to sky from perch + Must leave the whole bush in a tremble green, + And that the heart of Italy must beat, + While such a voice had leave to rise serene + 'Twixt church and palace of a Florence street; + A little child, too, who not long had been + By mother's finger steadied on his feet, + And still _O bella libertŕ_ he sang. + + ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. + + + WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE! + +"Woodman, Spare That Tree" (by George Pope Morris, 1802-64) is included + in this collection because I have loved it all my life, and I never + knew any one who could or would offer a criticism upon it. Its value + lies in its recognition of childhood's pleasures. + + Woodman, spare that tree! + Touch not a single bough! + In youth it sheltered me, + And I'll protect it now. + 'Twas my forefather's hand + That placed it near his cot; + There, woodman, let it stand, + Thy ax shall harm it not. + + That old familiar tree, + Whose glory and renown + Are spread o'er land and sea-- + And wouldst thou hew it down? + Woodman, forbear thy stroke! + Cut not its earth-bound ties; + Oh, spare that agčd oak + Now towering to the skies! + + When but an idle boy, + I sought its grateful shade; + In all their gushing joy + Here, too, my sisters played. + My mother kissed me here; + My father pressed my hand-- + Forgive this foolish tear, + But let that old oak stand. + + My heart-strings round thee cling, + Close as thy bark, old friend! + Here shall the wild-bird sing, + And still thy branches bend. + Old tree! the storm still brave! + And, woodman, leave the spot; + While I've a hand to save, + Thy ax shall harm it not. + + GEORGE POPE MORRIS. + + + ABIDE WITH ME. + +"Abide With Me" (Henry Francis Lyte, 1793-1847) appeals to our natural + longing for the unchanging and to our love of security. + + Abide with me! fast falls the eventide; + The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide! + When other helpers fail, and comforts flee, + Help of the helpless, O abide with me. + + Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day; + Earth's joys grow dim, its glories pass away; + Change and decay in all around I see: + O Thou who changest not, abide with me! + + HENRY FRANCIS LYTE. + + + LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT + +"Lead, Kindly Light," by John Henry Newman (1801-90), was written when + Cardinal Newman was in the stress and strain of perplexity and mental + distress and bodily pain. The poem has been a star in the darkness to + thousands. It was the favourite poem of President McKinley. + + Lead, kindly Light, amid th' encircling gloom, + Lead Thou me on, + The night is dark, and I am far from home, + Lead Thou me on. + Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see + The distant scene; one step enough for me. + + I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou + Shouldst lead me on; + I loved to choose and see my path; but now + Lead Thou me on. + I loved the garish day; and, spite of fears, + Pride ruled my will: remember not past years. + + So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still + Will lead me on + O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till + The night is gone, + And with the morn those angel faces smile, + Which I have loved long since, and lost a while. + + JOHN HENRY NEWMAN. + + + THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. + + 'Tis the last rose of summer + Left blooming alone; + All her lovely companions + Are faded and gone; + No flower of her kindred, + No rose-bud is nigh, + To reflect back her blushes, + Or give sigh for sigh. + + I'll not leave thee, thou lone one! + To pine on the stem; + Since the lovely are sleeping, + Go, sleep thou with them. + Thus kindly I scatter + Thy leaves o'er the bed + Where thy mates of the garden + Lie scentless and dead. + + So soon may I follow, + When friendships decay, + And from Love's shining circle + The gems drop away. + When true hearts lie withered, + And fond ones are flown, + O! who would inhabit + This bleak world alone? + + THOMAS MOORE. + + + ANNIE LAURIE. + +"Annie Laurie" finds a place in this collection because it is the most + popular song on earth. Written by William Douglas, (----). + + Maxwelton braes are bonnie + Where early fa's the dew, + And it's there that Annie Laurie + Gie'd me her promise true-- + Gie'd me her promise true, + Which ne'er forgot will be; + And for bonnie Annie Laurie + I'd lay me doune and dee. + + Her brow is like the snawdrift, + Her throat is like the swan, + Her face it is the fairest + That e'er the sun shone on-- + That e'er the sun shone on; + And dark blue is her e'e; + And for bonnie Annie Laurie + I'd lay me doune and dee. + + Like dew on the gowan lying + Is the fa' o' her fairy feet; + Like the winds in summer sighing, + Her voice is low and sweet-- + Her voice is low and sweet; + And she's a' the world to me; + And for bonnie Annie Laurie + I'd lay me doune and dee. + + WILLIAM DOUGLAS. + + + THE SHIP OF STATE. + + A president of a well-known college writes me that "The Ship of State" + was his favourite poem when he was a boy, and did more than any other + to shape his course in life. Longfellow (1807-82). + + Sail on, sail on, O Ship of State! + Sail on, O Union, strong and great! + Humanity, with all its fears, + With all the hopes of future years, + Is hanging breathless on thy fate! + We know what Master laid thy keel, + What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, + Who made each mast, and sail, and rope; + What anvils rang, what hammers beat, + In what a forge and what a heat + Were forged the anchors of thy hope! + Fear not each sudden sound and shock-- + 'Tis of the wave, and not the rock; + 'Tis but the flapping of the sail, + And not a rent made by the gale! + In spite of rock, and tempest roar, + In spite of false lights on the shore, + Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea! + Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee. + Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, + Our faith, triumphant o'er our fears, + Are all with thee, are all with thee! + + HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. + + The Constitution and Laws are here personified, and addressed as "The + Ship of State." + + + AMERICA. + +"America" (Samuel Francis Smith, 1808-95) is a good poem to learn as a + poem, regardless of the fact that every American who can sing it ought + to know it, that he may join in the chorus when patriotic celebrations + call for it. My boys love to repeat the entire poem, but I often find + masses of people trying to sing it, knowing only one stanza. It is our + national anthem, and a part of our education to know every word of it. + + My country, 'tis of thee, + Sweet land of liberty, + Of thee I sing; + Land where my fathers died, + Land of the Pilgrims' pride; + From every mountain side, + Let freedom ring. + + My native country, thee-- + Land of the noble free-- + Thy name I love; + I love thy rocks and rills, + Thy woods and templed hills; + My heart with rapture thrills, + Like that above. + + Let music swell the breeze, + And ring from all the trees + Sweet freedom's song; + Let mortal tongues awake; + Let all that breathe partake; + Let rocks their silence break-- + The sound prolong. + + Our fathers' God, to Thee, + Author of liberty, + To Thee we sing: + Long may our land be bright + With freedom's holy light: + Protect us by Thy might, + Great God, our King. + + S.F. SMITH. + + + THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIMS. + +"The Landing of the Pilgrims," by Felicia Hemans (1749-1835), is a poem + that children want when they study the early history of America. + + The breaking waves dashed high + On a stern and rock-bound coast, + And the woods against a stormy sky + Their giant branches tossed. + + And the heavy night hung dark + The hills and waters o'er, + When a band of exiles moored their bark + On the wild New England shore. + + Not as the conqueror comes, + They, the true-hearted, came; + Not with the roll of the stirring drums, + And the trumpet that sings of fame. + + Not as the flying come, + In silence and in fear; + They shook the depths of the desert gloom + With their hymns of lofty cheer. + + Amid the storm they sang, + And the stars heard, and the sea, + And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang + To the anthem of the free! + + The ocean eagle soared + From his nest by the white wave's foam; + And the rocking pines of the forest roared,-- + This was their welcome home! + + There were men with hoary hair, + Amid that pilgrim band; + Why had _they_ come to wither there, + Away from their childhood's land? + + There was woman's fearless eye, + Lit by her deep love's truth; + There was manhood's brow serenely high, + And the fiery heart of youth. + + What sought they thus afar? + Bright jewels of the mine? + The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?-- + They sought a faith's pure shrine! + + Ay! call it holy ground, + The soil where first they trod: + They have left unstained what there they found, + Freedom to worship God. + + FELICIA HEMANS. + + + THE LOTOS-EATERS. + + The main idea in "The Lotos-Eaters" is, are we justified in running + away from unpleasant duties? Or, is insensibility justifiable? + + Laddie, do you recollect learning this poem after we had read the story + of "Odysseus"? "The struggle of the soul urged to action, but held back + by the spirit of self-indulgence." These were the points we discussed. + Alfred Tennyson (1809-92). + + "Courage!" he said, and pointed toward the land, + "This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon." + In the afternoon they came unto a land + In which it seemed always afternoon. + All round the coast the languid air did swoon, + Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. + Full-faced above the valley stood the moon; + And like a downward smoke, the slender stream + Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem. + + A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke, + Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go; + And some thro' wavering lights and shadows broke, + Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. + They saw the gleaming river seaward flow + From the inner land: far off, three mountain-tops, + Three silent pinnacles of agčd snow, + Stood sunset-flush'd: and, dew'd with showery drops, + Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse. + + The charmčd sunset linger'd low adown + In the red West: thro' mountain clefts the dale + Was seen far inland, and the yellow down + Border'd with palm, and many a winding vale + And meadow, set with slender galingale; + A land where all things always seem'd the same! + And round about the keel with faces pale, + Dark faces pale against that rosy flame, + The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came. + + Branches they bore of that enchanted stem, + Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave + To each, but whoso did receive of them, + And taste, to him the gushing of the wave + Far, far away did seem to mourn and rave + On alien shores; and if his fellow spake, + His voice was thin, as voices from the grave; + And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all awake, + And music in his ears his beating heart did make. + + They sat them down upon the yellow sand, + Between the sun and moon upon the shore; + And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland, + Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore + Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar, + Weary the wandering fields of barren foam. + Then some one said, "We will return no more;" + And all at once they sang, "Our island home + Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam." + + ALFRED TENNYSON. + + + MOLY. + +"Moly" (mo'ly), by Edith M. Thomas (1850-), in the best possible + presentation of the value of integrity. This poem ranks with "Sir + Galahad," if not above it. It is a stroke of genius, and every American + ought to be proud of it. Every time my boys read "Odysseus" or the + story of Ulysses with me we read or learn "Moly." The plant moly grows + in the United States as well as in Europe. + + Traveller, pluck a stem of moly, + If thou touch at Circe's isle,-- + Hermes' moly, growing solely + To undo enchanter's wile! + When she proffers thee her chalice,-- + Wine and spices mixed with malice,-- + When she smites thee with her staff + To transform thee, do thou laugh! + Safe thou art if thou but bear + The least leaf of moly rare. + Close it grows beside her portal, + Springing from a stock immortal, + Yes! and often has the Witch + Sought to tear it from its niche; + But to thwart her cruel will + The wise God renews it still. + Though it grows in soil perverse, + Heaven hath been its jealous nurse, + And a flower of snowy mark + Springs from root and sheathing dark; + Kingly safeguard, only herb + That can brutish passion curb! + Some do think its name should be + Shield-Heart, White Integrity. + Traveller, pluck a stem of moly, + If thou touch at Circe's isle,-- + Hermes' moly, growing solely + To undo enchanter's wile! + + EDITH M. THOMAS. + + + CUPID DROWNED. + +"Cupid Drowned" (1784-1859), "Cupid Stung" (1779-1852), and "Cupid and + My Campasbe" (1558-1606) are three dainty poems recommended by Mrs. + Margaret Mooney, of the Albany Teachers' College, in her "Foundation + Studies in Literature." Children are always delighted with them. + + T'other day as I was twining + Roses, for a crown to dine in, + What, of all things, 'mid the heap, + Should I light on, fast asleep, + But the little desperate elf, + The tiny traitor, Love, himself! + By the wings I picked him up + Like a bee, and in a cup + Of my wine I plunged and sank him, + Then what d'ye think I did?--I drank him. + Faith, I thought him dead. Not he! + There he lives with tenfold glee; + And now this moment with his wings + I feel him tickling my heart-strings. + + LEIGH HUNT. + + + CUPID STUNG. + + Cupid once upon a bed + Of roses laid his weary head; + Luckless urchin, not to see + Within the leaves a slumbering bee. + The bee awak'd--with anger wild + The bee awak'd, and stung the child. + Loud and piteous are his cries; + To Venus quick he runs, he flies; + "Oh, Mother! I am wounded through-- + I die with pain--in sooth I do! + Stung by some little angry thing, + Some serpent on a tiny wing-- + A bee it was--for once, I know, + I heard a rustic call it so." + Thus he spoke, and she the while + Heard him with a soothing smile; + Then said, "My infant, if so much + Thou feel the little wild bee's touch, + How must the heart, ah, Cupid! be, + The hapless heart that's stung by thee!" + + THOMAS MOORE. + + + CUPID AND MY CAMPASBE. + + Cupid and my Campasbe played + At cards for kisses. Cupid paid. + He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows, + His mother's doves and team of sparrows. + Loses them, too; then down he throws + The coral of his lips, the rose + Growing on his cheek, but none knows how; + With them the crystal of his brow, + And then the dimple of his chin. + All these did my Campasbe win. + At last he set her both his eyes; + She won and Cupid blind did rise. + Oh, Love, hath she done this to thee! + What shall, alas, become of me! + + JOHN LYLY. + + + A BALLAD FOR A BOY. + + Violo Roseboro, one of our good authors, brought to me "A Ballad for a + Boy," saying: "I believe it is one of the poems that every child ought + to know." It is included in this compilation out of respect to her + opinion and also because the boys to whom I have read it said it was +"great," The lesson in it is certainly fine. Men who are true men want + to settle their own disputes by a hand-to-hand fight, but they will + always help each other when a third party or the elements interfere. + Humanity is greater than human interests. + + When George the Third was reigning, a hundred years ago, + He ordered Captain Farmer to chase the foreign foe, + "You're not afraid of shot," said he, "you're not afraid of wreck, + So cruise about the west of France in the frigate called _Quebec_. + + "Quebec was once a Frenchman's town, but twenty years ago + King George the Second sent a man called General Wolfe, you know, + To clamber up a precipice and look into Quebec, + As you'd look down a hatchway when standing on the deck. + + "If Wolfe could beat the Frenchmen then, so you can beat them now. + Before he got inside the town he died, I must allow. + But since the town was won for us it is a lucky name, + And you'll remember Wolfe's good work, and you shall do the same." + + Then Farmer said, "I'll try, sir," and Farmer bowed so low + That George could see his pigtail tied in a velvet bow. + George gave him his commission, and that it might be safer, + Signed "King of Britain, King of France," and sealed it with a wafer. + + Then proud was Captain Farmer in a frigate of his own, + And grander on his quarter-deck than George upon his throne. + He'd two guns in his cabin, and on the spar-deck ten, + And twenty on the gun-deck, and more than ten-score men. + + And as a huntsman scours the brakes with sixteen brace of dogs, + With two-and-thirty cannon the ship explored the fogs. + From Cape la Hogue to Ushant, from Rochefort to Belleisle, + She hunted game till reef and mud were rubbing on her keel. + + The fogs are dried, the frigate's side is bright with melting tar, + The lad up in the foretop sees square white sails afar; + The east wind drives three square-sailed masts from out the Breton bay, + And "Clear for action!" Farmer shouts, and reefers yell "Hooray!" + + The Frenchmen's captain had a name I wish I could pronounce; + A Breton gentleman was he, and wholly free from bounce, + One like those famous fellows who died by guillotine + For honour and the fleur-de-lys, and Antoinette the Queen. + + The Catholic for Louis, the Protestant for George, + Each captain drew as bright a sword as saintly smiths could forge; + And both were simple seamen, but both could understand + How each was bound to win or die for flag and native land. + + The French ship was _La Surveillante_, which means the watchful maid; + She folded up her head-dress and began to cannonade. + Her hull was clean, and ours was foul; we had to spread more sail. + On canvas, stays, and topsail yards her bullets came like hail. + + Sore smitten were both captains, and many lads beside, + And still to cut our rigging the foreign gunners tried. + A sail-clad spar came flapping down athwart a blazing gun; + We could not quench the rushing flames, and so the Frenchman won. + + Our quarter-deck was crowded, the waist was all aglow; + Men hung upon the taffrail half scorched, but loth to go; + Our captain sat where once he stood, and would not quit his chair. + He bade his comrades leap for life, and leave him bleeding there. + + The guns were hushed on either side, the Frenchmen lowered boats, + They flung us planks and hen-coops, and everything that floats. + They risked their lives, good fellows! to bring their rivals aid. + Twas by the conflagration the peace was strangely made. + + _La Surveillante_ was like a sieve; the victors had no rest; + They had to dodge the east wind to reach the port of Brest. + And where the waves leapt lower and the riddled ship went slower, + In triumph, yet in funeral guise, came fisher-boats to tow her. + + They dealt with us as brethren, they mourned for Farmer dead; + And as the wounded captives passed each Breton bowed the head. + Then spoke the French Lieutenant, "Twas fire that won, not we. + You never struck your flag to us; you'll go to England free." + + Twas the sixth day of October, seventeen hundred seventy-nine, + A year when nations ventured against us to combine, + _Quebec_ was burned and Farmer slain, by us remembered not; + But thanks be to the French book wherein they're not forgot. + + Now you, if you've to fight the French, my youngster, bear in mind + Those seamen of King Louis so chivalrous and kind; + Think of the Breton gentlemen who took our lads to Brest, + And treat some rescued Breton as a comrade and a guest. + + + THE SKELETON IN ARMOUR. + +"The Skeleton in Armour" (Longfellow, 1807-82) is a "boy's poem." It + it pure literature and good history. + + "Speak! speak! thou fearful guest! + Who, with thy hollow breast + Still in rude armour drest, + Comest to daunt me! + Wrapt not in Eastern balms, + But with thy fleshless palms + Stretched, as if asking alms, + Why dost thou haunt me?" + + Then from those cavernous eyes + Pale flashes seemed to rise, + As when the Northern skies + Gleam in December; + And, like the water's flow + Under December's snow, + Came a dull voice of woe + From the heart's chamber. + + "I was a Viking old! + My deeds, though manifold, + No Skald in song has told, + No Saga taught thee! + Take heed that in thy verse + Thou dost the tale rehearse, + Else dread a dead man's curse; + For this I sought thee. + + "Far in the Northern Land, + By the wild Baltic's strand, + I, with my childish hand, + Tamed the gerfalcon; + And, with my skates fast-bound, + Skimmed the half-frozen Sound, + That the poor whimpering hound + Trembled to walk on. + + "Oft to his frozen lair + Tracked I the grizzly bear, + While from my path the hare + Fled like a shadow; + Oft through the forest dark + Followed the were-wolf's bark, + Until the soaring lark + Sang from the meadow. + + "But when I older grew, + Joining a corsair's crew, + O'er the dark sea I flew + With the marauders. + Wild was the life we led; + Many the souls that sped, + Many the hearts that bled, + By our stern orders. + + "Many a wassail-bout + Wore the long Winter out; + Often our midnight shout + Set the cocks crowing, + As we the Berserk's tale + Measured in cups of ale, + Draining the oaken pail + Filled to overflowing. + + "Once as I told in glee + Tales of the stormy sea, + Soft eyes did gaze on me, + Burning yet tender; + And as the white stars shine + On the dark Norway pine, + On that dark heart of mine + Fell their soft splendour. + + "I wooed the blue-eyed maid, + Yielding, yet half afraid, + And in the forest's shade + Our vows were plighted. + Under its loosened vest + Fluttered her little breast, + Like birds within their nest + By the hawk frighted. + + "Bright in her father's hall + Shields gleamed upon the wall, + Loud sang the minstrels all, + Chanting his glory; + When of old Hildebrand + I asked his daughter's hand, + Mute did the minstrels stand + To hear my story. + + "While the brown ale he quaffed, + Loud then the champion laughed, + And as the wind-gusts waft + The sea-foam brightly, + So the loud laugh of scorn, + Out of those lips unshorn, + From the deep drinking-horn + Blew the foam lightly. + + "She was a Prince's child, + I but a Viking wild, + And though she blushed and smiled, + I was discarded! + Should not the dove so white + Follow the sea-mew's flight? + Why did they leave that night + Her nest unguarded? + + "Scarce had I put to sea, + Bearing the maid with me,-- + Fairest of all was she + Among the Norsemen!-- + When on the white sea-strand, + Waving his armed hand, + Saw we old Hildebrand, + With twenty horsemen. + + "Then launched they to the blast, + Bent like a reed each mast, + Yet we were gaining fast, + When the wind failed us; + And with a sudden flaw + Came round the gusty Skaw, + So that our foe we saw + Laugh as he hailed us. + + "And as to catch the gale + Round veered the flapping sail, + 'Death!' was the helmsman's hail, + 'Death without quarter!' + Midships with iron keel + Struck we her ribs of steel; + Down her black hulk did reel + Through the black water! + + "As with his wings aslant, + Sails the fierce cormorant, + Seeking some rocky haunt, + With his prey laden, + So toward the open main, + Beating to sea again, + Through the wild hurricane, + Bore I the maiden. + + "Three weeks we westward bore, + And when the storm was o'er, + Cloud-like we saw the shore + Stretching to leeward; + There for my lady's bower + Built I the lofty tower + Which to this very hour + Stands looking seaward. + + "There lived we many years; + Time dried the maiden's tears; + She had forgot her fears, + She was a mother; + Death closed her mild blue eyes; + Under that tower she lies; + Ne'er shall the sun arise + On such another. + + "Still grew my bosom then, + Still as a stagnant fen! + Hateful to me were men, + The sunlight hateful! + In the vast forest here, + Clad in my warlike gear, + Fell I upon my spear, + Oh, death was grateful! + + "Thus, seamed with many scars, + Bursting these prison bars, + Up to its native stars + My soul ascended! + There from the flowing bowl + Deep drinks the warrior's soul, + _Skoal_! to the Northland! _skoal_!" + Thus the tale ended. + + HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. + + + THE REVENGE. + + A BALLAD OF THE FLEET + + Tennyson's (1807-92) "The _Revenge_" finds a welcome here because it is + a favourite with teachers of elocution and their audiences. It teaches + us to hold life cheap when the nation's safety is at stake. + + At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay, + And a pinnace, like a fluttered bird, came flying from away: + "Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fifty-three!" + Then sware Lord Thomas Howard: "'Fore God, I am no coward; + But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear, + And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick. + We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty-three?" + + Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: "I know you are no coward; + You fly them for a moment, to fight with them again. + But I've ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore. + I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord Howard, + To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain." + + So Lord Howard passed away with five ships of war that day, + Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven; + But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the land + Very carefully and slow, + Men of Bideford in Devon, + And we laid them on the ballast down below; + For we brought them all aboard, + And they blest him in their pain that they were not left to Spain, + To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the Lord. + + He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight, + And he sail'd away from Flores till the Spaniard came in sight, + With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather bow. + "Shall we fight or shall we fly? + Good Sir Richard, tell us now, + For to fight is but to die! + + "There'll be little of us left by the time this sun be set" + And Sir Richard said again: "We be all good Englishmen. + Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the devil, + For I never turn'd my back upon Don or devil yet." + + Sir Richard spoke and he laugh'd, and we roar'd a hurrah, and so + The little _Revenge_ ran on sheer into the heart of the foe, + With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick below; + For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were seen, + And the little _Revenge_ ran on thro' the long sea-lane between. + + Thousands of their soldiers looked down from their decks and laugh'd, + Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little craft + Running on and on, till delay'd + By their mountain-like _San Philip_ that, of fifteen hundred tons, + And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning tiers of guns, + Took the breath from our sails, and we stay'd. + + And while now the great _San Philip_ hung above us like a cloud + Whence the thunderbolt will fall + Long and loud. + Four galleons drew away + From the Spanish fleet that day, + And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay, + And the battle-thunder broke from them all. + + But anon the great _San Philip_, she bethought herself and went, + Having that within her womb that had left her ill content; + And the rest they came aboard us, and they fought us hand to hand, + For a dozen times they came with their pikes and musqueteers, + And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a dog that shakes his ears + When he leaps from the water to the land. + + And the sun went down, and the stars came out far over the summer sea, + But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-three; + Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built galleons came, + Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle-thunder + and flame; + Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her dead + and her shame. + For some were sunk and many were shatter'd, and so could + fight us no more-- + God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world before? + + For he said, "Fight on! fight on!" + Tho' his vessel was all but a wreck; + And it chanced that, when half of the short summer night was gone, + With a grisly wound to be drest he had left the deck, + But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead, + And himself he was wounded again in the side and the head, + And he said, "Fight on! Fight on!" + + And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far + over the summer sea, + And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us all in a ring; + But they dared not touch us again, for they fear'd that + we still could sting, + So they watched what the end would be. + And we had not fought them in vain, + But in perilous plight were we, + Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain, + And half of the rest of us maim'd for life + In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife; + And the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark and cold, + And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder was + all of it spent; + And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side; + But Sir Richard cried in his English pride: + "We have fought such a fight for a day and a night + As may never be fought again! + We have won great glory, my men! + And a day less or more + At sea or ashore, + We die--does it matter when? + Sink me the ship, Master Gunner--sink her, split her in twain! + Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain!" + + And the gunner said. "Ay, ay," but the seamen made reply: + "We have children, we have wives, + And the Lord hath spared our lives. + We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us go; + We shall live to fight again, and to strike another blow." + And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe. + And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore him then, + Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard caught at last, + And they praised him to his face with their courtly foreign grace; + But he rose upon their decks, and he cried: + "I have fought for Queen and Faith like a valiant man and true; + I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do. + With a joyful spirit I, Sir Richard Grenville, die!" + And he fell upon their decks, and he died. + + And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and true, + And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheap + That he dared her with one little ship and his English few. + Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they knew, + But they sank his body with honour down into the deep, + And they mann'd the _Revenge_ with a swarthier alien crew, + And away she sail'd with her loss and long'd for her own; + When a wind from the lands they had ruin'd awoke from sleep, + And the water began to heave and the weather to moan, + And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew, + And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earthquake grew, + Till it smote on their hulls, and their sails, and their masts, + and their flags, + And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shatter'd navy of Spain, + And the little _Revenge_ herself went down by the island crags, + To be lost evermore in the main. + + ALFRED TENNYSON. + + + SIR GALAHAD. + + Sir Galahad is the most moral and upright of all the Knights of the + Round Table. The strong lines of the poem (Tennyson, 1809-92) are the + strong lines of human destiny-- + + "My strength is as the strength of ten + Because my heart is pure." + + + My good blade carves the casques of men, + My tough lance thrusteth sure, + My strength is as the strength of ten, + Because my heart is pure. + The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, + The hard brands shiver on the steel, + The splintered spear-shafts crack and fly, + The horse and rider reel: + They reel, they roll in clanging lists, + And when the tide of combat stands, + Perfume and flowers fall in showers, + That lightly rain from ladies' hands. + + How sweet are looks that ladies bend + On whom their favours fall! + For them I battle till the end, + To save from shame and thrall: + But all my heart is drawn above, + My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine: + I never felt the kiss of love, + Nor maiden's hand in mine. + More bounteous aspects on me beam, + Me mightier transports move and thrill; + So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer + A virgin heart in work and will. + + When down the stormy crescent goes, + A light before me swims, + Between dark stems the forest glows, + I hear a noise of hymns: + Then by some secret shrine I ride; + I hear a voice, but none are there; + The stalls are void, the doors are wide, + The tapers burning fair. + Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, + The silver vessels sparkle clean, + The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, + And solemn chaunts resound between. + + Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres + I find a magic bark; + I leap on board: no helmsman steers, + I float till all is dark. + A gentle sound, an awful light! + Three angels bear the holy Grail: + With folded feet, in stoles of white, + On sleeping wings they sail. + Ah, blessčd vision! blood of God! + My spirit beats her mortal bars, + As down dark tides the glory slides, + And star-like mingles with the stars. + + When on my goodly charger borne + Thro' dreaming towns I go, + The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, + The streets are dumb with snow. + The tempest crackles on the leads, + And, ringing, springs from brand and mail; + But o'er the dark a glory spreads, + And gilds the driving hail. + I leave the plain, I climb the height; + No branchy thicket shelter yields; + But blessčd forms in whistling storms + Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields. + + A maiden knight--to me is given + Such hope, I know not fear; + I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven + That often meet me here. + I muse on joy that will not cease, + Pure spaces cloth'd in living beams, + Pure lilies of eternal peace, + Whose odours haunt my dreams; + And, stricken by an angel's hand, + This mortal armour that I wear, + This weight and size, this heart and eyes, + Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air. + + The clouds are broken in the sky, + And thro' the mountain-walls + A rolling organ-harmony + Swells up, and shakes and falls. + Then move the trees, the copses nod, + Wings flutter, voices hover clear: + "O just and faithful knight of God! + Ride on! the prize is near." + So pass I hostel, hall, and grange; + By bridge and ford, by park and pale, + All-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide, + Until I find the holy Grail. + + ALFRED TENNYSON. + + + A NAME IN THE SAND. + +"A Name in the Sand," by Hannah Flagg Gould (1789-1865), is a poem to + correct our ready overestimate of our own importance. + + Alone I walked the ocean strand; + A pearly shell was in my hand: + I stooped and wrote upon the sand + My name--the year--the day. + As onward from the spot I passed, + One lingering look behind I cast; + A wave came rolling high and fast, + And washed my lines away. + + And so, methought, 'twill shortly be + With every mark on earth from me: + A wave of dark oblivion's sea + Will sweep across the place + Where I have trod the sandy shore + Of time, and been, to be no more, + Of me--my day--the name I bore, + To leave nor track nor trace. + + And yet, with Him who counts the sands + And holds the waters in His hands, + I know a lasting record stands + Inscribed against my name, + Of all this mortal part has wrought, + Of all this thinking soul has thought, + And from these fleeting moments caught + For glory or for shame. + + HANNAH FLAGG GOULD. + + + + + [Illustration] + + PART VI. + + "Grow old along with me! + The best is yet to be,-- + The last of life, for which the first was made." + + + THE VOICE OF SPRING. + +"The Voice of Spring," by Felicia Hemans (1749-1835), becomes + attractive as years go on. The line in this poem that captivated my + youthful fancy was: + + "The larch has hung all his tassels forth," + + The delight with which trees hang out their new little tassels every + year is one of the charms of "the pine family." John Burroughs sent us + down a tiny hemlock, that grew in our window-box at school for five + years, and every spring it was a new joy on account of the fine, tender + tassels. Mrs. Hemans had a vivid imagination backed up by an abundant + information. + + I come, I come! ye have called me long; + I come o'er the mountains, with light and song. + Ye may trace my step o'er the waking earth + By the winds which tell of the violet's birth, + By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass, + By the green leaves opening as I pass. + + I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut-flowers + By thousands have burst from the forest bowers, + And the ancient graves and the fallen fanes + Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains; + But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, + To speak of the ruin or the tomb! + + I have looked o'er the hills of the stormy North, + And the larch has hung all his tassels forth; + The fisher is out on the sunny sea, + And the reindeer bounds o'er the pastures free, + And the pine has a fringe of softer green, + And the moss looks bright, where my step has been. + + I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh, + And called out each voice of the deep blue sky, + From the night-bird's lay through the starry time, + In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime, + To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes, + When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks. + + From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain; + They are sweeping on to the silvery main, + They are flashing down from the mountain brows, + They are flinging spray o'er the forest boughs, + They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves, + And the earth resounds with the joy of waves. + + FELICIA HEMANS. + + + THE FORSAKEN MERMAN. + +"The Forsaken Merman," by Matthew Arnold (1822-88), is a poem that I do + not expect children to appreciate fully, even when they care enough for + it to learn it. It is too long for most children to commit to memory, + and I generally assign one stanza to one pupil and another to another + pupil until it is divided up among them. The poem is a masterpiece. + Doubtless the poet meant to show that the forsaken merman had a greater + soul to save than the woman who sought to save her soul by deserting + natural duty. Salvation does not come through the faith that builds + itself at the expense of love. + + Come, dear children, let us away; + Down and away below! + Now my brothers call from the bay, + Now the great winds shoreward blow, + Now the salt tides seaward flow; + Now the wild white horses play, + Champ and chafe and toss in the spray. + Children dear, let us away! + This way, this way! + + Call her once before you go-- + Call once yet! + In a voice that she will know: + "Margaret! Margaret!" + Children's voices should be dear + (Call once more) to a mother's ear; + Children's voices, wild with pain-- + Surely she will come again! + Call her once and come away; + This way, this way! + "Mother dear, we cannot stay! + The wild white horses foam and fret." + Margaret! Margaret! + + Come, dear children, come away down; + Call no more! + One last look at the white-wall'd town, + And the little gray church on the windy shore; + Then come down! + She will not come though you call all day; + Come away, come away! + + Children dear, was it yesterday + We heard the sweet bells over the bay? + In the caverns where we lay, + Through the surf and through the swell, + The far-off sound of a silver bell? + Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep, + Where the winds are all asleep; + Where the spent lights quiver and gleam, + Where the salt weed sways in the stream, + Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round, + Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground; + Where the sea-snakes coil and twine, + Dry their mail and bask in the brine; + Where great whales come sailing by, + Sail and sail, with unshut eye, + Round the world forever and aye? + When did music come this way? + Children dear, was it yesterday? + + Children dear, was it yesterday + (Call yet once) that she went away? + Once she sate with you and me, + On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea, + And the youngest sate on her knee. + She comb'd its bright hair, and she tended it well, + When down swung the sound of a far-off bell. + She sigh'd, she look'd up through the clear green sea; + She said: "I must go, for my kinsfolk pray + In the little gray church on the shore to-day. + 'Twill be Easter-time in the world--ah me! + And I lose my poor soul, Merman! here with thee." + I said: "Go up, dear heart, through the waves; + Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves!" + She smil'd, she went up through the surf in the bay. + Children dear, was it yesterday? + + Children dear, were we long alone? + "The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan; + Long prayers," I said, "in the world they say; + Come!" I said; and we rose through the surf in the bay. + We went up the beach, by the sandy down + Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-wall'd town; + Through the narrow pav'd streets, where all was still, + To the little gray church on the windy hill. + From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers, + But we stood without in the cold blowing airs. + We climb'd on the graves, on the stones worn with rains, + And we gaz'd up the aisle through the small leaded panes. + She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear: + "Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here! + Dear heart," I said, "we are long alone; + The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan." + But, ah, she gave me never a look, + For her eyes were seal'd to the holy book! + Loud prays the priest: shut stands the door. + Come away, children, call no more! + Come away, come down, call no more! + + Down, down, down! + Down to the depths of the sea! + She sits at her wheel in the humming town, + Singing most joyfully. + Hark what she sings: "O joy, O joy, + For the humming street, and the child with its toy! + For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well; + For the wheel where I spun, + And the blessčd light of the sun!" + And so she sings her fill, + Singing most joyfully, + Till the spindle drops from her hand, + And the whizzing wheel stands still. + She steals to the window, and looks at the sand, + And over the sand at the sea; + And her eyes are set in a stare; + And anon there breaks a sigh, + And anon there drops a tear, + From a sorrow-clouded eye, + And a heart sorrow-laden, + A long, long sigh; + For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden, + And the gleam of her golden hair. + + Come away, away, children; + Come, children, come down! + The hoarse wind blows colder; + Lights shine in the town. + She will start from her slumber + When gusts shake the door; + She will hear the winds howling, + Will hear the waves roar. + We shall see, while above us + The waves roar and whirl, + A ceiling of amber, + A pavement of pearl. + Singing: "Here came a mortal, + But faithless was she! + And alone dwell forever + The kings of the sea." + + But, children, at midnight, + When soft the winds blow, + When clear falls the moonlight, + When spring-tides are low; + When sweet airs come seaward + From heaths starr'd with broom, + And high rocks throw mildly + On the blanch'd sands a gloom; + Up the still, glistening beaches, + Up the creeks we will hie, + Over banks of bright seaweed + The ebb-tide leaves dry. + We will gaze, from the sand-hills, + At the white, sleeping town; + At the church on the hill-side-- + And then come back down. + Singing: "There dwells a lov'd one, + But cruel is she! + She left lonely forever + The kings of the sea." + + MATTHEW ARNOLD. + + + THE BANKS O' DOON. + +"The Banks o' Doon," by Robert Burns (1759-96). Bonnie Doon is in the + southwestern part of Scotland. Robert Burns's old home it close to it. + The house has low walls, a thatched roof, and only two rooms. Alloway + Kirk and the two bridges so famous in Robert Burns's verse are near by. + This is an enchanted land, and the Scotch people for miles around Ayr + speak of the poet with sincere affection. Burns, more than any other + poet, has thrown the enchantment of poetry over his own locality. + + Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, + How can ye blume sae fair! + How can ye chant, ye little birds, + And I sae fu' o' care. + + Thou'lt break my heart, thou bonnie bird + That sings upon the bough; + Thou minds me o' the happy days + When my fause luve was true. + + Thou'lt break my heart, thou bonnie bird + That sings beside thy mate; + For sae I sat, and sae I sang, + And wist na o' my fate. + + Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, + To see the woodbine twine, + And ilka bird sang o' its love, + And sae did I o' mine. + + Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose + Frae off its thorny tree; + And my fause luver staw the rose, + But left the thorn wi' me. + + ROBERT BURNS. + + + THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS. + + Oft in the stilly night + Ere slumber's chain has bound me, + Fond Memory brings the light + Of other days around me: + The smiles, the tears + Of boyhood's years, + The words of love then spoken; + The eyes that shone, + Now dimmed and gone, + The cheerful hearts now broken! + Thus in the stilly night + Ere slumber's chain has bound me, + Sad Memory brings the light + Of other days around me. + + When I remember all + The friends so link'd together + I've seen around me fall + Like leaves in wintry weather, + I feel like one + Who treads alone + Some banquet-hall deserted, + Whose lights are fled, + Whose garlands dead, + And all but he departed! + Thus in the stilly night + Ere slumber's chain has bound me, + Sad Memory brings the light + Of other days around me. + + THOMAS MOORE. + + + MY OWN SHALL COME TO ME. + + If John Burroughs (1837-) had never written any other poem than "My Own + Shall Come to Me," he would have stood to all ages as one of the + greatest of American poets. The poem is most characteristic of the + tall, majestic, slow-going poet and naturalist. There is no greater + line in Greek or English literature than + + "I stand amid the eternal ways." + + + Serene I fold my hands and wait, + Nor care for wind, nor tide, nor sea. + I rave no more 'gainst time or fate, + For lo! my own shall come to me. + + I stay my haste, I make delays, + For what avails this eager pace? + I stand amid the eternal ways, + And what is mine shall know my face. + + Asleep, awake, by night or day + The friends I seek are seeking me; + No wind can drive my bark astray, + Nor change the tide of destiny. + + What matter if I stand alone? + I wait with joy the coming years; + My heart shall reap when it has sown, + And gather up its fruit of tears. + + The stars come nightly to the sky; + The tidal wave comes to the sea; + Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high, + Can keep my own away from me. + + The waters know their own and draw + The brook that springs in yonder heights; + So flows the good with equal law + Unto the soul of pure delights. + + JOHN BURROUGHS. + + + ODE TO A SKYLARK. + +"Ode to a Skylark," by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822), is usually + assigned to "grammar grades" of schools. It is included here out of + respect to a boy of eleven years who was more impressed with these + lines than with any other lines in any poem: + + "Like a poet hidden, + In the light of thought + Singing songs unbidden + Till the world is wrought + To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not." + + + Hail to thee, blithe spirit-- + Bird thou never wert-- + That from heaven or near it + Pourest thy full heart + In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. + + Higher still and higher + From the earth thou springest, + Like a cloud of fire; + The blue deep thou wingest, + And singing still dost soar and soaring ever singest. + + In the golden lightning + Of the sunken sun, + O'er which clouds are brightening, + Thou dost float and run, + Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. + + The pale purple even + Melts around thy flight; + Like a star of heaven, + In the broad daylight + Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight. + + All the earth and air + With thy voice is loud, + As, when night is bare, + From one lonely cloud + The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. + + What thou art we know not; + What is most like thee? + From rainbow-clouds there flow not + Drops so bright to see + As from thy presence showers a rain of melody:-- + + Like a poet hidden + In the light of thought; + Singing hymns unbidden, + Till the world is wrought + To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not. + + Teach us, sprite or bird, + What sweet thoughts are thine: + I have never heard + Praise of love or wine + That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. + + Chorus hymeneal + Or triumphal chaunt, + Matched with thine, would be all + But an empty vaunt-- + A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. + + What objects are the fountains + Of thy happy strain? + What fields, or waves, or mountains? + What shapes of sky or plain? + What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? + + Teach me half the gladness + That thy brain must know, + Such harmonious madness + From my lips would flow, + The world should listen then, as I am listening now! + + PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. + + + THE SANDS OF DEE. + + I have often had the pleasure of riding across the coast from Chester, + England, to Rhyl, on the north coast of Wales, where stretch "The Sands + of Dee" (Charles Kingsley, 1819-75). These purple sands at low tide + stretch off into the sea miles away, and are said to be full of + quicksands. + + "O Mary, go and call the cattle home, + And call the cattle home, + And call the cattle home, + Across the sands of Dee." + The western wind was wild and dark with foam + And all alone went she. + + The western tide crept up along the sand, + And o'er and o'er the sand, + And round and round the sand, + As far as eye could see. + The rolling mist came down and hid the land; + And never home came she. + Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair,-- + A tress of golden hair, + A drownčd maiden's hair, + Above the nets at sea? + Was never salmon yet that shone so fair + Among the stakes on Dee. + + They rowed her in across the rolling foam, + The cruel crawling foam, + The cruel hungry foam, + To her grave beside the sea. + But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home + Across the sands of Dee. + + CHARLES KINGSLEY. + + + A WISH. + +"A Wish" (by Samuel Rogers, 1763-1855) and "Lucy" (by Wordsworth, + 1770-1850) are two gems that can be valued only for the spirit of quiet + and modesty diffused by them. + + Mine be a cot beside the hill; + A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear; + A willowy brook that turns a mill + With many a fall shall linger near. + + The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch + Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; + Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, + And share my meal, a welcome guest. + + Around my ivied porch shall spring + Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; + And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing + In russet gown and apron blue. + + The village church among the trees, + Where first our marriage-vows were given, + With merry peals shall swell the breeze + And point with taper spire to Heaven. + + S. ROGERS. + + + LUCY. + + She dwelt among the untrodden ways + Beside the springs of Dove; + A maid whom there were none to praise, + And very few to love. + + A violet by a mossy stone + Half-hidden from the eye! + Fair as a star, when only one + Is shining in the sky. + + She lived unknown, and few could know + When Lucy ceased to be; + But she is in her grave, and, oh, + The difference to me! + + WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. + + + SOLITUDE. + + Happy the man, whose wish and care + A few paternal acres bound, + Content to breathe his native air + In his own ground. + + Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, + Whose flocks supply him with attire; + Whose trees in summer yield him shade, + In winter fire. + + Blest, who can unconcern'dly find + Hours, days, and years slide soft away + In health of body, peace of mind, + Quiet by day, + + Sound sleep by night; study and ease + Together mixt, sweet recreation, + And innocence, which most does please + With meditation. + + Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; + Thus unlamented let me die; + Steal from the world, and not a stone + Tell where I lie. + + ALEXANDER POPE. + + + JOHN ANDERSON + +"John Anderson," by Robert Burns (1759-96). This poem is included to + please several teachers. + + John Anderson, my jo, John, + When we were first acquent + Your locks were like the raven, + Your bonnie brow was brent; + But now your brow is bald, John, + Your locks are like the snow; + But blessings on your frosty pow, + John Anderson, my jo. + + John Anderson, my jo, John, + We clamb the hill thegither, + And mony a canty day, John, + We've had wi' ane anither; + Now we maun totter down, John, + But hand in hand we'll go, + And sleep thegither at the foot, + John Anderson, my jo. + + ROBERT BURNS. + + + THE GOD OF MUSIC. + +"The God of Music," by Edith M. Thomas, an Ohio poetess now living. In + this sonnet the poetess has touched the power of Wordsworth or Keats + and placed herself among the immortals. + + The God of Music dwelleth out of doors. + All seasons through his minstrelsy we meet, + Breathing by field and covert haunting-sweet + From organ-lofts in forests old he pours: + A solemn harmony: on leafy floors + To smooth autumnal pipes he moves his feet, + Or with the tingling plectrum of the sleet + In winter keen beats out his thrilling scores. + Leave me the reed unplucked beside the stream. + And he will stoop and fill it with the breeze; + Leave me the viol's frame in secret trees, + Unwrought, and it shall wake a druid theme; + Leave me the whispering shell on Nereid shores. + The God of Music dwelleth out of doors. + + EDITH M. THOMAS. + + + A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT. + +"A Musical Instrument" by Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-61). This + poem is the supreme masterpiece of Mrs. Browning. The prime thought in + it is the sacrifice and pain that must go to make a poet of any genius. + + "The great god sighed for the cost and the pain." + + + What was he doing, the great god Pan, + Down in the reeds by the river? + Spreading ruin and scattering ban, + Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat, + And breaking the golden lilies afloat + With the dragon-fly on the river. + + He tore out a reed, the great god Pan, + From the deep cool bed of the river: + The limpid water turbidly ran, + And the broken lilies a-dying lay, + And the dragon-fly had fled away, + Ere he brought it out of the river. + + High on the shore sat the great god Pan, + While turbidly flow'd the river; + And hack'd and hew'd as a great god can, + With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed, + Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed + To prove it fresh from the river. + + He cut it short, did the great god Pan + (How tall it stood in the river!), + Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man, + Steadily from the outside ring, + And notched the poor dry empty thing + In holes, as he sat by the river. + + "This is the way," laugh'd the great god Pan + (Laugh'd while he sat by the river), + "The only way, since gods began + To make sweet music, they could succeed." + Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed + He blew in power by the river. + + Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan! + Piercing sweet by the river! + Blinding sweet, O great god Pan! + The sun on the hill forgot to die, + And the lilies reviv'd, and the dragon-fly + Came back to dream on the river. + + Yet half a beast is the great god Pan, + To laugh as he sits by the river, + Making a poet out of a man: + The true gods sigh for the cost and pain,-- + For the reed which grows nevermore again + As a reed with the reeds in the river. + + ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. + + + THE BRIDES OF ENDERBY. + +"The Brides of Enderby," by Jean Ingelow (1830-97). This poem is very + dramatic, and the music of the refrain has done much to make it + popular. But the pathos is that which endears it. + + The old mayor climb'd the belfry tower, + The ringers ran by two, by three; + "Pull, if ye never pull'd before; + Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he. + "Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells! + Ply all your changes, all your swells, + Play uppe, 'The Brides of Enderby.'" + + Men say it was a stolen tyde-- + The Lord that sent it, He knows all; + But in myne ears doth still abide + The message that the bells let fall: + And there was naught of strange, beside + The flight of mews and peewits pied + By millions crouch'd on the old sea wall. + + I sat and spun within the doore, + My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes; + The level sun, like ruddy ore, + Lay sinking in the barren skies; + And dark against day's golden death + She moved where Lindis wandereth, + My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth. + + "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, + Ere the early dews were falling, + Farre away I heard her song, + "Cusha! Cusha!" all along; + Where the reedy Lindis floweth, + Floweth, floweth, + From the meads where melick groweth + Faintly came her milking song-- + + "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, + "For the dews will soone be falling; + Leave your meadow grasses mellow, + Mellow, mellow; + Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; + Come uppe, Whitefoot, come uppe, Lightfoot; + Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, + Hollow, hollow; + Come uppe, Jetty, rise and follow, + From the clovers lift your head; + Come uppe, Whitefoot, come uppe, Lightfoot, + Come uppe, Jetty, rise and follow, + Jetty, to the milking shed." + + If it be long ay, long ago, + When I beginne to think howe long, + Againe I hear the Lindis flow, + Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong; + And all the aire, it seemeth mee, + Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), + That ring the tune of Enderby. + + Alle fresh the level pasture lay, + And not a shadowe mote be seene, + Save where full fyve good miles away + The steeple tower'd from out the greene; + And lo! the great bell farre and wide + Was heard in all the country side + That Saturday at eventide. + + The swanherds where their sedges are + Mov'd on in sunset's golden breath, + The shepherde lads I heard afarre, + And my sonne's wife, Elizabeth; + Till floating o'er the grassy sea + Came downe that kyndly message free, + The "Brides of Mavis Enderby." + + Then some look'd uppe into the sky, + And all along where Lindis flows + To where the goodly vessels lie, + And where the lordly steeple shows. + They sayde, "And why should this thing be? + What danger lowers by land or sea? + They ring the tune of Enderby! + + "For evil news from Mablethorpe, + Of pyrate galleys warping down; + For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe, + They have not spar'd to wake the towne: + But while the west bin red to see, + And storms be none, and pyrates flee, + Why ring 'The Brides of Enderby'?" + + I look'd without, and lo! my sonne + Came riding downe with might and main; + He rais'd a shout as he drew on, + Till all the welkin rang again, + "Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" + (A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath + Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.) + + "The olde sea wall," he cried, "is downe, + The rising tide comes on apace, + And boats adrift in yonder towne + Go sailing uppe the market-place." + He shook as one that looks on death: + "God save you, mother!" straight he saith + "Where is my wife, Elizabeth?" + + "Good sonne, where Lindis winds her way + With her two bairns I marked her long; + And ere yon bells beganne to play + Afar I heard her milking song." + He looked across the grassy lea, + To right, to left, "Ho, Enderby!" + They rang "The Brides of Enderby!" + + With that he cried and beat his breast; + For, lo! along the river's bed + A mighty eygre rear'd his crest, + And uppe the Lindis raging sped. + It swept with thunderous noises loud; + Shap'd like a curling snow-white cloud, + Or like a demon in a shroud. + + And rearing Lindis backward press'd + Shook all her trembling bankes amaine; + Then madly at the eygre's breast + Flung uppe her weltering walls again. + Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout-- + Then beaten foam flew round about-- + Then all the mighty floods were out. + + So farre, so fast the eygre drave, + The heart had hardly time to beat + Before a shallow seething wave + Sobb'd in the grasses at oure feet: + The feet had hardly time to flee + Before it brake against the knee, + And all the world was in the sea. + + Upon the roofe we sate that night, + The noise of bells went sweeping by; + I mark'd the lofty beacon light + Stream from the church tower, red and high-- + A lurid mark and dread to see; + And awsome bells they were to mee, + That in the dark rang "Enderby." + + They rang the sailor lads to guide + From roofe to roofe who fearless row'd; + And I--my sonne was at my side, + And yet the ruddy beacon glow'd: + And yet he moan'd beneath his breath, + "O come in life, or come in death! + O lost! my love, Elizabeth." + + And didst thou visit him no more? + Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare + The waters laid thee at his doore, + Ere yet the early dawn was clear. + Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, + The lifted sun shone on thy face, + Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place. + + That flow strew'd wrecks about the grass, + That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea; + A fatal ebbe and flow, alas! + To manye more than myne and mee; + But each will mourn his own (she saith); + And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath + Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth. + + I shall never hear her more + By the reedy Lindis shore, + "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, + Ere the early dews be falling; + I shall never hear her song, + "Cusha! Cusha!" all along + Where the sunny Lindis floweth, + Goeth, floweth; + From the meads where melick groweth, + When the water winding down, + Onward floweth to the town. + + I shall never see her more + Where the reeds and rushes quiver, + Shiver, quiver; + Stand beside the sobbing river, + Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling + To the sandy lonesome shore; + I shall never hear her calling, + "Leave your meadow grasses mellow, + Mellow, mellow; + Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; + + "Come uppe, Whitefoot, come uppe, Lightfoot; + Quit your pipes of parsley hollow, + Hollow, hollow; + Come uppe, Lightfoot, rise and follow; + Lightfoot, Whitefoot, + From your clovers lift the head; + Come uppe, Jetty, follow, follow, + Jetty, to the milking shed." + + JEAN INGELOW. + + + THE LYE. + +"The Lye," by Sir Walter Raleigh (1552-1618), is one of the strongest + and most appealing poems a teacher can read to her pupils when teaching + early American history. The poem is full of magnificent lines, such as +"Go, soul, the body's guest." The poem never lacks an attentive + audience of young people when correlated with the study of North + Carolina and Sir Walter Raleigh. The solitary, majestic character of + Sir Walter Raleigh, his intrepidity while undergoing tortures inflicted + by a cowardly king, the ring of indignation--- all these make a weapon + for him stronger than the ax that beheaded him. In this poem he "has + the last word." + + Goe, soule, the bodie's guest, + Upon a thanklesse arrant; + Feare not to touche the best-- + The truth shall be thy warrant! + Goe, since I needs must dye, + And give the world the lye. + + Goe tell the court it glowes + And shines like rotten wood; + Goe tell the church it showes + What's good, and doth no good; + If church and court reply, + Then give them both the lye. + + Tell potentates they live + Acting by others' actions-- + Not loved unlesse they give, + Not strong but by their factions; + If potentates reply, + Give potentates the lye. + + Tell men of high condition, + That rule affairs of state, + Their purpose is ambition, + Their practice only hate; + And if they once reply, + Then give them all the lye. + + Tell zeale it lacks devotion; + Tell love it is but lust; + Tell time it is but motion; + Tell flesh it is but dust; + And wish them not reply, + For thou must give the lye. + + Tell wit how much it wrangles + In tickle points of nicenesse; + Tell wisdome she entangles + Herselfe in over-wisenesse; + And if they do reply, + Straight give them both the lye. + + Tell physicke of her boldnesse; + Tell skill it is pretension; + Tell charity of coldnesse; + Tell law it is contention; + And as they yield reply, + So give them still the lye. + + Tell fortune of her blindnesse; + Tell nature of decay; + Tell friendship of unkindnesse; + Tell justice of delay; + And if they dare reply, + Then give them all the lye. + + Tell arts they have no soundnesse, + But vary by esteeming; + Tell schooles they want profoundnesse, + And stand too much on seeming; + If arts and schooles reply, + Give arts and schooles the lye. + + So, when thou hast, as I + Commanded thee, done blabbing-- + Although to give the lye + Deserves no less than stabbing-- + Yet stab at thee who will, + No stab the soule can kill. + + SIR WALTER RALEIGH. + + + L'ENVOI. + +"L'Envoi," by Rudyard Kipling, is a favourite on account of its + sweeping assertion of the individual's right to self-development. + + When Earth's last picture is painted, and the tubes are + twisted and dried, + When the oldest colours have faded, and the youngest critic has died, + We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it--lie down + for an ćon or two, + Till the Master of All Good Workmen shall set us to work anew! + + And those who were good shall be happy: they shall sit + in a golden chair; + They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of comet's hair; + They shall find real saints to draw from--Magdalene, Peter, and Paul; + They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all! + + And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame; + And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame; + But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star, + Shall draw the Thing as he sees It for the God of Things as They Are! + + RUDYARD KIPLING + + + CONTENTMENT + +"Contentment," by Edward Dyer (1545-1607). This poem holds much to + comfort and control people who are shut up to the joys of + meditation--people to whom the world of activity is closed. To be + independent of things material--this is the soul's pleasure. + + My mind to me a kingdom is; + Such perfect joy therein I find + As far excels all earthly bliss + That God or Nature hath assigned; + Though much I want that most would have, + Yet still my mind forbids to crave. + + Content I live; this is my stay,-- + I seek no more than may suffice. + I press to bear no haughty sway; + Look, what I lack my mind supplies. + Lo, thus I triumph like a king, + Content with that my mind doth bring. + + I laugh not at another's loss, + I grudge not at another's gain; + No worldly wave my mind can toss; + I brook that is another's bane. + I fear no foe, nor fawn on friend; + I loathe not life, nor dread mine end. + + My wealth is health and perfect ease; + My conscience clear my chief defense; + I never seek by bribes to please + Nor by desert to give offense. + Thus do I live, thus will I die; + Would all did so as well as I! + + EDWARD DYER. + + + THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS. + + The harp that once through Tara's halls + The soul of music shed, + Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls + As if that soul were fled. + So sleeps the pride of former days, + So glory's thrill is o'er, + And hearts, that once beat high for praise, + Now feel that pulse no more. + + No more to chiefs and ladies bright + The harp of Tara swells; + The chord alone, that breaks at night, + Its tale of ruin tells. + Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, + The only throb she gives + Is when some heart indignant breaks, + To show that still she lives. + + THOMAS MOORE. + + + THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET + +"The Old Oaken Bucket," by Samuel Woodworth (1785-1848), is a poem we + love because it is an elegant expression of something very dear and + homely. + + How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, + When fond recollection presents them to view! + The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood, + And every loved spot which my infancy knew! + The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it, + The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell, + The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, + And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well-- + The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, + The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. + + That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure, + For often at noon, when returned from the field, + I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, + The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. + How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing, + And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; + Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, + And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well-- + The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, + The moss-covered bucket arose from the well. + + How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it + As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips! + Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, + The brightest that beauty or revelry sips. + And now, far removed from the loved habitation, + The tear of regret will intrusively swell. + As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, + And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well-- + The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, + The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well! + + SAMUEL WOODWORTH. + + + THE RAVEN. + +"The Raven," by Edgar Allan Poe (1809-49), is placed here because so + many college men speak of it at once as the great poem of their + boyhood. The poem caught me when a child by its refrain and weird + picturesqueness. It has never outgrown its mechanical charm. + + Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, + Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore-- + While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, + As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door" + 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-- + Only this, and nothing more." + + Ah! distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, + And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor; + Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow + From my books surcease of sorrow--sorrow for the lost Lenore-- + For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore-- + Nameless here for evermore. + + And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain + Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; + So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, + "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-- + Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door: + This it is, and nothing more." + + Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, + "Sir," said I, "or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; + But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, + And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, + That I scarce was sure I heard you." Here I opened wide the door: + Darkness there, and nothing more. + + Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, + fearing, + Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; + But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, + And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!" + This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" + Merely this, and nothing more. + + Back into my chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, + Soon again I heard a rapping, something louder than before: + "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice; + Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore-- + Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore. + 'Tis the wind, and nothing more." + + Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, + In there stepped a stately Raven, of the saintly days of yore; + Not the least obeisance made he, not a minute stopped or stayed he; + But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door-- + Perched above a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door-- + Perched, and sat, and nothing more. + + Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, + By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore; + "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art + sure, no craven; + Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, wandering from the nightly shore, + Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Plutonian shore?" + Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." + + Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, + Though its answer, little meaning, little relevancy bore; + For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being + Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door-- + Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door + With such a name as "Nevermore." + + But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only + That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour; + Nothing further then he uttered, not a feather then he fluttered, + Till I scarcely more than muttered--"Other friends have flown before, + On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." + Then the bird said, "Nevermore." + + Startled by the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, + "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store, + Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster + Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore-- + Till the dirges of his hope this melancholy burden bore-- + Of 'Never, nevermore,'" + + But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, + Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and + bust, and door; + Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking + Fancy into fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore-- + What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore + Meant in croaking "Nevermore." + + Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing + To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; + This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining + On the cushion's velvet lining, that the lamp-light gloated o'er, + But whose velvet violet lining, with the lamp-light gloating o'er, + She shall press, ah, nevermore! + + Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer + Swung by seraphim, whose footfalls twinkled on the tufted floor. + "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee--by these angels He + hath sent thee + Respite--respite and nepenthe from my memories of Lenore! + Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!" + Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." + + "Prophet," said I, "thing of evil--prophet still, if bird or devil! + Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore + Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted, + On this home by horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore, + Is there--_is_ there balm in Gilead?--tell me, tell me, I implore!" + Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." + + "Prophet," said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still if bird or devil! + By that heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore-- + Tell this soul, with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aiden + It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore! + Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore?" + Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." + + "Be that our sign of parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting-- + "Get thee back into the tempest and the night's Plutonian shore; + Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken, + Leave my loneliness unbroken--quit the bust above my door, + Take thy beak from out my heart and take thy form from off my door!" + Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." + + And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting, + On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door; + And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, + And the lamp-light o'er him streaming, throws his shadow on the floor; + And my soul from out that shadow, that lies floating on the floor, + Shall be lifted--nevermore! + + EDGAR ALLAN POE. + + + ARNOLD VON WINKLERIED. + + "Make way for liberty!" he cried, + Make way for liberty, and died. + In arms the Austrian phalanx stood, + A living wall, a human wood,-- + A wall, where every conscious stone + Seemed to its kindred thousands grown. + A rampart all assaults to bear, + Till time to dust their frames should wear; + So still, so dense the Austrians stood, + A living wall, a human wood. + + Impregnable their front appears, + All horrent with projected spears. + Whose polished points before them shine, + From flank to flank, one brilliant line, + Bright as the breakers' splendours run + Along the billows to the sun. + + Opposed to these a hovering band + Contended for their fatherland; + Peasants, whose new-found strength had broke + From manly necks the ignoble yoke, + And beat their fetters into swords, + On equal terms to fight their lords; + And what insurgent rage had gained, + In many a mortal fray maintained; + Marshalled, once more, at Freedom's call, + They came to conquer or to fall, + Where he who conquered, he who fell, + Was deemed a dead or living Tell, + Such virtue had that patriot breathed, + So to the soil his soul bequeathed, + That wheresoe'er his arrows flew, + Heroes in his own likeness grew, + And warriors sprang from every sod, + Which his awakening footstep trod. + + And now the work of life and death + Hung on the passing of a breath; + The fire of conflict burned within, + The battle trembled to begin; + Yet, while the Austrians held their ground, + Point for attack was nowhere found; + Where'er the impatient Switzers gazed, + The unbroken line of lances blazed; + That line 'twere suicide to meet, + And perish at their tyrant's feet; + How could they rest within their graves, + And leave their homes, the homes of slaves! + Would not they feel their children tread, + With clanging chains, above their head? + + It must not be; this day, this hour, + Annihilates the invader's power; + All Switzerland is in the field; + She will not fly,--she cannot yield,-- + She must not fall; her better fate + Here gives her an immortal date. + Few were the numbers she could boast, + But every freeman was a host, + And felt as 'twere a secret known + That one should turn the scale alone, + While each unto himself was he + On whose sole arm hung victory. + + It did depend on one indeed; + Behold him,--Arnold Winkelried; + There sounds not to the trump of fame + The echo of a nobler name. + Unmarked he stood amid the throng, + In rumination deep and long, + Till you might see, with sudden grace, + The very thought come o'er his face; + And, by the motion of his form, + Anticipate the bursting storm, + And, by the uplifting of his brow, + Tell where the bolt would strike, and how. + + But 'twas no sooner thought than done! + The field was in a moment won; + "Make way for liberty!" he cried, + Then ran, with arms extended wide, + As if his dearest friend to clasp; + Ten spears he swept within his grasp. + "Make way for liberty!" he cried. + Their keen points crossed from side to side; + He bowed amidst them like a tree, + And thus made way for liberty. + + Swift to the breach his comrades fly, + "Make way for liberty!" they cry, + And through the Austrian phalanx dart, + As rushed the spears through Arnold's heart. + While instantaneous as his fall, + Rout, ruin, panic, seized them all; + An earthquake could not overthrow + A city with a surer blow. + + Thus Switzerland again was free; + Thus Death made way for Liberty! + + JAMES MONTGOMERY. + + + LIFE, I KNOW NOT WHAT THOU ART. + + Life! I know not what thou art. + But know that thou and I must part; + And when, or how, or where we met, + I own to me's a secret yet. + Life! we've been long together + Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; + Tis hard to part when friends are dear-- + Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear; + --Then steal away, give little warning, + Choose thine own time; + Say not Good Night,--but in some brighter clime + Bid me Good Morning. + + A.L. BARBAULD. + + + MERCY. + +"Mercy," an excerpt from "The Merchant of Venice," "Polonius' Advice," + from "Hamlet," and "Antony's Speech," from "Julius Cćsar" (all + fragments from Shakespeare, 1564-1616), find a place in this book + because a well-known New York teacher--one who is unremitting in his + efforts to raise the good taste and character of his pupils--says: "A + book of poetry could not be complete without these extracts." + + The quality of mercy is not strain'd; + It droppeth as the gentle rain from Heaven + Upon the place beneath: it is twice bless'd; + It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes: + 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes + The throned monarch better than his crown: + His scepter shows the force of temporal power, + The attribute to awe and majesty, + Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; + But mercy is above his sceptered sway; + It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, + It is an attribute to God himself; + And earthly power doth then show likest God's + When mercy seasons justice. + + SHAKESPEARE ("Merchant of Venice"). + + + POLONIUS' ADVICE. + + See thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue, + Nor any unproportion'd thought his act. + Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar: + The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, + Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel; + But do not dull thy palm with entertainment + Of each new-hatch'd, unfledg'd comrade. Beware + Of entrance to a quarrel; but, being in, + Bear 't that th' opposed may beware of thee. + Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice: + Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment. + Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy + But not expressed in fancy; rich, not gaudy: + For the apparel oft proclaims the man. + Neither a borrower nor a lender be; + For loan oft loses both itself and friend, + And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. + This above all: to thine own self be true; + And it must follow, as the night the day, + Thou canst not then be false to any man. + + SHAKESPEARE ("Hamlet"). + + + A FRAGMENT FROM MARK ANTONY'S SPEECH. + + This was the noblest Roman of them all: + All the conspirators, save only he, + Did that they did in envy of great Cćsar; + He only, in a general honest thought + And common good to all, made one of them. + His life was gentle; and the elements + So mix'd in him, that Nature might stand up, + And say to all the world, "This was a man!" + + SHAKESPEARE ("Julius Cćsar"). + + + THE SKYLARK. + + Bird of the wilderness, + Blithesome and cumberless, + Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea! + Emblem of happiness, + Blest is thy dwelling-place-- + Oh, to abide in the desert with thee! + + Wild is thy lay and loud, + Far in the downy cloud, + Love gives it energy, love gave it birth. + Where, on thy dewy wing, + Where art thou journeying? + Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. + + O'er fell and fountain sheen, + O'er moor and mountain green, + O'er the red streamer that heralds the day, + Over the cloudlet dim, + Over the rainbow's rim, + Musical cherub, soar, singing, away! + + Then, when the gloaming comes, + Low in the heather blooms + Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be! + Emblem of happiness, + Blest is thy dwelling-place-- + Oh, to abide in the desert with thee! + + THOMAS HOGG. + + + THE CHOIR INVISIBLE. + +"The Choir Invisible" (by George Eliot, 1819-80) is a fitting + exposition in poetry of this "Shakespeare of prose." + + O, may I join the choir invisible + Of those immortal dead who live again + In minds made better by their presence; live + In pulses stirred to generosity, + In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn + Of miserable aims that end with self, + In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars, + And with their mild persistence urge men's minds + To vaster issues. + May I reach + That purest heaven,--be to other souls + The cup of strength in some great agony, + Enkindle generous ardour, feed pure love, + Beget the smiles that have no cruelty, + Be the sweet presence of good diffused, + And in diffusion ever more intense! + So shall I join the choir invisible, + Whose music is the gladness of the world. + + GEORGE ELIOT. + + + THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US. + +"The World Is Too Much With Us," by Wordsworth (1770-1850), is perhaps + the greatest sonnet ever written. It is true that "the eyes of the + soul" are blinded by a surfeit of worldly "goods." "I went to the Lake + District" (England), said John Burroughs, "to see what kind of a + country could produce a Wordsworth." Of course he found simple houses, + simple people, barren moors, heather-clad mountains, wild flowers, calm + lakes, plain, rugged simplicity. + + The world is too much with us; late and soon, + Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers; + Little we see in Nature that is ours. + We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! + This sea, that bares her bosom to the moon, + The winds that will be howling at all hours, + And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers-- + For this, for everything, we are out of tune; + It moves us not. Great God! I'd rather be + A pagan, suckled in a creed outworn, + So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, + Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; + Have sight of Proteus, rising from the sea, + Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. + + WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. + + + ON HIS BLINDNESS. + +"Sonnet on His Blindness" (by John Milton, 1608-74). This is the most + stately and pathetic sonnet in existence. The soul enduring enforced + idleness and loss of power without repining. Inactivity made to serve a + higher end. + + "All service ranks the same with God! + There is no first or last." + + + When I consider how my light is spent + Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, + And that one talent which is death to hide, + Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent + To serve therewith my Maker, and present + My true account, lest He, returning, chide; + Doth God exact day-labour, light denied? + I fondly ask: but Patience, to prevent + That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need + Either man's work, or His own gifts; who best + Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best; His state + Is kingly; thousands at His bidding speed, + And post o'er land and ocean without rest; + They also serve who only stand and wait. + + JOHN MILTON. + + + SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. + +"She Was a Phantom of Delight" (by William Wordsworth, 1770-1850) is + included here because it is a picture of woman as she should be, not + made dainty by finery, but by fine ideals-- + + "And not too good + For human nature's daily food." + + + She was a Phantom of delight + When first she gleamed upon my sight; + A lovely Apparition, sent + To be a moment's ornament; + Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; + Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair: + But all things else about her drawn + From May-time and the cheerful Dawn. + A dancing Shape, an Image gay, + To haunt, to startle, and waylay. + + I saw her upon nearer view, + A Spirit, yet a Woman too! + Her household motions light and free, + And steps of virgin liberty; + A countenance in which did meet + Sweet records, promises as sweet; + A Creature not too bright or good + For human nature's daily food; + For transient sorrows, simple wiles, + Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. + + And now I see with eye serene + The very pulse of the machine; + A Being breathing thoughtful breath, + A Traveller between life and death: + The reason firm, the temperate will, + Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; + A perfect Woman, nobly planned, + To warn, to comfort, and command; + And yet a Spirit still, and bright, + With something of angelic light. + + WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. + + + ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. + +"Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard" (Gray, 1716-71). I once drove + from Windsor Castle through Eton, down the long hedge-bound road which + passes the estate of William Penn's descendants to Stoke Pogis, the + little churchyard where this poem was written. They were trimming a + great yew-tree under which Gray was said to have written this poem. The + scene is one of peace and quiet. The "elegy" was a favourite form of + poem with the ancients, but Gray is said to have reached the climax + among poets in this style of verse. The great line of the poem is: + + "The path of glory leads but to the grave." + + It would almost seem that poetry has for its greatest mission the + lesson of a proper humility. + + The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, + The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, + The plowman homeward plods his weary way, + And leaves the world to darkness and to me. + + Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, + And all the air a solemn stillness holds, + Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, + And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds. + + Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r + The moping owl does to the moon complain + Of such as, wandering near her secret bow'r, + Molest her ancient solitary reign. + + Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, + Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, + Each in his narrow cell forever laid, + The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep. + + The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, + The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, + The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, + No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. + + For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, + Or busy housewife ply her evening care: + No children run to lisp their sire's return, + Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. + + Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, + Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; + How jocund did they drive their team afield! + How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! + + Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, + Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; + Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, + The short and simple annals of the Poor. + + The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, + And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, + Await alike th' inevitable hour. + The paths of glory lead but to the grave. + + Forgive, ye Proud, th' involuntary fault + If Memory to these no trophies raise, + Where thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault + The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. + + Can storied urn or animated bust + Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? + Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, + Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death? + + Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid + Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire, + Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, + Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. + + But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page + Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; + Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage, + And froze the genial current of the soul. + + Full many a gem of purest ray serene, + The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: + Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, + And waste its sweetness on the desert air. + + Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast + The little tyrant of his fields withstood; + Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, + Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. + + Th' applause of listening senates to command, + The threats of pain and ruin to despise, + To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, + And read their history in a nation's eyes, + + Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed alone + Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined + Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne, + And shut the gates of mercy on mankind, + + The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, + To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, + Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride + With incense, kindled at the Muse's flame. + + Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, + Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; + Along the cool sequester'd vale of life + They kept the noiseless tenour of their way. + + Yet e'en those bones from insult to protect + Some frail memorial still erected nigh, + With uncouth rhimes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, + Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. + + Their name, their years, spelt by th' unlettered Muse, + The place of fame and elegy supply. + And many a holy text around she strews + That teach the rustic moralist to die. + + For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey, + This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned, + Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, + Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind? + + On some fond breast the parting soul relies, + Some pious drops the closing eye requires; + E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, + E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. + + For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, + Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; + If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, + Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, + + Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, + "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn + Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, + To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. + + "There at the foot of yonder nodding beech + That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, + His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch, + And pore upon the brook that babbles by. + + "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, + Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; + Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, + Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. + + "One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill, + Along the heath, and near his favourite tree; + Another came; nor yet beside the rill, + Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he. + + "The next with dirges due in sad array + Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him borne. + Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, + Graved on the stone beneath yon agčd thorn." + + + THE EPITAPH. + + Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth + A Youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown; + Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, + And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. + + Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, + Heaven did a recompense as largely send: + He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear: + He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend. + + No farther seek his merits to disclose, + Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, + (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) + The bosom of his Father and his God. + + THOMAS GRAY. + + + RABBI BEN EZRA + +"Rabbi Ben Ezra" (by Robert Browning, 1812-89). Youth is for dispute + and age for counsel; each year, each period of a man's life is but the + necessary step to the next. Youth is an uncertain thing to bank on. + + "Grow old along with me! + The best is yet to be, + The last of life for which the first was made." + +"Rabbi Ben Ezra" is a plea for each period in life. Aspiration is the + keynote. + + " ... Trust God; see all, nor be afraid!" + + + Grow old along with me! + The best is yet to be, + The last of life, for which the first was made: + Our times are in His hand + Who saith, "A whole I plann'd, + Youth shows but half; trust God: see all nor be afraid!" + + Not that, amassing flowers, + Youth sigh'd, "Which rose make ours, + Which lily leave and then as best recall?" + Not that, admiring stars, + It yearn'd, "Nor Jove, nor Mars; + Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all!" + + Not for such hopes and fears + Annulling youth's brief years, + Do I remonstrate: folly wide the mark! + Rather I prize the doubt + Low kinds exist without, + Finish'd and finite clods, untroubled by a spark. + + Poor vaunt of life indeed, + Were man but formed to feed + On joy, to solely seek and find and feast: + Such feasting ended, then + As sure an end to men; + Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets doubt the maw-cramm'd beast? + + Rejoice we are allied + To That which doth provide + And not partake, effect and not receive! + A spark disturbs our clod; + Nearer we hold of God + Who gives, than of His tribes that take, I must believe. + + Then, welcome each rebuff + That turns earth's smoothness rough, + Each sting, that bids nor sit nor stand, but go! + Be our joys three parts pain! + Strive, and hold cheap the strain; + Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe! + + For thence,--a paradox + Which comforts while it mocks,-- + Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail: + What I aspired to be, + And was not, comforts me: + A brute I might have been, but would not sink i' the scale. + + What is he but a brute + Whose flesh has soul to suit, + Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play? + To man, propose this test-- + Thy body at its best, + How far can that project thy soul on its lone way? + + Yet gifts should prove their use: + I own the Past profuse + Of power each side, perfection every turn: + Eyes, ears took in their dole, + Brain treasured up the whole: + Should not the heart beat once "How good to live and learn?" + + Not once beat "Praise be Thine! + I see the whole design, + I, who saw power, see now love perfect too: + Perfect I call Thy plan: + Thanks that I was a man! + Maker, remake, complete,--I trust what Thou shalt do!" + + For pleasant is this flesh, + Our soul, in its rose-mesh + Pull'd ever to the earth, still yearns for rest; + Would we some prize might hold + To match those manifold + Possessions of the brute,--gain most, as we did best! + + Let us not always say, + "Spite of this flesh to-day + I strove, made head, gained ground upon the whole!" + As the bird wings and sings, + Let us cry, "All good things + Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul!" + + Therefore I summon age + To grant youth's heritage, + Life's struggle having so far reached its term: + Thence shall I pass, approved + A man, for aye removed + From the developed brute; a god though in the germ. + + And I shall thereupon + Take rest, ere I be gone + Once more on my adventure brave and new: + Fearless and unperplex'd, + When I wage battle next, + What weapons to select, what armour to indue. + + Youth ended, I shall try + My gain or loss thereby; + Leave the fire ashes, what survives is gold: + And I shall weigh the same, + Give life its praise or blame: + Young, all lay in dispute; I shall know, being old. + + For note, when evening shuts, + A certain moment cuts + The deed off, calls the glory from the gray: + A whisper from the west + Shoots--"Add this to the rest, + Take it and try its worth: here dies another day." + + So, still within this life, + Though lifted o'er its strife, + Let me discern, compare, pronounce at last, + "This rage was right i' the main, + That acquiescence vain: + The Future I may face now I have proved the Past" + + For more is not reserved + To man, with soul just nerved + To act to-morrow what he learns to-day: + Here, work enough to watch + The Master work, and catch + Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool's true play. + + As it was better, youth + Should strive, through acts uncouth, + Toward making, than repose on aught found made: + So, better, age, exempt + From strife, should know, than tempt + Further. Thou waitedest age: wait death nor be afraid! + + Enough now, if the Right + And Good and Infinite + Be named here, as thou callest thy hand thine own, + With knowledge absolute, + Subject to no dispute + From fools that crowded youth, nor let thee feel alone. + + Be there, for once and all, + Sever'd great minds from small, + Announced to each his station in the Past! + Was I, the world arraigned, + Were they, my soul disdain'd, + Right? Let age speak the truth and give us peace at last! + + Now, who shall arbitrate? + Ten men love what I hate, + Shun what I follow, slight what I receive; + Ten, who in ears and eyes + Match me: we all surmise, + They this thing, and I that: whom shall my soul believe? + + Not on the vulgar mass + Call'd "work," must sentence pass, + Things done, that took the eye and had the price; + O'er which, from level stand, + The low world laid its hand, + Found straightway to its mind, could value in a trice: + + But all, the world's coarse thumb + And finger fail'd to plumb, + So pass'd in making up the main account; + All instincts immature, + All purposes unsure, + That weigh'd not as his work, yet swell'd the man's amount: + + Thoughts hardly to be pack'd + Into a narrow act, + Fancies that broke through language and escaped, + All I could never be, + All, men ignored in me, + This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped. + + Ay, note that Potter's wheel, + That metaphor! and feel + Why time spins fast, why passive lies our clay,-- + Thou, to whom fools propound, + When the wine makes its round, + "Since life fleets, all is change; the Past gone, seize to-day!" + + Fool! All that is, at all, + Lasts ever, past recall; + Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure; + What enter'd into thee, + _That_ was, is, and shall be: + Time's wheel runs back or stops: Potter and clay endure. + + He fix'd thee 'mid this dance + Of plastic circumstance, + This Present, thou, forsooth, wouldst fain arrest + Machinery just meant + To give thy soul its bent, + Try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently impress'd. + + What though the earlier grooves + Which ran the laughing loves + Around thy base, no longer pause and press? + What though, about thy rim, + Scull-things in order grim + Grow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner stress? + + Look not thou down but up! + To uses of a cup, + The festal board, lamp's flash and trumpet's peal, + The new wine's foaming flow, + The master's lips aglow! + Thou, heaven's consummate cup, what need'st thou with earth's wheel? + + But I need, now as then, + Thee, God, who mouldest men; + And since, not even while the whirl was worst + Did I,--to the wheel of life + With shapes and colours rife, + Bound dizzily,--mistake my end, to slake Thy thirst: + + So, take and use Thy work: + Amend what flaws may lurk, + What strain o' the stuff, what warpings past the aim! + My times be in Thy hand! + Perfect the cup as plann'd! + Lest age approve of youth, and death complete the same! + + ROBERT BROWNING. + + + PROSPICE. + +"Prospice," by Robert Browning (1812-89), is the greatest death song + ever written. It is a battle-song and a pćan of victory. + + "The journey is done, the summit attained, + And the strong man must go." + "I would hate that Death bandaged my eyes and forebore, + And bade me creep past." + "No! let me taste the whole of it" + "The reward of all." + + This poem is included in this book because these lines are enough to + reconcile any one to any fate. + + Fear death?--to feel the fog in my throat, + The mist in _my_ face, + When the snows begin, and the blasts denote + I am nearing the place, + The power of the night, the press of the storm, + The post of the foe; + Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form, + Yet the strong man must go: + For the journey is done and the summit attained, + And the barriers fall, + Though a battle's to fight ere a guerdon be gained, + The reward of it all. + I was ever a fighter, so--one fight more. + The best and the last! + I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forebore, + And bade me creep past. + No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers + The heroes of old, + Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears + Of pain, darkness, and cold. + For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, + The black minute's at end. + And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave + Shall dwindle, shall blend, + Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain, + Then a light, then thy breast, + O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again, + And with God be the rest! + + ROBERT BROWNING. + + + RECESSIONAL. + + The "Recessional" (by Rudyard Kipling, 1865-) is one of the most + popular poems of this century. It is a warning to an age and a nation + drunk with power, a rebuke to materialistic tendencies and + boastfulness, a protest against pride. + + "Reverence is the master-key of knowledge." + + + God of our fathers, known of old-- + Lord of our far-flung battle-line-- + Beneath whose awful Hand we hold + Dominion over palm and pine-- + Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, + Lest we forget--lest we forget! + + The tumult and the shouting dies-- + The captains and the kings depart-- + Still stands Thine ancient Sacrifice, + An humble and a contrite heart. + Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, + Lest we forget--lest we forget! + + Far-called our navies melt away-- + On dune and headland sinks the fire-- + Lo, all our pomp of yesterday + Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! + Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, + Lest we forget--lest we forget! + + If, drunk with sight of power, we loose + Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe-- + Such boasting as the Gentiles use + Or lesser breeds without the Law-- + Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, + Lest we forget--lest we forget! + + For heathen heart that puts her trust + In reeking tube and iron shard-- + All valiant dust that builds on dust, + And guarding calls not Thee to guard-- + For frantic boast and foolish word, + Thy mercy on Thy People, Lord! Amen. + + RUDYARD KIPLING. + + + OZYMANDIAS OF EGYPT. + +"Ozymandias of Egypt," by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822). This sonnet + is a rebuke to the insolent pride of kings and empires. It is extremely + picturesque. It finds a place here because more elderly scholars of + good judgment are pleased with it. I remember an old gray-haired + scholar in Chicago who often recited it to his friends merely because + it touched his fancy. + + I met a traveller from an antique land + Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone + Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand, + Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown + And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command + Tell that its sculptor well those passions read + Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, + The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed; + And on the pedestal these words appear: + 'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: + Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!' + Nothing beside remains. Round the decay + Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, + The lone and level sands stretch far away;" + + PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. + + + MORTALITY. + +"Mortality" (by William Knox, 1789-1825) is always quoted as Lincoln's + favourite poem. + + O why should the spirit of mortal be proud? + Like a fast-flitting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, + A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, + He passes from life to his rest in the grave. + + The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, + Be scattered around and together be laid; + And the young and the old, and the low and the high, + Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie. + + The child that a mother attended and loved, + The mother that infant's affection that proved, + The husband that mother and infant that blessed, + Each, all, are away to their dwelling of rest. + + The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye, + Shone beauty and pleasure,--her triumphs are by; + And the memory of those that beloved her and praised + Are alike from the minds of the living erased. + + The hand of the king that the scepter hath borne, + The brow of the priest that the miter hath worn, + The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave, + Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave. + + The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap, + The herdsman who climbed with his goats to the steep, + The beggar that wandered in search of his bread, + Have faded away like the grass that we tread. + + The saint that enjoyed the communion of heaven, + The sinner that dared to remain unforgiven, + The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just, + Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust. + + So the multitude goes, like the flower and the weed + That wither away to let others succeed; + So the multitude comes, even those we behold, + To repeat every tale that hath often been told. + + For we are the same that our fathers have been; + We see the same sights that our fathers have seen,-- + We drink the same stream, and we feel the same sun, + And we run the same course that our fathers have run. + + The thoughts we are thinking, our fathers would think; + From the death we are shrinking from, they too would shrink; + To the life we are clinging to, they too would cling; + But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing. + + They loved, but their story we cannot unfold; + They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold; + They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers may come; + They enjoyed, but the voice of their gladness is dumb. + + They died, ay! they died! and we things that are now, + Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow, + Who make in their dwellings a transient abode, + Meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage road. + + Yea! hope and despondence, and pleasure and pain, + Are mingled together like sunshine and rain; + And the smile and the tear, and the song and the dirge, + Still follow each other, like surge upon surge. + + 'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath, + From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, + From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud,-- + O why should the spirit of mortal be proud? + + WILLIAM KNOX. + + + ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S "HOMER." + +"On First Looking Into Chapman's 'Homer,'" by John Keats (1795-1821). + The last four lines of this sonnet form the most tremendous climax in + literature. The picture is as vivid as if done with a brush. Every + great book, every great poem is a new world, an undiscovered country. + Every learned person is a whole territory, a universe of new thought. + Every one who does anything with a heart for it, every specialist every + one, however simple, who is strenuous and genuine, is a "new + discovery." Let us give credit to the smallest planet that is true to + its own orbit. + + Much have I travelled in the realms of gold, + And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; + Round many western islands have I been + Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. + + Oft of one wide expanse had I been told + That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne: + Yet did I never breathe its pure serene + Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: + + Then felt I like some watcher of the skies + When a new planet swims into his ken; + Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes + + He stared at the Pacific--and all his men + Look'd at each other with a wild surmise-- + Silent, upon a peak in Darien. + + JOHN KEATS. + + + HERVÉ RIEL. + +"Hervé Riel" (by Robert Browning, 1812-89) is a poem for older boys. + Here is a hero who does a great deed simply as a part of his day's + work. He puts no value on what he has done, because he could have done + no other way. + + On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two, + Did the English fight the French--woe to France! + And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the blue, + Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue, + Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the Rance, + With the English fleet in view. + + 'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase, + First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville; + Close on him fled, great and small, + Twenty-two good ships in all; + And they signalled to the place, + "Help the winners of a race! + Get us guidance, give us harbour, take us quick--or, quicker still, + Here's the English can and will!" + + Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leaped on board: + "Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?" + laughed they; + "Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred + and scored, + Shall the _Formidable_ here, with her twelve and eighty guns, + Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way, + Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons. + And with flow at full beside? + Now 'tis slackest ebb of tide. + Reach the mooring! Rather say, + While rock stands or water runs, + Not a ship will leave the bay!" + + Then was called a council straight; + Brief and bitter the debate: + "Here's the English at our heels; would you have them take in tow + All that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow, + For a prize to Plymouth Sound?-- + Better run the ships aground!" + (Ended Damfreville his speech.) + "Not a minute more to wait! + Let the captains all and each + Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach! + France must undergo her fate. + + "Give the word!"--But no such word + Was ever spoke or heard; + For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these-- + A captain? A lieutenant? A mate--first, second, third? + No such man of mark, and meet + With his betters to compete! + But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet-- + A poor coasting pilot he, Hervé Riel, the Croisiekese. + + And "What mockery or malice have we here?" cries Hervé Riel: + "Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues? + Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell + On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell, + 'Twixt the offing here and Grčve where the river disembogues? + Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's for? + Morn and eve, night and day. + Have I piloted your bay, + Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor. + Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fifty Hogues! + Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me there's a way! + Only let me lead the line, + Have the biggest ship to steer, + Get this _Formidable_ clear, + Make the others follow mine, + And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well, + Right to Solidor past Grčve, + And there lay them safe and sound; + And if one ship misbehave, + --Keel so much as grate the ground, + Why, I've nothing but my life,--here's my head!" cries Hervé Riel. + + Not a minute more to wait + "Steer us in, then, small and great! + Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!" cried its chief. + Captains, give the sailor place! + He is Admiral, in brief. + Still the north wind, by God's grace! + See the noble fellow's face + As the big ship, with a bound, + Clears the entry like a hound, + Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea's profound! + See, safe through shoal and rock, + How they follow in a flock, + Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground, + Not a spar that comes to grief! + The peril, see, is past, + All are harboured to the last, + And just as Hervé Riel hollas "Anchor!"--sure as fate, + Up the English come--too late! + + So, the storm subsides to calm: + They see the green trees wave + On the heights o'erlooking Grčve. + Hearts that bled are stanched with balm, + "Just our rapture to enhance, + Let the English rake the bay, + Gnash their teeth and glare askance + As they cannonade away! + 'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!" + How hope succeeds despair on each Captain's countenance! + Out burst all with one accord, + "This is Paradise for Hell! + Let France, let France's King + Thank the man that did the thing!" + What a shout, and all one word, + "Hervé Riel!" + As he stepped in front once more, + Not a symptom of surprise + In the frank blue Breton eyes, + Just the same man as before. + + Then said Damfreville, "My friend, + I must speak out at the end, + Though I find the speaking hard. + Praise is deeper than the lips: + You have saved the King his ships, + You must name your own reward. + 'Faith, our sun was near eclipse! + Demand whate'er you will, + France remains your debtor still. + Ask to heart's content and have! or my name's not Damfreville." + + Then a beam of fun outbroke + On the bearded mouth that spoke, + As the honest heart laughed through + Those frank eyes of Breton blue: + "Since I needs must say my say, + Since on board the duty's done, + And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run?-- + Since 'tis ask and have, I may-- + Since the others go ashore-- + Come! A good whole holiday! + Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!" + That he asked and that he got,--nothing more. + + Name and deed alike are lost: + Not a pillar nor a post + In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell; + Not a head in white and black + On a single fishing smack, + In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack + All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell. + Go to Paris: rank on rank + Search the heroes flung pell-mell + On the Louvre, face and flank! + You shall look long enough ere you come to Hervé Riel. + So, for better and for worse, + Hervé Riel, accept my verse! + In my verse, Hervé Riel, do thou once more + Save the squadron, honour France, love thy wife the Belle Aurore! + + ROBERT BROWNING. + + + THE PROBLEM. + +"The Problem" (by Ralph Waldo Emerson, 1803-80) is quoted from one end + of the world to the other. Emerson teaches one lesson above all others, + that each soul must work out for itself its latent force, its own + individual expression, and that with a "sad sincerity." "The bishop of + the soul" can do no more. + + I like a church; I like a cowl; + I love a prophet of the soul; + And on my heart monastic aisles + Fall like sweet strains, or pensive smiles: + Yet not for all his faith can see + Would I that cowlčd churchman be. + Why should the vest on him allure, + Which I could not on me endure? + + Not from a vain or shallow thought + His awful Jove young Phidias brought; + Never from lips of cunning fell + The thrilling Delphic oracle; + Out from the heart of nature rolled + The burdens of the Bible old; + The litanies of nations came, + Like the volcano's tongue of flame, + Up from the burning core below,-- + The canticles of love and woe: + The hand that rounded Peter's dome + And groined the aisles of Christian Rome + Wrought in a sad sincerity; + Himself from God he could not free; + He builded better than he knew; + The conscious stone to beauty grew. + + Knowst thou what wove yon woodbird's nest + Of leaves and feathers from her breast? + Or how the fish outbuilt her shell, + Painting with morn each annual cell? + Or how the sacred pine-tree adds + To her old leaves new myriads? + Such and so grew these holy piles, + While love and terror laid the tiles. + Earth proudly wears the Parthenon, + As the best gem upon her zone, + And Morning opes with haste her lids + To gaze upon the Pyramids; + O'er England's abbeys bends the sky, + As on its friends, with kindred eye; + For out of Thought's interior sphere + These wonders rose to upper air; + And Nature gladly gave them place, + Adopted them into her race, + And granted them an equal date + With Andes and with Ararat. + + These temples grew as grows the grass; + Art might obey, but not surpass. + The passive Master lent his hand + To the vast soul that o'er him planned; + And the same power that reared the shrine + Bestrode the tribes that knelt within. + Ever the fiery Pentecost + Girds with one flame the countless host, + Trances the heart through chanting choirs, + And through the priest the mind inspires. + The word unto the prophet spoken + Was writ on tables yet unbroken; + The word by seers or sibyls told, + In groves of oak, or fanes of gold. + Still floats upon the morning wind, + Still whispers to the willing mind. + One accent of the Holy Ghost + The heedless world hath never lost. + I know what say the fathers wise,-- + The Book itself before me lies, + Old Chrysostom, best Augustine, + And he who blent both in his line, + The younger Golden Lips or mines, + Taylor, the Shakespeare of divines. + His words are music in my ear, + I see his cowlčd portrait dear; + And yet, for all his faith could see, + I would not the good bishop be. + + RALPH WALDO EMERSON. + + + TO AMERICA. + +"To America," included by permission of the Poet Laureate, is a good + poem and a great poem. It is a keen thrust at the common practice of + teaching American children to hate the English of these days on account + of the actions of a silly old king dead a hundred years. Alfred Austin + deserves great credit for this poem. + + What is the voice I hear + On the winds of the western sea? + Sentinel, listen from out Cape Clear + And say what the voice may be. + 'Tis a proud free people calling loud to a people proud and free. + + And it says to them: "Kinsmen, hail! + We severed have been too long. + Now let us have done with a worn-out tale-- + The tale of an ancient wrong-- + And our friendship last long as our love doth and be stronger + than death is strong." + + Answer them, sons of the self-same race, + And blood of the self-same clan; + Let us speak with each other face to face + And answer as man to man, + And loyally love and trust each other as none but free men can. + + Now fling them out to the breeze, + Shamrock, Thistle, and Rose, + And the Star-spangled Banner unfurl with these-- + A message to friends and foes + Wherever the sails of peace are seen and wherever the war-wind blows-- + + A message to bond and thrall to wake, + For wherever we come, we twain, + The throne of the tyrant shall rock and quake, + And his menace be void and vain; + For you are lords of a strong land and we are lords of the main. + + Yes, this is the voice of the bluff March gale; + We severed have been too long, + But now we have done with a worn-out tale-- + The tale of an ancient wrong-- + And our friendship last long as love doth last and stronger + than death is strong. + + ALFRED AUSTIN. + + + THE ENGLISH FLAG. + + It is quite true that the English flag stands for freedom the world + over. Wherever it floats almost any one is safe, whether English or + not. + + [Above the portico the Union Jack remained fluttering in the flames for + some time, but ultimately when it fell the crowds rent the air with + shouts, and seemed to see significance in the incident.--_Daily + Papers_.] + + Winds of the World, give answer? They are whimpering to and fro-- + And what should they know of England who only England know?-- + The poor little street-bred people that vapour and fume and brag, + They are lifting their heads in the stillness to yelp at + the English Flag! + + Must we borrow a clout from the Boer--to plaster anew with dirt? + An Irish liar's bandage, or an English coward's shirt? + We may not speak of England; her Flag's to sell or share. + What is the Flag of England? Winds of the World, declare! + + The North Wind blew:--"From Bergen my steel-shod van-guards go; + I chase your lazy whalers home from the Disko floe; + By the great North Lights above me I work the will of God, + That the liner splits on the ice-field or the Dogger fills with cod. + + "I barred my gates with iron, I shuttered my doors with flame, + Because to force my ramparts your nutshell navies came; + I took the sun from their presence, I cut them down with my blast, + And they died, but the Flag of England blew free ere the spirit passed. + + "The lean white bear hath seen it in the long, long Arctic night, + The musk-ox knows the standard that flouts the Northern Light: + What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my bergs to dare, + Ye have but my drifts to conquer. Go forth, for it is there!" + + The South Wind sighed:--"From The Virgins my mid-sea course was ta'en + Over a thousand islands lost in an idle main, + Where the sea-egg flames on the coral and the long-backed + breakers croon + Their endless ocean legends to the lazy, locked lagoon. + + "Strayed amid lonely islets, mazed amid outer keys, + I waked the palms to laughter--I tossed the scud in the breeze-- + Never was isle so little, never was sea so lone, + But over the scud and the palm-trees an English flag was flown. + + "I have wrenched it free from the halliard to hang for a wisp + on the Horn; + I have chased it north to the Lizard--ribboned and rolled and torn; + I have spread its fold o'er the dying, adrift in a hopeless sea; + I have hurled it swift on the slaver, and seen the slave set free. + + "My basking sunfish know it, and wheeling albatross, + Where the lone wave fills with fire beneath the Southern Cross. + What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my reefs to dare, + Ye have but my seas to furrow. Go forth, for it is there!" + + The East Wind roared:--"From the Kuriles, the Bitter Seas, I come, + And me men call the Home-Wind, for I bring the English home. + Look--look well to your shipping! By the breath of my mad typhoon + I swept your close-packed Praya and beached your best at Kowloon! + + "The reeling junks behind me and the racing seas before, + I raped your richest roadstead--I plundered Singapore! + I set my hand on the Hoogli; as a hooded snake she rose, + And I flung your stoutest steamers to roost with the startled crows. + + "Never the lotos closes, never the wild-fowl wake, + But a soul goes out on the East Wind that died for England's sake-- + Man or woman or suckling, mother or bride or maid-- + Because on the bones of the English the English Flag is stayed. + + "The desert-dust hath dimmed it, the flying wild-ass knows. + The scared white leopard winds it across the taintless snows. + What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my sun to dare, + Ye have but my sands to travel. Go forth, for it is there!" + + The West Wind called:--"In squadrons the thoughtless galleons fly + That bear the wheat and cattle lest street-bred people die. + They make my might their porter, they make my house their path, + Till I loose my neck from their rudder and whelm them all in my wrath. + + "I draw the gliding fog-bank as a snake is drawn from the hole; + They bellow one to the other, the frightened ship-bells toll, + For day is a drifting terror till I raise the shroud with my breath, + And they see strange bows above them and the two go locked to death. + + "But whether in calm or wrack-wreath, whether by dark or day, + I heave them whole to the conger or rip their plates away, + First of the scattered legions, under a shrieking sky, + Dipping between the rollers, the English Flag goes by. + + "The dead dumb fog hath wrapped it--the frozen dews have kissed-- + The naked stars have seen it, a fellow-star in the mist. + What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my breath to dare, + Ye have but my waves to conquer. Go forth, for it is there!" + + RUDYARD KIPLING. + + + THE MAN WITH THE HOE. + +"The Man With the Hoe" is purely an American product, and every + American ought to be proud of it, for we want no such type allowed to + be developed in this country as the low-browed peasant of France. This + poem is a stroke of genius. The story goes that it so offended a modern + plutocrat that he offered a reward of $10,000 to any one who could + write an equally good poem in rebuttal. "The Man With the Hoe" has won + for Edwin Markham the title of "Poet Laureate of the Labouring + Classes." + + WRITTEN AFTER SEEING THE PAINTING BY MILLET. + + God made man in His own image, in the image of God made He + him.--GENESIS. + + Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans + Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground, + The emptiness of ages in his face, + And on his back the burden of the world. + Who made him dead to rapture and despair, + A thing that grieves not and that never hopes, + Stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox? + Who loosened and let down this brutal jaw? + Whose was the hand that slanted back this brow? + Whose breath blew out the light within this brain? + + Is this the Thing the Lord God made and gave + To have dominion over sea and land; + To trace the stars and search the heavens for power; + To feel the passion of Eternity? + Is this the Dream He dreamed who shaped the suns + And marked their ways upon the ancient deep? + Down all the stretch of Hell to its last gulf + There is no shape more terrible than this-- + More tongued with censure of the world's blind greed-- + More filled with signs and portents for the soul-- + More fraught with menace to the universe. + + What gulfs between him and the seraphim! + Slave of the wheel of labour, what to him + Are Plato and the swing of Pleiades? + What the long reaches of the peaks of song, + The rift of dawn, the reddening of the rose? + Through this dread shape the suffering ages look; + Time's tragedy is in that aching stoop; + Through this dread shape humanity betrayed, + Plundered, profaned, and disinherited, + Cries protest to the Judges of the World, + A protest that is also prophecy. + + O masters, lords, and rulers in all lands, + Is this the handiwork you give to God, + This monstrous thing distorted and soul-quenched? + How will you ever straighten up this shape; + Touch it again with immortality; + Give back the upward looking and the light; + Rebuild in it the music and the dream; + Make right the immemorial infamies, + Perfidious wrongs, immedicable woes? + + O masters, lords, and rulers in all lands, + How will the future reckon with this Man? + How answer his brute question in that hour + When whirlwinds of rebellion shake the world? + How will it be with kingdoms and with kings-- + With those who shaped him to the thing he is-- + When this dumb Terror shall reply to God, + After the silence of the centuries? + + EDWIN MARKHAM. + + + SONG OF MYSELF. + +"The Song of Myself" is one of Walt Whitman's (1819-92) most + characteristic poems. I love the swing and the stride of his great long + lines. I love his rough-shod way of trampling down and kicking out of + the way the conventionalities that spring up like poisonous mushrooms + to make the world a vast labyrinth of petty "proprieties" until + everything is nasty. I love the oxygen he pours on the world. I love + his genius for brotherliness, his picture of the Negro with rolling + eyes and the firelock in the corner. These excerpts are some of his + best lines. + + I celebrate myself, and sing myself, + And what I assume you shall assume, + For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. + I loafe and invite my soul, + I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass. + My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air, + Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their + parents the same, + I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin, + Hoping to cease not till death. + + I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard, + Nature without check with original energy. + + Have you reckoned a thousand acres much? have you reckon'd the + earth much? + Have you practised so long to learn to read? + Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems? + + Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin + of all poems, + You shall possess the good of the earth and sun (there are + millions of suns left), + You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look + through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the specters in books, + You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me, + You shall listen to all sides and filter them from yourself. + + A child said, "_What is the grass?_" fetching it to me with full hands; + How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more + than he. + I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green + stuff woven. + Or, I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord, + A scented gift and remembrance designedly dropt, + Bearing the owner's name some way in the corners, + that we may see and remark, and say, + "_Whose?_" + + Alone far in the wilds and mountains I hunt, + Wandering amazed at my own lightness and glee, + In the late afternoon choosing a safe spot to pass the night, + Kindling a fire and broiling the fresh-kill'd game, + Falling asleep on the gathered leaves with my dog and gun by my side. + The Yankee clipper is under her sky-sails, she cuts the sparkle + and scud, + My eyes settle the land, I bend at her prow or shout joyously from + the deck. + The boatman and clam-diggers arose early and stopt for me, + I tucked my trouser-ends in my boots and went and had a good time; + You should have been with us that day round the chowder-kettle. + + The runaway slave came to my house and stopt outside, + I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the woodpile, + Through the swung half-door of the kitchen I saw him limpsy and weak, + And went where he sat on a log and led him in and assured him, + And brought water and fill'd a tub for his sweated body and + bruis'd feet, + And gave him a room that entered from my own, and gave him some + coarse clean clothes, + And remember perfectly well his revolving eyes and his awkwardness, + And remember putting plasters on the galls of his neck and ankles; + He staid with me a week before he was recuperated and passed north, + I had him sit next me at table, my firelock lean'd in the corner. + + I am the poet of the woman the same as the man, + And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man, + And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men. + + I understand the large hearts of heroes, + The courage of present times and all times, + How the skipper saw the crowded and rudderless wreck of the steamship, + and Death chasing it up and down the storm, + How he knuckled tight and gave not back an inch and was faithful of + days and faithful of nights, + And chalked in large letters on a board, "_Be of good cheer, we will + not desert you_"; + How he followed with them and tack'd with them three days and would + not give it up, + How he saved the drifting company at last, + How the lank loose-gown'd women looked when boated from the side + of their prepared graves, + How the silent old-faced infants and the lifted sick, and the + sharp-lipp'd unshaved men; + All this I swallow, it tastes good, I like it well, it becomes mine, + I am the man, I suffered, I was there. + The disdain and calmness of martyrs, + The mother of old, condemned for a witch, burned with dry wood, her + children gazing on, + The hounded slave that flags in the race, leans by the fence blowing, + covered with sweat. + I am the hounded slave, I wince at the bite of the dogs, + Hell and despair are upon me, crack and again crack the marksmen, + I clutch the rails of the fence, my gore dribs, thinn'd with the + ooze of my skin, + I fall on the weeds and stones, + The riders spur their unwilling horses, haul close, + Taunt my dizzy ears and beat me violently over the head with + whip-stocks. + + Old age superbly rising! O welcome, ineffable grace of dying days! + + See ever so far, there is limitless space outside of that, + Count ever so much, there is limitless time around that. + My rendezvous is appointed, it is certain, + The Lord will be there and wait till I come on perfect terms. + The great Camerado, the lover true for whom I pine will be there. + + And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own + funeral drest in his shroud. + + And to glance with an eye or show a bean in its pod confounds + the learning of all times, + And there is no trade or employment but the young man following + it may become a hero, + And there is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the wheel'd + universe. + And I say to any man or woman, "Let your soul stand cool and composed + before a million universes." + + I see something of God each hour of the twenty-four, and each + moment then, + In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in + the glass, + I find letters from God dropt in the street, and every one is + sign'd by God's name, + And I leave them where they are, for I know that wheresoe'er I go, + Others will punctually come forever and ever. + + Listener up there! What have you to confide in me? + Look in my face while I snuff the sidle of evening. + (Talk honestly, no one else hears you, and I stay only a minute + longer.) + Who has done his day's work? Who will soonest be through with + his supper? + Who wishes to walk with me? + + I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable, + I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world. + + + + + INDEX + + + A barking sound the shepherd hears, 120 + + Abide with me! fast falls the eventide, 223 + + Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase), 89 + + A chieftain to the Highlands bound, 105 + + Across the lonely beach, 71 + + A life on the ocean wave, 85 + + Alone I walked the ocean strand, 256 + + A nightingale that all day long, 34 + + A supercilious nabob of the East, 165 + + At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay, 246 + + At midnight in his guarded tent, 128 + + A traveller on the dusty road, 48 + + A well there is in the west country, 180 + + Ay, tear her tattered ensign down, 53 + + + Behind him lay the gray Azores, 169 + + Beneath the low-hung night cloud, 67 + + Bird of the wilderness, 302 + + Blow, blow, thou winter wind, 58 + + Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans, 342 + + Bright shone the lists, blue bent the skies, 110 + + Buttercups and daisies, 51 + + By the shores of Gitche Gumee, 79 + + + Come, let us plant the apple-tree, 211 + + Come, dear children, let us away, 260 + +"Courage!" he said, and pointed toward the land, 231 + + Cupid and my Campasbe played, 235 + + Cupid once upon a bed, 234 + + + Down in a green and shady bed, 27 + + + Farewell! Farewell! But this I tell, 5 + + Fear death?--to feel the fog in my throat, 320 + + +"Give us a song!" the soldiers cried, 64 + + God of our fathers, known of old, 321 + + Goe, soule, the bodie's guest, 283 + + Grow old along with me, 312 + + + Hail to thee, blithe spirit, 268 + + Half a league, half a league, 107 + + Happy the man whose wish and care, 273 + + Hats off! 133 + + Heaven is not reached at a single bound, 117 + + How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, 288 + +"How I should like a birthday!" said the child, 164 + + How happy is he born and taught, 220 + + How sleep the brave, who sing to rest, 133 + + + I am monarch of all I survey, 190 + + I celebrate myself, and sing myself, 344 + + I chatter, chatter, as I flow, 153 + + I come, I come! ye have called me long, 259 + + If I had but two little wings, 21 + + I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me, 9 + + I heard last night a little child go singing, 222 + + I like a church: I like a cowl, 333 + +"I'll tell you how the leaves came down," 12 + + I met a traveller from an antique land, 322 + + In her ear he whispers gaily, 75 + + In the name of the Empress of India, make way, 125 + + I remember, I remember, 159 + + I shot an arrow into the air, 3 + +"Isn't this Joseph's son?"--ay, it is He, 114 + + I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he, 173 + + Is there, for honest poverty, 151 + + It is not growing like a tree, 60 + + It was a summer's evening, 117 + + It was our war-ship _Clampherdown_, 154 + + It was the schooner _Hesperus_, 138 + + It was the time when lilies blow, 72 + + I wandered lonely as a cloud, 82 + + + John Anderson, my jo, John, 274 + + + King Francis was a hearty king and loved a royal sport, 184 + + Krinken was a little child, 162 + + + Lars Porsena of Clusium, 193 + + Lead kindly light, amid th' encircling gloom, 224 + + Let dogs delight to bark and bite, 4 + + Life! I know not what thou art, 299 + + Little drops of water, 5 + + Little orphant Annie's come to our house to stay, 54 + + Little white lily, 10 + + +"Make way for liberty!" he cried, 296 + + Maxwelton braes are bonnie, 226 + + Merrily swinging on brier and weed, 44 + + Methought I heard a butterfly, 42 + + 'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, 220 + + Mine be a cot beside the hill, 272 + + My country 'tis of thee, 228 + + My fairest child, I have no song to give you, 21 + + My good blade carves the casques of men, 253 + + My heart leaps up when I behold, 28 + + My little Mädchen found one day, 149 + + My mind to me a kingdom is, 286 + + My soul is sailing through the sea, 219 + + Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold, 326 + + + Nae shoon to hide her tiny taes, 4 + + No stir in the air, no stir in the sea, 145 + + Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 176 + + Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are, 179 + + + O, a dainty plant is the ivy green, 59 + + O Captain! my Captain, our fearful trip is done, 57 + + Of all the woodland creatures, 60 + + Oft in the stilly night, 266 + + Oh where! and oh where! is your Highland laddie gone, 20 + + Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the West, 103 + + Old Grimes is dead; that good old man, 47 + +"O Mary, go and call the cattle home, 271 + + O, may I join the choir invisible, 303 + + Once a dream did wave a shade, 116 + + Once there was a little boy, 19 + + Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, 289 + + On Linden, when the sun was low, 134 + + On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two, 326 + + Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass, 160 + + Over the hill the farm-boy goes, 90 + + O! say can you see, by the dawn's early light, 31 + + O why should the spirit of mortal be proud, 323 + + + Pussy can sit by the fire and sing, 8 + + Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 126 + + + Said the wind to the moon, "I will blow you out," 111 + + Sail on, sail on, O Ship of State, 227 + + Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 142 + + See thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue, 301 + + Serene I fold my hands and wait, 267 + + Shed no tear! O shed no tear, 50 + + She dwelt among the untrodden ways, 272 + + She was a phantom of delight, 305 + + Speak! speak! thou fearful guest, 240 + + Stand! the ground's your own, my braves!, 63 + + Sunset and evening star, 124 + + Sweet and low, sweet and low, 27 + + + Tell me not in mournful numbers, 218 + + The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold, 158 + + The boy stood on the burning deck, 22 + + The breaking waves dashed high, 229 + + The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 306 + + The Frost looked forth, one still, clear night, 39 + + The gingham dog and the calico cat, 18 + + The God of Music dwelleth out of doors, 275 + + The harp that once through Tara's halls, 287 + + The nautilus and the ammonite, 188 + + The old mayor climb'd the belfry tower, 277 + + The Owl and the Pussy Cat went to sea, 15 + + The quality of mercy is not strained, 300 + + There came a youth upon the earth, 171 + + There came to port last Sunday night, 152 + + There lay upon the ocean's shore, 148 + + There was a sound of revelry by night, 177 + + There was never a Queen like Balkis, 7 + + There were three kings into the East, 83 + + There were three sailors of Bristol City, 41 + + The splendour falls on castle walls, 66 + + The stately homes of England, 192 + + The summer and autumn had been so wet, 166 + + The sun shines bright in the old Kentucky home, 136 + + The world is too much with us; late and soon, 304 + + The year's at the spring, 6 + + Thirty days hath September, 7 + + This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, 122 + + This was the noblest Roman of them all, 301 + + 'Tis the last rose of summer, 225 + + T'other day as I was twining, 234 + + Traveller, pluck a stem of moly, 233 + + Triumphal arch that fills the sky, 53 + + 'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house, 29 + + Twinkle, twinkle little star, 6 + + + Under a spreading chestnut tree, 25 + + Up from the meadows rich with corn, 96 + + Up from the South at break of day, 68 + + + Way down upon de Swanee ribber, 137 + + Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower, 94 + + Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie, 92 + + Wee Willie Winkie rins through the town, 13 + + We were crowded in the cabin, 23 + + Whatever brawls disturb the street, 20 + + What is so rare as a day in June, 217 + + What is the voice I hear, 335 + + What was he doing, the great god Pan, 275 + + When cats run home and light is come, 40 + + When earth's last picture is painted, 285 + + When George the Third was reigning, a hundred years ago, 236 + + When I consider how my light is spent, 304 + + When Letty had scarce pass'd her third glad year, 115 + + Where the pools are bright and deep, 50 + + Wild was the night, yet a wilder night, 131 + + Winds of the world, give answer, 337 + + Woodman, spare that tree, 222 + + Wynken, Blynken and Nod one night, 16 + + + Ye banks and braes of bonnie Doon, 265 + +"You are old, Father William," the young man said, 33 + + You know, we French storm'd Ratisbon, 43 + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Poems Every Child Should Know, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW *** + +***** This file should be named 16436-8.txt or 16436-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/6/4/3/16436/ + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Laura Wisewell and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + https://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/old/16436-8.zip b/old/16436-8.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..98c7410 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/16436-8.zip diff --git a/old/16436.txt b/old/16436.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1dab460 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/16436.txt @@ -0,0 +1,12832 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems Every Child Should Know, by Various + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Poems Every Child Should Know + The What-Every-Child-Should-Know-Library + +Author: Various + +Editor: Mary E. Burt + +Release Date: August 4, 2005 [EBook #16436] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW *** + + + + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Laura Wisewell and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + [Illustration: When the shadows are long] + + + + POEMS + + Every Child Should Know + + + EDITED BY + Mary E. Burt + + [Illustration] + + THE WHAT-EVERY-CHILD- + SHOULD-KNOW-LIBRARY + + Published by + DOUBLEDAY, DORAN & CO., INC., for + THE PARENTS' INSTITUTE, INC. + Publishers of "The Parents' Magazine" + 9 EAST 40th STREET, NEW YORK + + + + COPYRIGHT. 1904, BY DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. + PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES AT THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, + N.Y. + + + + + ACKNOWLEDGMENTS TO PUBLISHERS AND AUTHORS + + + It sometimes happens that there are people who do not know that authors + are protected by copyright laws. A publisher once cited to me an + instance of a teacher who innocently put forth a little volume of poems + that she loved and admired, without asking permission of any one. Her + annoyance was boundless when she found that she had no right to the + poems. + + Special permission has been obtained for each copyrighted poem in this + volume, and the right to publish has been purchased of the author or + publisher, except in those cases where the author or the publisher has, + for reasons of courtesy and friendship, given the permission. + + In addition to the business arrangements which have been made, we wish + to extend our thanks and acknowledgments to those firms which have so + kindly allowed us to use their material. + + To HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & COMPANY, of Boston, we are indebted for + the use of the following poems: From the copyrighted works of + Longfellow--"The Arrow and the Song," "A Fragment of Hiawatha's + Childhood," "The Skeleton in Armour," "The Wreck of the + _Hesperus_," "The Ship of State," "The Psalm of Life," "The + Village Blacksmith." From Whittier--"Barbara Frietchie" and "The + _Three Bells_ of Glasgow." From Emerson--"The Problem." From + Burroughs--"My Own Shall Come to Me." From Lowell--"The Finding of + the Lyre," "The Shepherd of King Admetus," and a fragment of "The + Vision of Sir Launfal," From Holmes--"The Chambered Nautilus" and + "Old Ironsides." From James T. Fields--"The Captain's Daughter." + From Bayard Taylor--"The Song in Camp," From Celia Thaxter--"The + Sandpiper." From J.T. Trowbridge--"Farm-Yard Song." From Edith M. + Thomas--"The God of Music" and Hermes' "Moly." + + To CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS we are indebted for the use of the + following poems: From the copyrighted works of Eugene + Field--"Wynken Blynken, and Nod," "Krinken," and "The Duel." From + Robert Louis Stevenson--"My Shadow." From James Whitcomb Riley's + poems--"Little Orphant Annie." From the poems of Sidney + Lanier--"Barnacles" and "The Tournament." From "The Poems of + Patriotism"--"Sheridan's Ride." + + We are further indebted to CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, as well as + to MR. GEORGE W. CABLE, for "The New Arrival," taken from + "The Cable Story Book," and to MRS. KATHERINE MILLER and + _Scribner's Magazine_ for "Stevenson's Birthday." + + To J.B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY we are indebted for the use of + "Sheridan's Ride," from the complete works of T. Buchanan Read. + + To HARPER & BROTHERS for the use of "Driving Home the Cows," + by Kate Putnam Osgood. + + To LITTLE, BROWN & COMPANY, of Boston, "How the Leaves Came + Down," by Susan Coolidge. + + To the WHITAKER & RAY COMPANY, of San Francisco, "Columbus," + by Joaquin Miller, from his complete works published and + copyrighted by that company. + + To D. APPLETON & COMPANY for "The Planting of the Apple-Tree" + and "Robert of Lincoln," from the complete works of William Cullen + Bryant; also for "Marco Bozzaris," from the works of Fitz-Greene + Halleck. + + To the MACMILLAN COMPANY for "The Forsaken Merman," by Matthew + Arnold, from the complete volume of his poems published by that + company. + + To the HOWARD UNIVERSITY PRINT, Washington, D.C., for Jeremiah + Rankin's little poem, "The Babie," from "Ingleside Rhaims." + + To the heirs of MARY EMILY BRADLEY for "A Chrysalis." + + To HENRY HOLCOMB BENNETT for "The Flag Goes By." + + + + + PREFACE + + + Is this another collection of stupid poems that children cannot use? + Will they look hopelessly through this volume for poems that suit them? + Will they say despairingly, "This is too long," and "That is too hard," + and "I don't like that because it is not interesting"? + + Are there three or four pleasing poems and are all the rest put in to + fill up the book? Nay, verily! The poems in this collection are those + that children love. With the exception of seven, they are short enough + for children to commit to memory without wearying themselves or losing + interest in the poem. If one boy learns "The Overland Mail," or "The + Recruit," or "Wynken, Blynken, and Nod," or "The Song in Camp," or "Old + Ironsides," or "I Have a Little Shadow," or "The Tournament," or "The + Duel," nine boys out of ten will be eager to follow him. I know because + I have tried it a dozen times. Every boy loves "Paul Revere's Ride" + (alas! I have not been able to include it), and is ambitious to learn + it, but only boys having a quick memory will persevere to the end. Shall + the slower boy be deprived of the pleasure of reading the whole poem and + getting its inspiring sentiment and learning as many stanzas as his mind + will take? No, indeed. Half of such a poem is better than none. Let the + slow boy learn and recite as many stanzas as he can and the boy of quick + memory follow him up with the rest. It does not help the slow boy's + memory to keep it down entirely or deprive it of its smaller activity + because he cannot learn the whole. Some people will invariably give the + slow child a very short poem. It is often better to divide a long poem + among the children, letting each child learn a part. The sustained + interest of a long poem is worth while. "The Merman," "The Battle of + Ivry," "Horatius at the Bridge," "Krinken," "The Skeleton in Armour," +"The Raven" and "Herve Riel" may all profitably be learned that way. + Nevertheless, the child enjoys most the poem that is just long enough, + and there is much to be said in favour of the selection that is adapted, + in length, to the average mind; for the child hesitates in the presence + of quantity rather than in the presence of subtle thought. I make claim + for this collection that it is made up of poems that the majority of + children will learn of their own free will. There are people who believe + that in the matter of learning poetry there is no "_ought_," but this is + a false belief. There is a _duty_, even there; for every American + citizen _ought_ to know the great national songs that keep alive the + spirit of patriotism. Children should build for their future--and get, + while they are children, what only the fresh imagination of the child + can assimilate. + + They should store up an untold wealth of heroic sentiment; they should + acquire the habit of carrying a literary quality in their conversation; + they should carry a heart full of the fresh and delightful associations + and memories, connected with poetry hours to brighten mature years. They + should develop their memories while they have memories to develop. + + Will the boy who took every poetry hour for a whole school year to learn +"Henry of Navarre" ever regret it, or will the children who listened to + it? No. It was fresh every week and they brought fresh interest in + listening. The boy will always love it because he used to love it. There + were boys who scrambled for the right to recite "The Tournament," "The + Charge of the Light Brigade," "The Star-Spangled Banner," and so on. The + boy who was first to reach the front had the privilege. The triumph of + getting the chance to recite added to the zest of it. Will they ever + forget it? + + I know Lowell's "The Finding of the Lyre." Attention, Sir Knights! See + who can learn it first as I say it to you. But I find that I have + forgotten a line of it, so you may open your books and teach it to me. + Now, I can recite every word of it. How much of it can you repeat from + memory? One boy can say it all. Nearly every child has learned the most + of it. Now, it will be easy for you to learn it alone. And Memory, the + Goddess Beautiful, will henceforth go with you to recall this happy + hour. + + MARY E. BURT. + + The John A. Browning School, 1904. + + + + + POEMS + + + + + CONTENTS + + + PART I + + 1. The Arrow and the Song 3 + HENRY W. LONGFELLOW + + 2. The Babie 4 + JEREMIAH EAMES RANKIN + + 3. Let Dogs Delight to Bark and Bite 4 + ISAAC WATTS + + 4. Little Things 5 + EBENEZER COBHAM BREWER + + 5. He Prayeth Best 5 + SAMUEL T. COLERIDGE + + 6. Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star 6 + ANONYMOUS + + 7. Pippa 6 + ROBERT BROWNING + + 8. The Days of the Month 7 + AN OLD SONG + + 9. True Royalty 7 + RUDYARD KIPLING + + 10. Playing Robinson Crusoe 8 + RUDYARD KIPLING + + 11. My Shadow 9 + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON + + 12. Little White Lily 10 + GEORGE MACDONALD + + 13. How the Leaves Came Down 12 + SUSAN COOLIDGE + + 14. Willie Winkie 13 + WILLIAM MILLER + + 15. The Owl and the Pussy-Cat 15 + EDWARD LEAR + + 16. Wynken, Blynken, and Nod 16 + EUGENE FIELD + + 17. The Duel 18 + EUGENE FIELD + + 18. The Boy Who Never Told a Lie 19 + ANONYMOUS + + 19. Love Between Brothers and Sisters 20 + ISAAC WATTS + + 20. The Bluebell of Scotland 20 + ANONYMOUS + + 21. If I Had But Two Little Wings 21 + SAMUEL T. COLERIDGE + + 22. A Farewell 21 + CHARLES KINGSLEY + + 23. Casabianca 22 + FELICIA HEMANS + + 24. The Captain's Daughter 23 + JAMES T. FIELDS + + 25. The Village Blacksmith 25 + HENRY W. LONGFELLOW + + 26. Sweet and Low 27 + ALFRED TENNYSON + + 27. The Violet 27 + JANE TAYLOR + + 28. The Rainbow (a fragment) 28 + WILLIAM WORDSWORTH + + 29. A Visit From St. Nicholas 29 + CLEMENT CLARKE MOORE + + 30. The Star-Spangled Banner 31 + FRANCIS SCOTT KEY + + 31. Father William 33 + LEWIS CARROLL + + 32. The Nightingale and the Glow-worm 34 + WILLIAM COWPER + + + PART II + + 33. The Frost 39 + HANNAH FLAGG GOULD + + 34. The Owl 40 + ALFRED TENNYSON + + 35. Little Billee 41 + WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY + + 36. The Butterfly and the Bee 42 + WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES + + 37. An Incident of the French Camp 43 + ROBERT BROWNING + + 38. Robert of Lincoln 44 + WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT + + 39. Old Grimes 47 + ALBERT GORTON GREENE + + 40. Song of Life 48 + CHARLES MACKAY + + 41. Fairy Song 50 + JOHN KEATS + + 42. A Boy's Song 50 + JAMES HOGG + + 43. Buttercups and Daisies 51 + MARY HOWITT + + 44. The Rainbow 53 + THOMAS CAMPBELL + + 45. Old Ironsides 53 + OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES + + 46. Little Orphant Annie 54 + JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY + + 47. O Captain! My Captain! 57 + WALT WHITMAN + + 48. Ingratitude 58 + WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE + + 49. The Ivy Green 59 + CHARLES DICKENS + + 50. The Noble Nature 60 + BEN JONSON + + 51. The Flying Squirrel 60 + MARY E. BURT + + 52. Warren's Address 63 + JOHN PIERPONT + + 53. The Song in Camp 64 + BAYARD TAYLOR + + 54. The Bugle Song 66 + ALFRED TENNYSON + + 55. The _Three Bells_ of Glasgow 67 + JOHN G. WHITTIER + + 56. Sheridan's Ride 68 + THOMAS BUCHANAN READ + + 57. The Sandpiper 71 + CELIA THAXTER + + 58. Lady Clare 72 + ALFRED TENNYSON + + 59. The Lord of Burleigh 75 + ALFRED TENNYSON + + 60. Hiawatha's Childhood 79 + HENRY W. LONGFELLOW + + 61. I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud 82 + WILLIAM WORDSWORTH + + 62. John Barleycorn 83 + ROBERT BURNS + + 63. A Life on the Ocean Wave 85 + EPES SARGENT + + 64. The Death of the Old Year 86 + ALFRED TENNYSON + + 65. Abou Ben Adhem 89 + LEIGH HUNT + + 66. Farm-Yard Song 90 + J.T. TROWBRIDGE + + 67. To a Mouse 92 + ROBERT BURNS + + 68. To a Mountain Daisy 94 + ROBERT BURNS + + 69. Barbara Frietchie 96 + JOHN G. WHITTIER + + + PART III + + 70. Lochinvar 103 + SIR WALTER SCOTT + + 71. Lord Ullin's Daughter 105 + THOMAS CAMPBELL + + 72. The Charge of the Light Brigade 107 + ALFRED TENNYSON + + 73. The Tournament 110 + SIDNEY LANIER + + 74. The Wind and the Moon 111 + GEORGE MACDONALD + + 75. Jesus the Carpenter 114 + CATHERINE C. LIDDELL + + 76. Letty's Globe 115 + CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER + + 77. A Dream 116 + WILLIAM BLAKE + + 78. Heaven Is Not Reached at a Single Bound 117 + J.G. HOLLAND + + 79. The Battle of Blenheim 117 + ROBERT SOUTHEY + + 80. Fidelity 120 + WILLIAM WORDSWORTH + + 81. The Chambered Nautilus 122 + OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES + + 82. Crossing the Bar 124 + ALFRED TENNYSON + + 83. The Overland-Mail 125 + RUDYARD KIPLING + + 84. Gathering Song of Donald Dhu 126 + SIR WALTER SCOTT + + 85. Marco Bozzaris 128 + FITZ-GREENE HALLECK + + 86. The Death of Napoleon 131 + ISAAC MCCLELLAN + + 87. How Sleep the Brave 133 + WILLIAM COLLINS + + 88. The Flag Goes By 133 + HENRY HOLCOMB BENNETT + + 89. Hohenlinden 134 + THOMAS CAMPBELL + + 90. My Old Kentucky Home 136 + STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER + + 91. Old Folks at Home 137 + STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER + + 92. The Wreck of the _Hesperus_ 138 + HENRY W. LONGFELLOW + + 93. Bannockburn 142 + ROBERT BURNS + + + PART IV + + 94. The Inchcape Rock 145 + ROBERT SOUTHEY + + 95. The Finding of the Lyre 148 + JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL + + 96. A Chrysalis 149 + MARY EMILY BRADLEY + + 97. For a' That 151 + ROBERT BURNS + + 98. The New Arrival 152 + GEORGE W. CABLE + + 99. The Brook 153 + ALFRED TENNYSON + + 100. The Ballad of the _Clampherdown_ 154 + RUDYARD KIPLING + + 101. The Destruction of Sennacherib 158 + LORD BYRON + + 102. I Remember, I Remember 159 + THOMAS HOOD + + 103. Driving Home the Cows 160 + KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD + + 104. Krinken 162 + EUGENE FIELD + + 105. Stevenson's Birthday 164 + KATHERINE MILLER + + 106. A Modest Wit 165 + SELLECK OSBORNE + + 107. The Legend of Bishop Hatto 166 + ROBERT SOUTHEY + + 108. Columbus 160 + JOAQUIN MILLER + + 109. The Shepherd of King Admetus 171 + JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL + + 110. How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to 173 + Aix + ROBERT BROWNING + + 111. The Burial of Sir John Moore at Corunna 176 + C. WOLFE + + 112. The Eve of Waterloo 177 + LORD BYRON + + 113. Ivry 179 + THOMAS B. MACAULAY + + 114. The Glove and the Lions 184 + LEIGH HUNT + + 115. The Well of St. Keyne 186 + ROBERT SOUTHEY + + 116. The Nautilus and the Ammonite 188 + ANONYMOUS + + 117. The Solitude of Alexander Selkirk 190 + WILLIAM COWPER + + 118. The Homes of England 192 + FELICIA HEMANS + + 119. Horatius at the Bridge 193 + THOMAS B. MACAULAY + + 120. The Planting of the Apple-Tree 211 + WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT + + + PART V + + 121. June 217 + JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL + + 122. A Psalm of Life 218 + HENRY W. LONGFELLOW + + 123. Barnacles 219 + SIDNEY LANIER + + 124. A Happy Life 220 + SIR HENRY WOTTON + + 125. Home, Sweet Home 220 + JOHN HOWARD PAYNE + + 126. From Casa Guidi Windows 222 + ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING + + 127. Woodman, Spare That Tree! 222 + GEORGE POPE MORRIS + + 128. Abide With Me 223 + HENRY FRANCIS LYTE + + 129. Lead, Kindly Light 224 + JOHN HENRY NEWMAN + + 130. The Last Rose of Summer 225 + THOMAS MOORE + + 131. Annie Laurie 226 + WILLIAM DOUGLAS + + 132. The Ship of State 227 + HENRY W. LONGFELLOW + + 133. America 228 + SAMUEL FRANCIS SMITH + + 134. The Landing of the Pilgrims 229 + FELICIA HEMANS + + 135. The Lotos-Eaters 231 + ALFRED TENNYSON + + 136. Moly 233 + EDITH M. THOMAS + + 137. Cupid Drowned 234 + LEIGH HUNT + + 138. Cupid Stung 234 + THOMAS MOORE + + 139. Cupid and My Campasbe 235 + JOHN LYLY + + 140. A Ballad for a Boy 236 + ANONYMOUS + + 141. The Skeleton in Armour 240 + HENRY W. LONGFELLOW + + 142. The _Revenge_ 246 + ALFRED TENNYSON + + 143. Sir Galahad 253 + ALFRED TENNYSON + + 144. A Name in the Sand 256 + HANNAH FLAGG GOULD + + + PART VI + + 145. The Voice of Spring 259 + FELICIA HEMANS + + 146. The Forsaken Merman 260 + MATTHEW ARNOLD + + 147. The Banks o' Doon 265 + ROBERT BURNS + + 148. The Light of Other Days 266 + THOMAS MOORE + + 149. My Own Shall Come to Me 267 + JOHN BURROUGHS + + 150. Ode to a Skylark 268 + PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY + + 151. The Sands of Dee 271 + CHARLES KINGSLEY + + 152. A Wish 272 + SAMUEL ROGERS + + 153. Lucy 272 + WILLIAM WORDSWORTH + + 154. Solitude 273 + ALEXANDER POPE + + 155. John Anderson 274 + ROBERT BURNS + + 156. The God of Music 275 + EDITH M. THOMAS + + 157. A Musical Instrument 275 + ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING + + 158. The Brides of Enderby 277 + JEAN INGELOW + + 159. The Lye 283 + SIR WALTER RALEIGH + + 160. L'Envoi 285 + RUDYARD KIPLING + + 161. Contentment 286 + EDWARD DYER + + 162. The Harp That Once Through Tara's Halls 287 + THOMAS MOORE + + 163. The Old Oaken Bucket 288 + SAMUEL WOODWORTH + + 164. The Raven 289 + EDGAR ALLAN POE + + 165. Arnold von Winkleried 296 + JAMES MONTGOMERY + + 166. Life, I Know Not What Thou Art 299 + A.L. BARBAULD + + 167. Mercy 300 + WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE + + 168. Polonius' Advice 301 + WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE + + 169. A Fragment from "Julius Caesar" 301 + WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE + + 170. The Skylark 302 + THOMAS HOGG + + 171. The Choir Invisible 303 + GEORGE ELIOT + + 172. The World Is Too Much With Us 304 + WILLIAM WORDSWORTH + + 173. On His Blindness 304 + JOHN MILTON + + 174. She Was a Phantom of Delight 305 + WILLIAM WORDSWORTH + + 175. Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard 306 + THOMAS GRAY + + 176. Rabbi Ben Ezra 312 + ROBERT BROWNING + + 177. Prospice 320 + ROBERT BROWNING + + 178. Recessional 321 + RUDYARD KIPLING + + 179. Ozymandias of Egypt 322 + PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY + + 180. Mortality 323 + WILLIAM KNOX + + 181. On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer 326 + JOHN KEATS + + 182. Herve Riel 326 + ROBERT BROWNING + + 183. The Problem 333 + RALPH WALDO EMERSON + + 184. To America 335 + ALFRED AUSTIN + + 185. The English Flag 337 + RUDYARD KIPLING + + 186. The Man With the Hoe 342 + EDWIN MARKHAM + + 187. Song of Myself 344 + WALT WHITMAN + + Index 350 + + + + + INDEX OF AUTHORS + + + ANONYMOUS + Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, 6 + The Days of the Month, 7 + The Boy who Never Told a Lie, 19 + The Bluebell of Scotland, 20 + The Nautilus and the Ammonite, 188 + A Ballad for a Boy, 236 + ARNOLD, MATTHEW + The Forsaken Merman, 260 + AUSTIN, ALFRED + To America, 335 + + BARBAULD, A.L. + Life, I Know Not What Thou Art, 299 + BENNETT, HENRY HOLCOMB + The Flag Goes By, 133 + BLAKE, WILLIAM + A Dream, 116 + BOWLES, WILLIAM LISLE + The Butterfly and the Bee, 42 + BRADLEY, MARY EMILY + A Chrysalis, 149 + BREWER, EBENEZER COBHAM + Little Things, 5 + BROWNING, ELIZABETH BARRETT + From Casa Guidi Windows, 222 + A Musical Instrument, 275 + BROWNING, ROBERT + Pippa, 6 + An Incident of the French Camp, 43 + How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix, 173 + Rabbi Ben Ezra, 312 + Prospice, 320 + Herve Riel, 326 + BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN + Robert of Lincoln, 44 + The Planting of the Apple Tree, 211 + BURNS, ROBERT + John Barleycorn, 83 + To a Mouse, 92 + To a Mountain Daisy, 94 + Bannockburn, 142 + For a' That, 151 + The Banks o' Doon, 265 + John Anderson, 274 + BURROUGHS, JOHN + My Own Shall Come to Me, 267 + BURT, MARY E. + The Flying Squirrel, 60 + BYRON, LORD + The Destruction of Sennacherib, 158 + The Eve of Waterloo, 177 + + CABLE, GEORGE W. + The New Arrival, 152 + CAMPBELL, THOMAS + The Rainbow, 53 + Lord Ullin's Daughter, 105 + Hohenlinden, 134 + CARROLL, LEWIS + Father William, 33 + COLERIDGE, SAMUEL T. + He Prayeth Best, 5 + If I Had But Two Little Wings, 21 + COLLINS, WILLIAM + How Sleep the Brave, 133 + COOLIDGE, SUSAN + How the Leaves Came Down, 12 + COWPER, WILLIAM + The Nightingale and the Glow-worm, 34 + The Solitude of Alexander Selkirk, 190 + + DICKENS, CHARLES + The Ivy Green, 59 + DOUGLAS, WILLIAM + Annie Laurie, 226 + DYER, EDWARD + Contentment, 286 + + ELIOT, GEORGE + The Choir Invisible, 303 + EMERSON, RALPH WALDO + The Problem, 333 + + FIELD, EUGENE + Wynken, Blynken and Nod, 16 + The Duel, 18 + Krinken, 162 + FIELDS, JAMES T. + The Captain's Daughter, 23 + FOSTER, STEPHEN COLLINS + My Old Kentucky Home, 136 + Old Folks at Home, 137 + + GOULD, HANNAH FLAGG + The Frost, 39 + A Name in the Sand, 256 + GRAY, THOMAS + Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard, 306 + GREENE, ALBERT GORTON + Old Grimes, 47 + + HALLECK, FITZ-GREENE + Marco Bozzaris, 128 + HEMANS, FELICIA + Casabianca, 22 + The Homes of England, 192 + The Landing of the Pilgrims, 229 + The Voice of Spring, 259 + HOOD, THOMAS + I Remember, I Remember, 159 + HOGG, JAMES + A Boy's Song, 50 + The Skylark, 302 + HOLLAND, J.G. + Heaven is Not Reached at a Single Bound, 117 + HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL + Old Ironsides, 53 + The Chambered Nautilus, 122 + HOWITT, MARY + Buttercups and Daisies, 51 + HUNT, LEIGH + Abou Ben Adhem, 89 + The Glove and the Lions, 184 + Cupid Drowned, 234 + + INGELOW, JEAN + The Brides of Enderby, 277 + + JONSON. BEN + The Noble Nature, 60 + + KEATS, JOHN + Fairy Song, 50 + On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer, 326 + KEY, FRANCIS SCOTT + The Star-Spangled Banner, 31 + KINGSLEY, CHARLES + A Farewell, 21 + The Sands of Dee, 271 + KIPLING, RUDYARD + True Royalty, 7 + Playing Robinson Crusoe, 8 + The Overland Mail, 125 + The Ballad of the Clampherdown, 154 + L'Envoi, 285 + Recessional, 321 + The English Flag, 337 + KNOX, WILLIAM + Mortality, 323 + + LANIER, SIDNEY + The Tournament, 110 + Barnacles, 219 + LEAR, EDWARD + The Owl and the Pussy-Cat, 15 + LIDDELL, CATHERINE C. + Jesus the Carpenter, 114 + LONGFELLOW, HENRY W. + The Arrow and the Song, 3 + The Village Blacksmith, 25 + Hiawatha's Childhood, 79 + The Wreck of the Hesperus, 138 + A Psalm of Life, 218 + The Ship of State, 227 + The Skeleton in Armour, 240 + LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL + The Finding of the Lyre, 148 + The Shepherd of King Admetus, 171 + June, 217 + LYLY, JOHN + Cupid and My Campasbe, 235 + LYTE, HENRY FRANCIS + Abide With Me, 223 + + MACAULAY, THOMAS B. + Ivry, 179 + Horatius at the Bridge, 193 + MACDONALD, GEORGE + Little White Lily, 10 + The Wind and the Moon, 111 + MACKAY, CHARLES + Song of Life, 48 + MARKHAM, EDWIN + The Man With the Hoe, 342 + MCCLELLAN, ISAAC + The Death of Napoleon, 131 + MILLER, JOAQUIN + Columbus, 169 + MILLER, KATHERINE + Stevenson's Birthday, 164 + MILLER, WILLIAM + Willie Winkie, 13 + MILTON, JOHN + On His Blindness, 304 + MONTGOMERY, JAMES + Arnold von Winkleried, 296 + MOORE, CLEMENT CLARKE + A Visit from St. Nicholas, 29 + MOORE, THOMAS + The Last Rose of Summer, 234 + Cupid Stung, 234 + The Light of Other Days, 266 + The Harp That Once Through Tara's Halls, 287 + MORRIS, GEORGE POPE + Woodman, Spare That Tree, 222 + + NEWMAN, JOHN HENRY + Lead, Kindly Light, 224 + + OSBORNE, SELLECK + A Modest Wit, 165 + OSGOOD, KATE PUTNAM + Driving Home the Cows, 160 + + PAYNE, JOHN HOWARD + Home, Sweet Home, 220 + PIERPONT, JOHN + Warren's Address, 63 + POE, EDGAR ALLAN + The Raven, 289 + POPE, ALEXANDER + Solitude, 273 + + RALEIGH, SIR WALTER + The Lye, 283 + RANKIN. JEREMIAH EAMES + The Babie, 4 + READ, THOMAS BUCHANAN + Sheridan's Ride, 68 + RILEY, JAMES WHITCOMB + Little Orphant Annie, 54 + ROGERS, SAMUEL + A Wish, 272 + + SARGENT, EPES + A Life on the Ocean Wave, 85 + SCOTT, SIR WALTER + Lochinvar, 103 + The Gathering Song of Donald Dhu, 126 + SHAKESPEARE, WILLIAM + Ingratitude, 58 + Mercy, 300 + Polonius' Advice, 301 + A Fragment from Julius Caesar, 301 + SHELLEY, PERCY BYSSHE + Ode to a Skylark, 268 + Ozymandias in the Desert, 322 + SMITH, SAMUEL FRANCIS + America, 228 + SOUTHEY, ROBERT + The Battle of Blenheim, 117 + The Inchcape Rock, 145 + The Legend of Bishop Hatto, 166 + The Well of St. Keyne, 186 + STEVENSON, ROBERT LOUIS + My Shadow, 9 + + TAYLOR, BAYARD + The Song in Camp, 64 + TAYLOR, JANE + The Violet, 27 + TENNYSON, ALFRED + Sweet and Low, 27 + The Owl, 40 + The Bugle Song, 66 + Lady Clare, 72 + The Lord of Burleigh, 75 + The Death of the Old Year, 86 + The Charge of the Light Brigade, 107 + Crossing the Bar, 124 + The Brook, 153 + The Lotos Eaters, 231 + The REVENGE, 246 + Sir Galahad, 253 + THACKERAY, WILLIAM MAKEPEACE + Little Billee, 41 + THAXTER, CELIA + The Sandpiper, 71 + THOMAS, EDITH + Moly, 233 + The God of Music, 275 + TROWBRIDGE, J.T. + Farmyard Song, 90 + TURNER, CHARLES TENNYSON + Letty's Globe, 115 + + WATTS, ISAAC + Let Dogs Delight to Bark and Bite, 4 + Love Between Brothers and Sisters, 20 + WHITMAN, WALT + O Captain! My Captain! 57 + Song of Myself, 344 + WHITTIER, JOHN G. + The Three Bells of Glasgow, 67 + Barbara Frietchie, 96 + WOLFE, C. + The Burial of Sir John Moore at Corunna, 176 + WOODWORTH, SAMUEL + The Old Oaken Bucket, 288 + WORDSWORTH, WILLIAM + The Rainbow (a fragment), 28 + I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud, 82 + Fidelity, 120 + Lucy, 272 + The World is Too Much With Us, 304 + She Was a Phantom of Delight, 305 + WOTTON, SIR HENRY + A Happy Life, 220 + + + + + PART I. + + The Budding Moment + + [Illustration] + + + + + Poems That Every Child Should Know + + + THE ARROW AND THE SONG. + +"The Arrow and the Song," by Longfellow (1807-82), is placed first in + this volume out of respect to a little girl of six years who used to + love to recite it to me. She knew many poems, but this was her + favourite. + + I shot an arrow into the air, + It fell to earth, I knew not where; + For, so swiftly it flew, the sight + Could not follow it in its flight. + + I breathed a song into the air, + It fell to earth, I knew not where; + For who has sight so keen and strong + That it can follow the flight of song? + + Long, long afterward, in an oak + I found the arrow, still unbroke; + And the song, from beginning to end, + I found again in the heart of a friend. + + HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. + + + THE BABIE. + + I found "The Babie" in Stedman's "Anthology." It is placed in this + volume by permission of the poet, Jeremiah Eames Rankin, of Cleveland + (1828-), because it captured the heart of a ten-year-old boy whose + fancy was greatly moved by the two beautiful lines: + + "Her face is like an angel's face, + I'm glad she has no wings." + + + Nae shoon to hide her tiny taes, + Nae stockin' on her feet; + Her supple ankles white as snaw, + Or early blossoms sweet. + + Her simple dress o' sprinkled pink, + Her double, dimplit chin, + Her puckered lips, and baumy mou', + With na ane tooth within. + + Her een sae like her mither's een, + Twa gentle, liquid things; + Her face is like an angel's face: + We're glad she has nae wings. + + JEREMIAH EAMES RANKIN. + + + LET DOGS DELIGHT TO BARK AND BITE. + +"Let Dogs Delight to Bark and Bite," by Isaac Watts (1674-1748), and +"Little Drops of Water," by Ebenezer Cobham Brewer (1810-97), are poems + that the world cannot outgrow. Once in the mind, they fasten. They were + not born to die. + + Let dogs delight to bark and bite, + For God hath made them so; + Let bears and lions growl and fight, + For 'tis their nature too. + + But, children, you should never let + Such angry passions rise; + Your little hands were never made + To tear each other's eyes. + + ISAAC WATTS. + + + LITTLE THINGS. + + Little drops of water, + Little grains of sand, + Make the mighty ocean + And the pleasant land. + + Thus the little minutes, + Humble though they be, + Make the mighty ages + Of eternity. + + EBENEZER COBHAM BREWER. + + + HE PRAYETH BEST. + + These two stanzas, the very heart of that great poem, "The Ancient + Mariner," by Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834), sum up the lesson of + this masterpiece--"Insensibility is a crime." + + Farewell, farewell! but this I tell + To thee, thou Wedding-Guest! + He prayeth well who loveth well + Both man and bird and beast. + + He prayeth best who loveth best + All things, both great and small: + For the dear God who loveth us, + He made and loveth all. + + SAMUEL T. COLERIDGE. + + + TWINKLE, TWINKLE, LITTLE STAR. + + Twinkle, twinkle, little star! + How I wonder what you are, + Up above the world so high, + Like a diamond in the sky. + + When the glorious sun is set, + When the grass with dew is wet, + Then you show your little light, + Twinkle, twinkle all the night. + + In the dark-blue sky you keep, + And often through my curtains peep, + For you never shut your eye, + Till the sun is in the sky. + + As your bright and tiny spark + Guides the traveller in the dark, + Though I know not what you are, + Twinkle, twinkle, little star! + + + PIPPA. + +"Spring's at the Morn," from "Pippa Passes," by Robert Browning + (1812-89), has become a very popular stanza with little folks. "All's + right with the world" is a cheerful motto for the nursery and + schoolroom. + + The year's at the spring, + The day's at the morn; + Morning's at seven; + The hillside's dew pearled; + + The lark's on the wing; + The snail's on the thorn; + God's in His heaven-- + All's right with the world! + + ROBERT BROWNING. + + + THE DAYS OF THE MONTH. + +"The Days of the Month" is a useful bit of doggerel that we need all + through life. It is anonymous. + + Thirty days hath September, + April, June, and November; + February has twenty-eight alone. + All the rest have thirty-one, + Excepting leap-year--that's the time + When February's days are twenty-nine. + + OLD SONG. + + + TRUE ROYALTY. + +"True Royalty" and "Playing Robinson Crusoe" are pleasing stanzas from +"The Just So Stories" of Rudyard Kipling (1865-). + + There was never a Queen like Balkis, + From here to the wide world's end; + But Balkis talked to a butterfly + As you would talk to a friend. + + There was never a King like Solomon, + Not since the world began; + But Solomon talked to a butterfly + As a man would talk to a man. + + _She_ was Queen of Sabaea-- + And _he_ was Asia's Lord-- + But they both of 'em talked to butterflies + When they took their walks abroad. + + RUDYARD KIPLING. + + (In "The Just So Stories.") + + + PLAYING ROBINSON CRUSOE. + + Pussy can sit by the fire and sing, + Pussy can climb a tree, + Or play with a silly old cork and string + To 'muse herself, not me. + But I like Binkie, my dog, because + He knows how to behave; + So, Binkie's the same as the First Friend was, + And I am the Man in the Cave. + + Pussy will play Man-Friday till + It's time to wet her paw + And make her walk on the window-sill + (For the footprint Crusoe saw); + Then she fluffles her tail and mews, + And scratches and won't attend. + But Binkie will play whatever I choose, + And he is my true First Friend. + + Pussy will rub my knees with her head, + Pretending she loves me hard; + But the very minute I go to my bed + Pussy runs out in the yard. + + And there she stays till the morning light; + So I know it is only pretend; + But Binkie, he snores at my feet all night, + And he is my Firstest Friend! + + RUDYARD KIPLING. + + (In "The Just So Stories.") + + + MY SHADOW. + +"My Shadow," by Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-94), is one of the most + popular short poems extant. I have taught it to a great many very young + boys, and not one has ever tried to evade learning it. Older pupils + like it equally well. + + I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me, + And what can be the use of him is more than I can see. + He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head; + And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed. + + The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow-- + Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow; + For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball, + And he sometimes gets so little that there's none of him at all. + + He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play, + And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way. + He stays so close beside me, he's a coward, you can see; + I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me! + + One morning, very early, before the sun was up, + I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup; + But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head, + Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed. + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + LITTLE WHITE LILY. + + This poem (George Macdonald, 1828-) finds a place in this volume + because, as a child, I loved it. It completely filled my heart, and has + made every member of the lily family dear to me. George Macdonald's + charming book, "At the Back of the North Wind," also was my wonder and + delight. + + Little White Lily + Sat by a stone, + Drooping and waiting + Till the sun shone. + Little White Lily + Sunshine has fed; + Little White Lily + Is lifting her head. + + Little White Lily + Said: "It is good + Little White Lily's + Clothing and food." + Little White Lily + Dressed like a bride! + Shining with whiteness, + And crowned beside! + + Little White Lily + Drooping with pain, + Waiting and waiting + For the wet rain. + Little White Lily + Holdeth her cup; + Rain is fast falling + And filling it up. + + Little White Lily + Said: "Good again, + When I am thirsty + To have the nice rain. + Now I am stronger, + Now I am cool; + Heat cannot burn me, + My veins are so full." + + Little White Lily + Smells very sweet; + On her head sunshine, + Rain at her feet. + Thanks to the sunshine, + Thanks to the rain, + Little White Lily + Is happy again. + + GEORGE MACDONALD. + + + HOW THE LEAVES CAME DOWN. + +"How the Leaves Came Down," by Susan Coolidge (1845-), appeals to + children because it helps to reconcile them to going to bed. "I go to + bed by day" is one of the crosses of childhood. + + "I'll tell you how the leaves came down," + The great Tree to his children said: + "You're getting sleepy, Yellow and Brown, + Yes, very sleepy, little Red. + It is quite time to go to bed." + + "Ah!" begged each silly, pouting leaf, + "Let us a little longer stay; + Dear Father Tree, behold our grief! + 'Tis such a very pleasant day, + We do not want to go away." + + So, for just one more merry day + To the great Tree the leaflets clung, + Frolicked and danced, and had their way, + Upon the autumn breezes swung, + Whispering all their sports among-- + + "Perhaps the great Tree will forget, + And let us stay until the spring, + If we all beg, and coax, and fret." + But the great Tree did no such thing; + He smiled to hear their whispering. + + "Come, children, all to bed," he cried; + And ere the leaves could urge their prayer, + He shook his head, and far and wide, + Fluttering and rustling everywhere, + Down sped the leaflets through the air. + + I saw them; on the ground they lay, + Golden and red, a huddled swarm, + Waiting till one from far away, + White bedclothes heaped upon her arm, + Should come to wrap them safe and warm. + + The great bare Tree looked down and smiled. + "Good-night, dear little leaves," he said. + And from below each sleepy child + Replied, "Good-night," and murmured, + "It is _so_ nice to go to bed!" + + SUSAN COOLIDGE. + + + WILLIE WINKIE. + +"Wee Willie Winkie," by William Miller (1810-72), is included in this + volume out of respect to an eight-year-old child who chose it from + among hundreds. We had one poetry hour every week, and he studied and + recited it with unabated interest to the end of the year. + + Wee Willie Winkie rins through the town, + Up-stairs and doon-stairs, in his nicht-gown, + Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock, + "Are the weans in their bed?--for it's now ten o'clock." + + Hey, Willie Winkie! are ye comin' ben? + The cat's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin' hen, + The doug's speldered on the floor, and disna gie a cheep; + But here's a waukrife laddie that winna fa' asleep. + + Onything but sleep, ye rogue! glow'rin' like the moon, + Rattlin' in an airn jug wi' an airn spoon, + Rumblin' tumblin' roun' about, crowin' like a cock, + Skirlin' like a kenna-what--wauknin' sleepin' folk. + + Hey, Willie Winkie! the wean's in a creel! + Waumblin' aff a body's knee like a vera eel, + Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and ravellin' a' her thrums,-- + Hey, Willie Winkie!--See, there he comes! + + Wearie is the mither that has a storie wean, + A wee stumpie stoussie that canna rin his lane, + That has a battle aye wi' sleep before he'll close an ee; + But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gies strength anew to me. + + WILLIAM MILLER. + + + THE OWL AND THE PUSSY-CAT. + +"The Owl and the Pussy-Cat," by Edward Lear (1812-88), is placed here + because I once found that a timid child was much strengthened and + developed by learning it. It is a song that appeals to the imagination + of children, and they like to sing it. + + The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea + In a beautiful pea-green boat; + They took some honey, and plenty of money + Wrapped up in a five-pound note. + The Owl looked up to the moon above, + And sang to a small guitar, + "O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love! + What a beautiful Pussy you are,-- + You are, + What a beautiful Pussy you are!" + + Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl! + How wonderful sweet you sing! + Oh, let us be married,--too long we have tarried,-- + But what shall we do for a ring?" + They sailed away for a year and a day + To the land where the Bong-tree grows, + And there in a wood a piggy-wig stood + With a ring in the end of his nose,-- + His nose, + With a ring in the end of his nose. + + "Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling + Your ring?" Said the piggy, "I will," + So they took it away, and were married next day + By the turkey who lives on the hill. + They dined upon mince and slices of quince, + Which they ate with a runcible spoon, + And hand in hand on the edge of the sand + They danced by the light of the moon,-- + The moon, + They danced by the light of the moon. + + EDWARD LEAR. + + + WYNKEN, BLYNKEN, AND NOD. + +"Wynken, Blynken, and Nod," by Eugene Field (1850-95), pleases + children, who are all by nature sailors and adventurers. + + Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night + Sailed off in a wooden shoe,-- + Sailed on a river of crystal light + Into a sea of dew. + "Where are you going, and what do you wish?" + The old moon asked the three. + "We have come to fish for the herring-fish + That live in this beautiful sea; + Nets of silver and gold have we," + Said Wynken, + Blynken, + And Nod. + + The old moon laughed and sang a song, + As they rocked in the wooden shoe; + And the wind that sped them all night long + Ruffled the waves of dew; + The little stars were the herring-fish + That lived in the beautiful sea. + "Now cast your nets wherever you wish,-- + Never afeard are we!" + So cried the stars to the fishermen three, + Wynken, + Blynken, + And Nod. + + All night long their nets they threw + To the stars in the twinkling foam,-- + Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe, + Bringing the fishermen home: + 'Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed + As if it could not be; + And some folk thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamed + Of sailing that beautiful sea; + But I shall name you the fishermen three: + Wynken, + Blynken, + And Nod. + + Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes, + And Nod is a little head, + And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies + Is a wee one's trundle-bed; + So shut your eyes while Mother sings + Of wonderful sights that be, + And you shall see the beautiful things + As you rock on the misty sea + Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three, + Wynken, + Blynken, + And Nod. + + EUGENE FIELD. + + + THE DUEL. + +"The Duel," by Eugene Field (1850-95), is almost the most popular + humorous poem that has come under my notice. In making such a + collection as this it is not easy to find poems at once delicate, + witty, and graphic. I have taught "The Duel" hundreds of times, and + children invariably love it. + + The gingham dog and the calico cat + Side by side on the table sat; + 'Twas half-past twelve, and (what do you think!) + Nor one nor t'other had slept a wink! + The old Dutch clock and the Chinese plate + Appeared to know as sure as fate + There was going to be a terrible spat. + (_I wasn't there; I simply state + What was told to me by the Chinese plate_!) + + The gingham dog went "bow-wow-wow!" + And the calico cat replied "mee-ow!" + The air was littered, an hour or so, + With bits of gingham and calico, + While the old Dutch clock in the chimney-place + Up with its hands before its face, + For it always dreaded a family row! + (_Now mind: I'm only telling you + What the old Dutch clock declares is true_!) + + The Chinese plate looked very blue, + And wailed, "Oh, dear! what shall we do!" + But the gingham dog and the calico cat + Wallowed this way and tumbled that, + Employing every tooth and claw + In the awfullest way you ever saw-- + And, oh! how the gingham and calico flew! + (_Don't fancy I exaggerate! + I got my views from the Chinese plate_!) + + Next morning where the two had sat + They found no trace of the dog or cat; + And some folks think unto this day + That burglars stole the pair away! + But the truth about the cat and the pup + Is this: They ate each other up! + Now what do you really think of that! + (_The old Dutch clock it told me so, + And that is how I came to know_.) + + EUGENE FIELD. + + + THE BOY WHO NEVER TOLD A LIE. + +"The Boy Who Never Told a Lie" (anonymous), as well as "Whatever Brawls + Disturb the Street," by Isaac Watts (1674-1748), are real gems. A few + years ago they were more in favour than the poorer verse that has been + put forward. But they are sure to be revived. + + Once there was a little boy, + With curly hair and pleasant eye-- + A boy who always told the truth, + And never, never told a lie. + + And when he trotted off to school, + The children all about would cry, + "There goes the curly-headed boy-- + The boy that never tells a lie." + + And everybody loved him so, + Because he always told the truth, + That every day, as he grew up, + 'Twas said, "There goes the honest youth." + + And when the people that stood near + Would turn to ask the reason why, + The answer would be always this: + "Because he never tells a lie." + + + LOVE BETWEEN BROTHERS AND SISTERS. + + Whatever brawls disturb the street, + There should be peace at home; + Where sisters dwell and brothers meet, + Quarrels should never come. + + Birds in their little nests agree; + And 'tis a shameful sight, + When children of one family + Fall out and chide and fight. + + ISAAC WATTS. + + + THE BLUEBELL OF SCOTLAND. + + Oh where! and oh where! is your Highland laddie gone? + He's gone to fight the French for King George upon the throne; + And it's oh! in my heart how I wish him safe at home. + + Oh where! and oh where! does your Highland laddie dwell? + He dwells in merry Scotland at the sign of the Bluebell; + And it's oh! in my heart that I love my laddie well. + + + IF I HAD BUT TWO LITTLE WINGS. + +"If I Had But Two Little Wings," by Samuel Taylor Coleridge + (1772-1834), is recommended by a number of teachers and school-girls. + + If I had but two little wings + And were a little feathery bird, + To you I'd fly, my dear! + But thoughts like these are idle things + And I stay here. + + But in my sleep to you I fly: + I'm always with you in my sleep! + The world is all one's own. + And then one wakes, and where am I? + All, all alone. + + SAMUEL T. COLERIDGE. + + + A FAREWELL. + +"A Farewell," by Charles Kingsley (1819-75), makes it seem worth while + to be good. + + My fairest child, I have no song to give you; + No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray; + Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you + For every day. + + Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever; + Do noble things, not dream them all day long: + And so make life, death, and that vast forever + One grand, sweet song. + + CHARLES KINGSLEY. + + + CASABIANCA. + +"Casabianca," by Felicia Hemans (1793-1835), is the portrait of a + faithful heart, an example of unreasoning obedience. It is right that a + child should obey even to the death the commands of a loving parent. + + The boy stood on the burning deck, + Whence all but him had fled; + The flame that lit the battle's wreck + Shone round him o'er the dead. + + Yet beautiful and bright he stood, + As born to rule the storm; + A creature of heroic blood, + A proud though childlike form. + + The flames rolled on--he would not go + Without his father's word; + That father, faint in death below, + His voice no longer heard. + + He called aloud, "Say, father, say + If yet my task is done?" + He knew not that the chieftain lay + Unconscious of his son. + + "Speak, father!" once again he cried, + "If I may yet be gone!" + And but the booming shots replied, + And fast the flames rolled on. + + Upon his brow he felt their breath, + And in his waving hair; + And looked from that lone post of death + In still, yet brave despair. + + And shouted but once more aloud + "My father! must I stay?" + While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, + The wreathing fires made way. + + They wrapt the ship in splendour wild, + They caught the flag on high, + And streamed above the gallant child + Like banners in the sky. + + Then came a burst of thunder sound-- + The boy--oh! where was he? + --Ask of the winds that far around + With fragments strew the sea; + + With mast, and helm, and pennon fair. + That well had borne their part-- + But the noblest thing that perished there + Was that young, faithful heart. + + FELICIA HEMANS. + + + THE CAPTAIN'S DAUGHTER. + +"The Captain's Daughter," by James T. Fields (1816-81), carries weight + with every young audience. It is pointed to an end that children + love--viz., trust in a higher power. + + We were crowded in the cabin, + Not a soul would dare to sleep,-- + It was midnight on the waters, + And a storm was on the deep. + + 'Tis a fearful thing in winter + To be shattered by the blast, + And to hear the rattling trumpet + Thunder, "Cut away the mast!" + + So we shuddered there in silence,-- + For the stoutest held his breath, + While the hungry sea was roaring + And the breakers talked with Death. + + As thus we sat in darkness, + Each one busy with his prayers, + "We are lost!" the captain shouted + As he staggered down the stairs. + + But his little daughter whispered, + As she took his icy hand, + "Isn't God upon the ocean, + Just the same as on the land?" + + Then we kissed the little maiden. + And we spoke in better cheer, + And we anchored safe in harbour + When the morn was shining clear. + + JAMES T. FIELDS. + + ["The 'village smithy' stood in Brattle Street, Cambridge. There came a + time when the chestnut-tree that shaded it was cut down, and then the + children of the place put their pence together and had a chair made for + the poet from its wood."] + + + THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. + + Longfellow (1807-82) is truly the children's poet. His poems are as + simple, pathetic, artistic, and philosophical as if they were intended + to tell the plain everyday story of life to older people. "The Village + Blacksmith" has been learned by thousands of children, and there is no + criticism to be put upon it. The age of the child has nothing whatever + to do with his learning it. Age does not grade children nor is poetry + wholly to be so graded. "Time is the false reply." + + Under a spreading chestnut-tree + The village smithy stands; + The smith, a mighty man is he, + With large and sinewy hands, + And the muscles of his brawny arms + Are strong as iron bands. + + His hair is crisp, and black, and long; + His face is like the tan; + His brow is wet with honest sweat, + He earns whate'er he can, + And looks the whole world in the face, + For he owes not any man. + + Week in, week out, from morn till night, + You can hear his bellows blow; + You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, + With measured beat and slow, + Like a sexton ringing the village bell, + When the evening sun is low. + + And children coming home from school + Look in at the open door; + They love to see the flaming forge, + And hear the bellows roar, + And catch the burning sparks that fly + Like chaff from a threshing-floor. + + He goes on Sunday to the church, + And sits among his boys; + He hears the parson pray and preach, + He hears his daughter's voice + Singing in the village choir, + And it makes his heart rejoice. + + It sounds to him like her mother's voice, + Singing in Paradise! + He needs must think of her once more, + How in the grave she lies; + And with his hard, rough hand he wipes + A tear out of his eyes. + + Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing, + Onward through life he goes; + Each morning sees some task begin, + Each evening sees it close; + Something attempted, something done, + Has earned a night's repose. + + Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, + For the lesson thou hast taught! + Thus at the flaming forge of life + Our fortunes must be wrought; + Thus on its sounding anvil shaped + Each burning deed and thought. + + HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. + + + SWEET AND LOW. + + Sweet and low, sweet and low, + Wind of the western sea, + Low, low, breathe and blow, + Wind of the western sea! + Over the rolling waters go, + Come from the dropping moon and blow, + Blow him again to me; + While my little one, while my pretty one sleeps. + + Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, + Father will come to thee soon; + Rest, rest, on mother's breast, + Father will come to thee soon; + Father will come to his babe in the nest, + Silver sails all out of the west + Under the silver moon: + Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. + + ALFRED TENNYSON. + + + THE VIOLET. + +"The Violet," by Jane Taylor (1783-1824), is another of those dear + old-fashioned poems, pure poetry and pure violet. It is included in + this volume out of respect to my own love for it when I was a child. + + Down in a green and shady bed + A modest violet grew; + Its stalk was bent, it hung its head, + As if to hide from view. + + And yet it was a lovely flower, + No colours bright and fair; + It might have graced a rosy bower, + Instead of hiding there. + + Yet there it was content to bloom, + In modest tints arrayed; + And there diffused its sweet perfume, + Within the silent shade. + + Then let me to the valley go, + This pretty flower to see; + That I may also learn to grow + In sweet humility. + + JANE TAYLOR. + + + THE RAINBOW. + + (A FRAGMENT.) + +"The Rainbow," by William Wordsworth (1770-1850), accords with every + child's feelings. It voices the spirit of all ages that would love to + imagine it "a bridge to heaven." + + My heart leaps up when I behold + A rainbow in the sky; + So was it when my life began, + So is it now I am a man, + So be it when I shall grow old, + Or let me die! + The child is father of the man; + And I could wish my days to be + Bound each to each by natural piety. + + WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. + + + A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS. + +"A Visit From St. Nicholas," by Clement Clarke Moore (1779-1863) is the + most popular Christmas poem ever written. It carries Santa Claus on + from year to year and the spirit of Santa Claus. + + 'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house + Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; + The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, + In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there; + The children were nestled all snug in their beds, + While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads; + And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap, + Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap, + When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, + I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter. + Away to the window I flew like a flash, + Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. + The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow + Gave the luster of mid-day to objects below, + When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, + But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer. + With a little old driver, so lively and quick, + I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. + More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, + And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name: + "Now, _Dasher_! now, _Dancer_! now, _Prancer_ and _Vixen_! + On, _Comet_! on, _Cupid_! on, _Donder_ and _Blitzen_! + To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall! + Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!" + As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, + When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky; + So up to the house-top the coursers they flew, + With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas, too. + And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof + The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. + As I drew in my head, and was turning around, + Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. + He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, + And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot; + A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, + And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack. + His eyes--how they twinkled! his dimples how merry! + His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry! + His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, + And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow; + The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, + And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath; + He had a broad face and a little round belly, + That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly. + He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, + And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself; + A wink of his eye and a twist of his head, + Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread; + He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, + And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk, + And laying his finger aside of his nose, + And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose; + He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, + And away they all flew like the down on a thistle. + But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, + "_Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night_." + + CLEMENT CLARKE MOORE. + + + THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER. + + O! say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, + What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming-- + Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight, + O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming! + And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, + Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there; + O! say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave + O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave? + + On that shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep, + Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, + What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep, + As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses? + Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, + In full glory reflected now shines on the stream; + 'Tis the star-spangled banner; O long may it wave + O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave! + + And where is that band who so vauntingly swore + That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion + A home and a country should leave us no more? + Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps, pollution. + No refuge could save the hireling and slave + From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave; + And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave + O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave. + + O! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand + Between their loved homes and the war's desolation! + Blest with victory and peace, may the heav'n-rescued land + Praise the power that hath made and preserved us a nation. + Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just, + And this be our motto--"_In God is our trust_": + And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave + O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave. + + FRANCIS SCOTT KEY. + + + FATHER WILLIAM. + +"Father William" a parody by Lewis Carroll (1833-), is even more clever + than the original. Harmless fun brightens the world. It takes a real + genius to create wit that carries no sting. + + "You are old, Father William," the young man said, + "And your hair has become very white; + And yet you incessantly stand on your head-- + Do you think, at your age, it is right?" + + "In my youth," Father William replied to his son, + "I feared it might injure the brain; + But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none, + Why, I do it again and again." + + "You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before, + And have grown most uncommonly fat; + Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door-- + Pray, what is the reason of that?" + + "In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his gray locks, + "I kept all my limbs very supple + By the use of this ointment--one shilling the box-- + Allow me to sell you a couple." + + "You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weak + For anything tougher than suet; + Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak: + Pray, how did you manage to do it?" + + "In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law, + And argued each case with my wife; + And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw + Has lasted the rest of my life." + + "You are old," said the youth; "one would hardly suppose + That your eye was as steady as ever; + Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose-- + What made you so awfully clever?" + + "I have answered three questions, and that is enough," + Said his father, "don't give yourself airs! + Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff? + Be off, or I'll kick you down-stairs!" + + LEWIS CARROLL. + + ("Alice in Wonderland.") + + + THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE GLOW-WORM. + +"The Nightingale," by William Cowper (1731-1800), is a favourite with a + teacher of good taste, and I include it at her request. + + A nightingale, that all day long + Had cheered the village with his song, + Nor yet at eve his note suspended, + Nor yet when eventide was ended, + Began to feel, as well he might, + The keen demands of appetite; + When, looking eagerly around, + He spied far off, upon the ground, + A something shining in the dark, + And knew the glow-worm by his spark; + So, stooping down from hawthorn top, + He thought to put him in his crop. + The worm, aware of his intent, + Harangued him thus, right eloquent: + "Did you admire my lamp," quoth he, + "As much as I your minstrelsy, + You would abhor to do me wrong, + As much as I to spoil your song; + For 'twas the self-same power divine, + Taught you to sing and me to shine; + That you with music, I with light, + Might beautify and cheer the night." + The songster heard his short oration, + And warbling out his approbation, + Released him, as my story tells, + And found a supper somewhere else. + + WILLIAM COWPER. + + + + + PART II. + + The Little Child + + [Illustration] + + + THE FROST. + +"Jack Frost," by Hannah Flagg Gould (1789-1865), is perhaps a hundred + years old, but he is the same rollicking fellow to-day as of yore. The + poem puts his merry pranks to the front and prepares the way for + science to give him a true analysis. + + The Frost looked forth, one still, clear night, + And whispered, "Now I shall be out of sight; + So through the valley and over the height, + In silence I'll take my way: + I will not go on with that blustering train, + The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain, + Who make so much bustle and noise in vain, + But I'll be as busy as they." + + Then he flew to the mountain and powdered its crest; + He lit on the trees, and their boughs he dressed + In diamond beads--and over the breast + Of the quivering lake he spread + A coat of mail, that it need not fear + The downward point of many a spear + That hung on its margin far and near, + Where a rock could rear its head. + + He went to the windows of those who slept, + And over each pane, like a fairy, crept; + Wherever he breathed, wherever he slept, + By the light of the moon were seen + Most beautiful things--there were flowers and trees; + There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees; + There were cities with temples and towers, and these + All pictured in silver sheen! + + But he did one thing that was hardly fair; + He peeped in the cupboard, and finding there + That all had forgotten for him to prepare-- + "Now just to set them a-thinking, + I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he, + "This costly pitcher I'll burst in three, + And the glass of water they've left for me + Shall '_tchich!_' to tell them I'm drinking." + + HANNAH FLAGG GOULD. + + + THE OWL. + + When cats run home and light is come, + And dew is cold upon the ground, + And the far-off stream is dumb, + And the whirring sail goes round, + And the whirring sail goes round; + Alone and warming his five wits, + The white owl in the belfry sits. + + When merry milkmaids click the latch, + And rarely smells the new-mown hay, + And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch + Twice or thrice his roundelay, + Twice or thrice his roundelay; + Alone and warming his five wits, + The white owl in the belfry sits. + + ALFRED TENNYSON. + + + LITTLE BILLEE. + +"Little Billee," by William Makepeace Thackeray (1811-63), finds a + place here because it carries a good lesson good-naturedly rendered. An + accomplished teacher recommends it, and I recollect two young children + in Chicago who sang it frequently for years without getting tired of + it. + + There were three sailors of Bristol city + Who took a boat and went to sea. + But first with beef and captain's biscuits + And pickled pork they loaded she. + + There was gorging Jack and guzzling Jimmy, + And the youngest he was little Billee. + Now when they got so far as the Equator + They'd nothing left but one split pea. + + Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, + "I am extremely hungaree." + To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy, + "We've nothing left, us must eat we." + + Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, + "With one another, we shouldn't agree! + There's little Bill, he's young and tender, + We're old and tough, so let's eat he." + + "Oh! Billy, we're going to kill and eat you, + So undo the button of your chemie." + When Bill received this information + He used his pocket-handkerchie. + + "First let me say my catechism, + Which my poor mammy taught to me." + "Make haste, make haste," says guzzling Jimmy + While Jack pulled out his snickersnee. + + So Billy went up to the main-topgallant mast, + And down he fell on his bended knee. + He scarce had come to the Twelfth Commandment + When up he jumps, "There's land I see. + + "Jerusalem and Madagascar, + And North and South Amerikee: + There's the British flag a-riding at anchor, + With Admiral Napier, K.C.B." + + So when they got aboard of the Admiral's + He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee; + But as for little Bill, he made him + The Captain of a Seventy-three. + + WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. + + + THE BUTTERFLY AND THE BEE. + +"The Butterfly and the Bee," by William Lisle Bowles (1762-1850), is + recommended by some school-girls. It carries a lesson in favour of the + worker. + + Methought I heard a butterfly + Say to a labouring bee: + "Thou hast no colours of the sky + On painted wings like me." + + "Poor child of vanity! those dyes, + And colours bright and rare," + With mild reproof, the bee replies, + "Are all beneath my care. + + "Content I toil from morn to eve, + And scorning idleness, + To tribes of gaudy sloth I leave + The vanity of dress." + + WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES. + + + AN INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP. + +"An Incident of the French Camp," by Robert Browning (1812-89), is + included in this volume out of regard to a boy of eight years who did + not care for many poems, but this one stirred his heart to its depths. + + You know, we French storm'd Ratisbon: + A mile or so away + On a little mound, Napoleon + Stood on our storming-day; + With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, + Legs wide, arms lock'd behind, + As if to balance the prone brow + Oppressive with its mind. + + Just as perhaps he mus'd "My plans + That soar, to earth may fall, + Let once my army leader Lannes + Waver at yonder wall,"-- + Out 'twixt the battery smokes there flew + A rider, bound on bound + Full-galloping; nor bridle drew + Until he reach'd the mound. + + Then off there flung in smiling joy, + And held himself erect + By just his horse's mane, a boy: + You hardly could suspect-- + (So tight he kept his lips compress'd, + Scarce any blood came through) + You look'd twice ere you saw his breast + Was all but shot in two. + + "Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace + We've got you Ratisbon! + The Marshal's in the market-place, + And you'll be there anon + To see your flag-bird flap his vans + Where I, to heart's desire, + Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his plans + Soared up again like fire. + + The chief's eye flashed; but presently + Softened itself, as sheathes + A film the mother-eagle's eye + When her bruised eaglet breathes; + "You're wounded!" "Nay," the soldier's pride + Touched to the quick, he said: + "I'm killed, Sire!" And his chief beside, + Smiling the boy fell dead. + + ROBERT BROWNING. + + + ROBERT OF LINCOLN. + +"Robert of Lincoln," by William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878), is one of + the finest bird poems ever written. It finds a place here because I + have seen it used effectively as a memory gem in the Cook County Normal + School (Colonel Parker's school), year after year, and because my own + pupils invariably like to commit it to memory. With the child of six to + the student of twenty years it stands a source of delight. + + Merrily swinging on brier and weed, + Near to the nest of his little dame, + Over the mountain-side or mead, + Robert of Lincoln is telling his name. + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink, + Snug and safe is this nest of ours, + Hidden among the summer flowers. + Chee, chee, chee. + + Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed, + Wearing a bright, black wedding-coat; + White are his shoulders, and white his crest, + Hear him call in his merry note, + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink, + Look what a nice, new coat is mine; + Sure there was never a bird so fine. + Chee, chee, chee. + + Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, + Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, + Passing at home a patient life, + Broods in the grass while her husband sings, + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink, + Brood, kind creature, you need not fear + Thieves and robbers while I am here. + Chee, chee, chee. + + Modest and shy as a nun is she; + One weak chirp is her only note; + Braggart, and prince of braggarts is he, + Pouring boasts from his little throat, + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink, + Never was I afraid of man, + Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can. + Chee, chee, chee. + + Six white eggs on a bed of hay, + Flecked with purple, a pretty sight: + There as the mother sits all day, + Robert is singing with all his might, + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink, + Nice good wife that never goes out, + Keeping house while I frolic about. + Chee, chee, chee. + + Soon as the little ones chip the shell, + Six wide mouths are open for food; + Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, + Gathering seeds for the hungry brood: + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink, + This new life is likely to be + Hard for a gay young fellow like me. + Chee, chee, chee. + + Robert of Lincoln at length is made + Sober with work, and silent with care, + Off is his holiday garment laid, + Half forgotten that merry air, + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink, + Nobody knows but my mate and I, + Where our nest and our nestlings lie. + Chee, chee, chee. + + Summer wanes; the children are grown; + Fun and frolic no more he knows; + Robert of Lincoln's a hum-drum drone; + Off he flies, and we sing as he goes, + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink, + When you can pipe that merry old strain, + Robert of Lincoln, come back again. + Chee, chee, chee. + + WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. + + + OLD GRIMES. + +"Old Grimes" is an heirloom, an antique gem. We learn it as a matter of + course for its sparkle and glow. + + Old Grimes is dead; that good old man, + We ne'er shall see him more; + He used to wear a long, black coat, + All buttoned down before. + + His heart was open as the day, + His feelings all were true; + His hair was some inclined to gray, + He wore it in a queue. + + He lived at peace with all mankind, + In friendship he was true; + His coat had pocket-holes behind, + His pantaloons were blue. + + He modest merit sought to find, + And pay it its desert; + He had no malice in his mind, + No ruffles on his shirt. + + His neighbours he did not abuse, + Was sociable and gay; + He wore large buckles on his shoes, + And changed them every day. + + His knowledge, hid from public gaze, + He did not bring to view, + Nor make a noise town-meeting days, + As many people do. + + His worldly goods he never threw + In trust to fortune's chances, + But lived (as all his brothers do) + In easy circumstances. + + Thus undisturbed by anxious cares + His peaceful moments ran; + And everybody said he was + A fine old gentleman. + + ALBERT GORTON GREENE. + + + SONG OF LIFE. + + A traveller on a dusty road + Strewed acorns on the lea; + And one took root and sprouted up, + And grew into a tree. + Love sought its shade at evening-time, + To breathe its early vows; + And Age was pleased, in heights of noon, + To bask beneath its boughs. + The dormouse loved its dangling twigs, + The birds sweet music bore-- + It stood a glory in its place, + A blessing evermore. + + A little spring had lost its way + Amid the grass and fern; + A passing stranger scooped a well + Where weary men might turn. + He walled it in, and hung with care + A ladle on the brink; + He thought not of the deed he did, + But judged that Toil might drink. + He passed again; and lo! the well, + By summer never dried, + Had cooled ten thousand parched tongues, + And saved a life beside. + + A nameless man, amid the crowd + That thronged the daily mart, + Let fall a word of hope and love, + Unstudied from the heart, + A whisper on the tumult thrown, + A transitory breath, + It raised a brother from the dust, + It saved a soul from death. + O germ! O fount! O word of love! + O thought at random cast! + Ye were but little at the first, + But mighty at the last. + + CHARLES MACKAY. + + + FAIRY SONG. + + Shed no tear! O shed no tear! + The flower will bloom another year. + Weep no more! O, weep no more! + Young buds sleep in the root's white core. + Dry your eyes! Oh! dry your eyes! + For I was taught in Paradise + To ease my breast of melodies-- + Shed no tear. + + Overhead! look overhead! + 'Mong the blossoms white and red-- + Look up, look up. I flutter now + On this flush pomegranate bough. + See me! 'tis this silvery bell + Ever cures the good man's ill. + Shed no tear! O, shed no tear! + The flowers will bloom another year. + Adieu, adieu--I fly, adieu, + I vanish in the heaven's blue-- + Adieu, adieu! + + JOHN KEATS. + + + A BOY'S SONG + +"A Boy's Song," by James Hogg (1770-1835), is a sparkling poem, very + attractive to children. + + Where the pools are bright and deep, + Where the gray trout lies asleep, + Up the river and o'er the lea, + That's the way for Billy and me. + + Where the blackbird sings the latest, + Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest, + Where the nestlings chirp and flee, + That's the way for Billy and me. + + Where the mowers mow the cleanest, + Where the hay lies thick and greenest, + There to trace the homeward bee, + That's the way for Billy and me. + + Where the hazel bank is steepest, + Where the shadow falls the deepest, + Where the clustering nuts fall free. + That's the way for Billy and me. + + Why the boys should drive away, + Little sweet maidens from the play, + Or love to banter and fight so well, + That's the thing I never could tell. + + But this I know, I love to play, + Through the meadow, among the hay; + Up the water and o'er the lea, + That's the way for Billy and me. + + JAMES HOGG. + + + BUTTERCUPS AND DAISIES. + + Buttercups and daisies, + Oh, the pretty flowers, + Coming ere the spring time, + To tell of sunny hours. + While the tree are leafless, + While the fields are bare, + Buttercups and daisies + Spring up here and there. + + Ere the snowdrop peepeth, + Ere the crocus bold, + Ere the early primrose + Opes its paly gold, + Somewhere on the sunny bank + Buttercups are bright; + Somewhere 'mong the frozen grass + Peeps the daisy white. + + Little hardy flowers, + Like to children poor, + Playing in their sturdy health + By their mother's door, + Purple with the north wind, + Yet alert and bold; + Fearing not, and caring not, + Though they be a-cold! + + What to them is winter! + What are stormy showers! + Buttercups and daisies + Are these human flowers! + He who gave them hardships + And a life of care, + Gave them likewise hardy strength + And patient hearts to bear. + + MARY HOWITT. + + + THE RAINBOW. + + Triumphal arch, that fills the sky + When storms prepare to part, + I ask not proud Philosophy + To teach me what thou art. + + Still seem, as to my childhood's sight, + A midway station given, + For happy spirits to alight, + Betwixt the earth and heaven. + + THOMAS CAMPBELL. + + + OLD IRONSIDES. + +"Old Ironsides," by Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809-94), is learned + readily. Children are untouched by the commercial spirit which is the + reproach of this age. "Ingratitude is the vice of republics," and this + poem puts to shame the love of money and the spirit of ingratitude that + could let a national servant become a wreck. + + Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! + Long has it waved on high, + And many an eye has danced to see + That banner in the sky; + Beneath it rung the battle shout, + And burst the cannon's roar;-- + The meteor of the ocean air + Shall sweep the clouds no more. + + Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, + Where knelt the vanquished foe, + When winds were hurrying o'er the flood + And waves were white below. + No more shall feel the victor's tread, + Or know the conquered knee; + The harpies of the shore shall pluck + The eagle of the sea! + + O, better that her shattered hulk + Should sink beneath the wave; + Her thunders shook the mighty deep, + And there should be her grave; + Nail to the mast her holy flag, + Set every threadbare sail, + And give her to the god of storms, + The lightning and the gale! + + OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. + + + LITTLE ORPHANT ANNIE. + +"Little Orphant Annie" certainly earns her "board and keep" when she + has "washed the dishes," "swept up the crumbs," "driven the chickens + from the porch," and done all the other odds and ends of work on a + farm. The poet, James Whitcomb Riley (1853-), has shown how truly a + little child may be overtaxed and yet preserve a brave spirit and keen + imagination. Children invariably love to learn this poem. + + Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay, + An' wash the cups and saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away, + An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep, + An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board-an'-keep; + An' all us other children, when the supper things is done, + We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun + A-list'nin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells about, + An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits you + Ef you + Don't + Watch + Out! + + Onc't they was a little boy wouldn't say his pray'rs-- + An' when he went to bed at night, away up-stairs, + His mammy heerd him holler, an' his daddy heerd him bawl, + An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wasn't there at all! + An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubby hole, an' press, + An' seeked him up the chimbly flue, an' ever'-wheres, I guess; + But all they ever found was thist his pants an' roundabout! + An' the Gobble-uns'll git you + Ef you + Don't + Watch + Out! + + An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh an' grin, + An' make fun of ever' one, an' all her blood-an'-kin; + An' onc't when they was "company," an' ole folks was there, + She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care! + An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide, + They was two great big Black Things a-standin' by her side, + An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she + knowed what she's about! + An' the Gobble-uns'll git you + Ef you + Don't + Watch + Out! + + An' little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue, + An' the lampwick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo! + An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray, + An' the lightnin'-bugs in dew is all squenched away,-- + You better mind yer parents, an' yer teachers fond an' dear, + An' churish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear, + An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about, + Er the Gobble-uns'll git you + Ef you + Don't + Watch + Out! + + JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. + + + O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! + +"O Captain! My Captain!" by Walt Whitman (1819-92), is placed here out + of compliment to a little boy aged ten who wanted to recite it once a + week for a year. This song and Edwin Markham's poem on Lincoln are two + of the greatest tributes ever paid to that hero. + + O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, + The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won, + The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, + While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; + But O heart! heart! heart! + O the bleeding drops of red, + Where on the deck my Captain lies, + Fallen cold and dead. + + O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; + Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills, + For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding, + For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; + Here Captain! dear father! + This arm beneath your head! + It is some dream that on the deck + You've fallen cold and dead. + + My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, + My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will. + The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, + From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; + Exult O shores, and ring O bells! + But I, with mournful tread, + Walk the deck my Captain lies, + Fallen cold and dead. + + WALT WHITMAN. + + + INGRATITUDE. + +"Ingratitude," by William Shakespeare (1564-1616), is an incisive + thrust at a refined vice. It is a part of education to learn to be + grateful. + + Blow, blow, thou winter wind, + Thou are not so unkind + As man's ingratitude; + Thy tooth is not so keen + Because thou are not seen, + Although thy breath be rude. + + Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, + Thou dost not bite so nigh + As benefits forgot; + Though thou the waters warp, + Thy sting is not so sharp + As friend remembered not. + + WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. + + + THE IVY GREEN. + +"The Ivy Green," by Charles Dickens (1812-70), is a hardy poem in + honour of a hardy plant. There is a wonderful ivy growing at Rhudlan, + in northern Wales. Its roots are so large and strong that they form a + comfortable seat for many persons, and no one can remember when they + were smaller. This ivy envelops a great castle in ruins. Every child in + that locality loves the old ivy. It is typical of the ivy as seen all + through Wales and England. + + O, a dainty plant is the ivy green, + That creepeth o'er ruins old! + Of right choice food are his meals, I ween, + In his cell so lone and cold. + The walls must be crumbled, the stones decayed. + To pleasure his dainty whim; + And the mouldering dust that years have made + Is a merry meal for him. + Creeping where no life is seen, + A rare old plant is the ivy green. + + Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, + And a staunch old heart has he! + How closely he twineth, how tight he clings + To his friend, the huge oak tree! + And slyly he traileth along the ground, + And his leaves he gently waves, + And he joyously twines and hugs around + The rich mould of dead men's graves. + Creeping where no life is seen, + A rare old plant is the ivy green. + + Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed, + And nations have scattered been; + But the stout old ivy shall never fade + From its hale and hearty green. + The brave old plant in its lonely days + Shall fatten upon the past; + For the stateliest building man can raise + Is the ivy's food at last. + Creeping where no life is seen, + A rare old plant is the ivy green. + + CHARLES DICKENS. + + + THE NOBLE NATURE. + +"The Noble Nature," by Ben Jonson (1574-1637), needs no plea. A small + virtue well polished is better than none. + + It is not growing like a tree + In bulk doth make man better be; + Or standing long an oak, three hundred year + To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear + A lily of a day + Is fairer far in May, + Although it fall and die that night,-- + It was the plant and flower of light. + In small proportions we just beauties see; + And in short measures life may perfect be. + + BEN JONSON. + + + THE FLYING SQUIRREL. + +"The Flying Squirrel" is an honest account of a live creature that won + his way into scores of hearts by his mad pranks and affectionate ways. + It is enough that John Burroughs has commended the poem. + + Of all the woodland creatures, + The quaintest little sprite + Is the dainty flying squirrel + In vest of shining white, + In coat of silver gray, + And vest of shining white. + + His furry Quaker jacket + Is trimmed with stripe of black; + A furry plume to match it + Is curling o'er his back; + New curved with every motion, + His plume curls o'er his back. + + No little new-born baby + Has pinker feet than he; + Each tiny toe is cushioned + With velvet cushions three; + Three wee, pink, velvet cushions + Almost too small to see. + + Who said, "The foot of baby + Might tempt an angel's kiss"? + I know a score of school-boys + Who put their lips to this,-- + This wee foot of the squirrel, + And left a loving kiss. + + The tiny thief has hidden + My candy and my plum; + Ah, there he comes unbidden + To gently nip my thumb,-- + Down in his home (my pocket) + He gently nips my thumb. + + How strange the food he covets, + The restless, restless wight;-- + Fred's old stuffed armadillo + He found a tempting bite, + Fred's old stuffed armadillo, + With ears a perfect fright. + + The Lady Ruth's great bureau, + Each foot a dragon's paw! + The midget ate the nails from + His famous antique claw. + Oh, what a cruel beastie + To hurt a dragon's claw! + + To autographic copies + Upon my choicest shelf,-- + To every dainty volume + The rogue has helped himself. + My books! Oh dear! No matter! + The rogue has helped himself. + + And yet, my little squirrel, + Your taste is not so bad; + You've swallowed Caird completely + And psychologic Ladd. + Rosmini you've digested, + And Kant in rags you've clad. + + Gnaw on, my elfish rodent! + Lay all the sages low! + My pretty lace and ribbons, + They're yours for weal or woe! + My pocket-book's in tatters + Because you like it so. + + MARY E. BURT. + + + WARREN'S ADDRESS TO THE AMERICAN SOLDIERS. + + There is never a boy who objects to learning "Warren's Address," by + John Pierpont (1785-1866). To stand by one's own rights is inherent in + every true American. This poem is doubtless developed from Robert + Burns's "Bannockburn." (1785-1866.) + + Stand! the ground's your own, my braves! + Will ye give it up to slaves? + Will ye look for greener graves? + Hope ye mercy still? + What's the mercy despots feel? + Hear it in that battle-peal! + Read it on yon bristling steel! + Ask it,--ye who will. + + Fear ye foes who kill for hire? + Will ye to your homes retire? + Look behind you! they're afire! + And, before you, see + Who have done it!--From the vale + On they come!--And will ye quail?-- + Leaden rain and iron hail + Let their welcome be! + + In the God of battles trust! + Die we may,--and die we must; + But, O, where can dust to dust + Be consigned so well, + As where Heaven its dews shall shed + On the martyred patriot's bed, + And the rocks shall raise their head, + Of his deeds to tell! + + JOHN PIERPONT. + + + THE SONG IN CAMP. + +"The Song in Camp" is Bayard Taylor's best effort as far as young boys + and girls are concerned. It is a most valuable poem. I once heard a + clergyman in Chicago use it as a text for his sermon. Since then "Annie + Laurie" has become the song of the Labour party. "The Song in Camp" + voices a universal feeling. (1825-78.) + + "Give us a song!" the soldiers cried, + The outer trenches guarding, + When the heated guns of the camps allied + Grew weary of bombarding. + + The dark Redan, in silent scoff, + Lay, grim and threatening, under; + And the tawny mound of the Malakoff + No longer belched its thunder. + + There was a pause. A guardsman said, + "We storm the forts to-morrow; + Sing while we may, another day + Will bring enough of sorrow." + + They lay along the battery's side, + Below the smoking cannon: + Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde, + And from the banks of Shannon. + + They sang of love, and not of fame; + Forgot was Britain's glory: + Each heart recalled a different name, + But all sang "Annie Laurie." + + Voice after voice caught up the song, + Until its tender passion + Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,-- + Their battle-eve confession. + + Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, + But, as the song grew louder, + Something upon the soldier's cheek + Washed off the stains of powder. + + Beyond the darkening ocean burned + The bloody sunset's embers, + While the Crimean valleys learned + How English love remembers. + + And once again a fire of hell + Rained on the Russian quarters, + With scream of shot, and burst of shell, + And bellowing of the mortars! + + And Irish Nora's eyes are dim + For a singer, dumb and gory; + And English Mary mourns for him + Who sang of "Annie Laurie." + + Sleep, soldiers! still in honoured rest + Your truth and valour wearing: + The bravest are the tenderest,-- + The loving are the daring. + + BAYARD TAYLOR. + + + THE BUGLE SONG. + +"The Bugle Song" (by Alfred Tennyson, 1809-90), says Heydrick, "has for + its central theme the undying power of human love. The music is notable + for sweetness and delicacy." + + The splendour falls on castle walls + And snowy summits old in story: + The long light shakes across the lakes + And the wild cataract leaps in glory. + Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, + Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. + + O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, + And thinner, clearer, farther going! + O sweet and far from cliff and scar + The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! + Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: + Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. + + O love, they die in yon rich sky, + They faint on hill or field or river: + Our echoes roll from soul to soul, + And grow forever and forever. + Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, + And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. + + ALFRED TENNYSON. + + + THE "THREE BELLS" OF GLASGOW. + +"The Three Bells of Glasgow," by Whittier (1807-92), cannot be praised + too highly for its ethical value. Children always love to learn it + after hearing it read correctly and by one who understands and + appreciates it. "Stand by" is the motto. My pupils teach it to me once + a year and learn it themselves, too. + + Beneath the low-hung night cloud + That raked her splintering mast + The good ship settled slowly, + The cruel leak gained fast. + + Over the awful ocean + Her signal guns pealed out. + Dear God! was that Thy answer + From the horror round about? + + A voice came down the wild wind, + "Ho! ship ahoy!" its cry: + "Our stout _Three Bells_ of Glasgow + Shall stand till daylight by!" + + Hour after hour crept slowly, + Yet on the heaving swells + Tossed up and down the ship-lights, + The lights of the _Three Bells_! + + And ship to ship made signals, + Man answered back to man, + While oft, to cheer and hearten, + The _Three Bells_ nearer ran: + + And the captain from her taffrail + Sent down his hopeful cry. + "Take heart! Hold on!" he shouted, + "The _Three Bells_ shall stand by!" + + All night across the waters + The tossing lights shone clear; + All night from reeling taffrail + The _Three Bells_ sent her cheer. + + And when the dreary watches + Of storm and darkness passed, + Just as the wreck lurched under, + All souls were saved at last. + + Sail on, _Three Bells_, forever, + In grateful memory sail! + Ring on, _Three Bells_ of rescue, + Above the wave and gale! + + Type of the Love eternal, + Repeat the Master's cry, + As tossing through our darkness + The lights of God draw nigh! + + JOHN G. WHITTIER. + + + SHERIDAN'S RIDE. + + There never was a boy who did not like "Sheridan's Ride," by T. + Buchanan Read (1822-72). The swing and gallop in it take every boy off + from his feet. The children never teach this poem to me, because they + love to learn it at first sight. It is easily memorised. + + Up from the South at break of day, + Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, + The affrighted air with a shudder bore, + Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door, + The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar, + Telling the battle was on once more, + And Sheridan twenty miles away. + + And wider still those billows of war + Thundered along the horizon's bar; + And louder yet into Winchester rolled + The roar of that red sea uncontrolled, + Making the blood of the listener cold + As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, + And Sheridan twenty miles away. + + But there is a road from Winchester town, + A good, broad highway leading down; + And there, through the flush of the morning light, + A steed as black as the steeds of night + Was seen to pass as with eagle flight; + As if he knew the terrible need, + He stretched away with his utmost speed; + Hills rose and fell; but his heart was gay, + With Sheridan fifteen miles away. + + Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering South, + The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth; + Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster, + Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster. + The heart of the steed and the heart of the master + Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, + Impatient to be where the battle-field calls; + Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, + With Sheridan only ten miles away. + + Under his spurning feet the road + Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, + And the landscape sped away behind + Like an ocean flying before the wind. + And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace fire, + Swept on, with his wild eye full of ire. + But lo! he is nearing his heart's desire; + He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, + With Sheridan only five miles away. + + The first that the General saw were the groups + Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops. + What was done--what to do? A glance told him both, + Then striking his spurs, with a terrible oath, + He dashed down the line, mid a storm of huzzas, + And the wave of retreat checked its course there, because + The sight of the master compelled it to pause. + With foam and with dust the black charger was gray; + By the flash of his eye, and the red nostrils' play, + He seemed to the whole great army to say: + "I have brought you Sheridan all the way + From Winchester down to save the day!" + + Hurrah! hurrah for Sheridan! + Hurrah! hurrah for horse and man! + And when their statues are placed on high, + Under the dome of the Union sky, + The American soldiers' Temple of Fame, + There with the glorious General's name + Be it said, in letters both bold and bright: + "Here is the steed that saved the day, + By carrying Sheridan into the fight + From Winchester, twenty miles away!" + + THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. + + + THE SANDPIPER. + +"The Sandpiper," by Celia Thaxter (1836-94), is placed here because a + goodly percentage of the children who read it want to learn it. + + Across the lonely beach we flit, + One little sandpiper and I, + And fast I gather, bit by bit, + The scattered driftwood, bleached and dry. + The wild waves reach their hands for it, + The wild wind raves, the tide runs high, + As up and down the beach we flit, + One little sandpiper and I. + + Above our heads the sullen clouds + Scud, black and swift, across the sky; + Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds + Stand out the white lighthouses high. + Almost as far as eye can reach + I see the close-reefed vessels fly, + As fast we flit along the beach, + One little sandpiper and I. + + I watch him as he skims along, + Uttering his sweet and mournful cry; + He starts not at my fitful song, + Nor flash of fluttering drapery. + He has no thought of any wrong, + He scans me with a fearless eye; + Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong, + The little sandpiper and I. + + Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night, + When the loosed storm breaks furiously? + My driftwood fire will burn so bright! + To what warm shelter canst thou fly? + I do not fear for thee, though wroth + The tempest rushes through the sky; + For are we not God's children both, + Thou, little sandpiper, and I? + + CELIA THAXTER. + + + LADY CLARE. + + Girls always love "Lady Clare" and "The Lord of Burleigh." They like to + think that it is enough to be a splendid woman without title or wealth. + They want to be loved, if they are loved at all, for their good hearts + and graces of mind. Tennyson (1809-92) makes this point repeatedly + through his poems. + + It was the time when lilies blow + And clouds are highest up in air; + Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe + To give his cousin, Lady Clare. + + I trow they did not part in scorn: + Lovers long-betroth'd were they: + They too will wed the morrow morn: + God's blessing on the day! + + "He does not love me for my birth, + Nor for my lands so broad and fair; + He loves me for my own true worth, + And that is well," said Lady Clare. + + In there came old Alice the nurse; + Said: "Who was this that went from thee?" + "It was my cousin," said Lady Clare; + "To-morrow he weds with me." + + "O God be thank'd!" said Alice the nurse, + "That all comes round so just and fair: + Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands, + And you are not the Lady Clare." + + "Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse," + Said Lady Clare, "that ye speak so wild?" + "As God's above," said Alice the nurse, + "I speak the truth: you are my child. + + "The old Earl's daughter died at my breast; + I speak the truth, as I live by bread! + I buried her like my own sweet child, + And put my child in her stead." + + "Falsely, falsely have ye done, + O mother," she said, "if this be true, + To keep the best man under the sun + So many years from his due." + + "Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, + "But keep the secret for your life, + And all you have will be Lord Ronald's + When you are man and wife." + + "If I'm a beggar born," she said, + "I will speak out, for I dare not lie. + Pull off, pull off the brooch of gold, + And fling the diamond necklace by." + + "Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, + "But keep the secret all ye can." + She said: "Not so: but I will know + If there be any faith in man." + + "Nay now, what faith?" said Alice the nurse, + "The man will cleave unto his right," + "And he shall have it," the lady replied, + "Tho' I should die to-night." + + "Yet give one kiss to your mother dear! + Alas! my child, I sinn'd for thee." + "O mother, mother, mother," she said, + "So strange it seems to me. + + "Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear, + My mother dear, if this be so, + And lay your hand upon my head, + And bless me, mother, ere I go." + + She clad herself in a russet gown, + She was no longer Lady Clare: + She went by dale, and she went by down, + With a single rose in her hair. + + The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought + Leapt up from where she lay, + Dropt her head in the maiden's hand, + And follow'd her all the way. + + Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower: + "O Lady Clare, you shame your worth! + Why come you drest like a village maid, + That are the flower of the earth?" + + "If I come drest like a village maid, + I am but as my fortunes are: + I am a beggar born," she said, + "And not the Lady Clare." + + "Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, + "For I am yours in word and in deed. + Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, + "Your riddle is hard to read." + + O and proudly stood she up! + Her heart within her did not fail: + She look'd into Lord Ronald's eyes, + And told him all her nurse's tale. + + He laugh'd a laugh of merry scorn: + He turn'd and kiss'd her where she stood: + "If you are not the heiress born? + And I," said he, "the next in blood-- + + "If you are not the heiress born, + And I," said he, "the lawful heir, + We two will wed to-morrow morn, + And you shall still be Lady Clare." + + ALFRED TENNYSON. + + + THE LORD OF BURLEIGH. + + In her ear he whispers gaily, + "If my heart by signs can tell, + Maiden, I have watched thee daily, + And I think thou lov'st me well." + She replies, in accents fainter, + "There is none I love like thee." + He is but a landscape-painter, + And a village maiden she. + + He to lips, that fondly falter, + Presses his without reproof; + Leads her to the village altar, + And they leave her father's roof. + + "I can make no marriage present; + Little can I give my wife. + Love will make our cottage pleasant, + And I love thee more than life." + + They by parks and lodges going + See the lordly castles stand; + Summer woods, about them blowing, + Made a murmur in the land. + + From deep thought himself he rouses, + Says to her that loves him well, + "Let us see these handsome houses + Where the wealthy nobles dwell." + + So she goes by him attended, + Hears him lovingly converse, + Sees whatever fair and splendid + Lay betwixt his home and hers. + + Parks with oak and chestnut shady, + Parks and order'd gardens great, + Ancient homes of lord and lady, + Built for pleasure and for state. + + All he shows her makes him dearer; + Evermore she seems to gaze + On that cottage growing nearer, + Where they twain will spend their days. + + O but she will love him truly! + He shall have a cheerful home; + She will order all things duly + When beneath his roof they come. + + Thus her heart rejoices greatly + Till a gateway she discerns + With armorial bearings stately, + And beneath the gate she turns; + Sees a mansion more majestic + Than all those she saw before; + Many a gallant gay domestic + Bows before him at the door. + + And they speak in gentle murmur + When they answer to his call, + While he treads with footstep firmer, + Leading on from hall to hall. + + And while now she wanders blindly, + Nor the meaning can divine, + Proudly turns he round and kindly, + "All of this is mine and thine." + + Here he lives in state and bounty, + Lord of Burleigh, fair and free. + Not a lord in all the county + Is so great a lord as he. + All at once the colour flushes + Her sweet face from brow to chin; + As it were with same she blushes, + And her spirit changed within. + + Then her countenance all over + Pale again as death did prove: + But he clasp'd her like a lover, + And he cheer'd her soul with love. + + So she strove against her weakness, + Tho' at times her spirits sank; + Shaped her heart with woman's meekness + To all duties of her rank; + And a gentle consort made he, + And her gentle mind was such + That she grew a noble lady, + And the people loved her much. + But a trouble weigh'd upon her + And perplex'd her, night and morn, + With the burden of an honour + Unto which she was not born. + + Faint she grew and ever fainter. + As she murmur'd, "Oh, that he + Were once more that landscape-painter + Which did win my heart from me!" + + So she droop'd and droop'd before him, + Fading slowly from his side; + Three fair children first she bore him, + Then before her time she died. + + Weeping, weeping late and early, + Walking up and pacing down, + Deeply mourn'd the Lord of Burleigh, + Burleigh-house by Stamford-town. + + And he came to look upon her, + And he look'd at her and said, + "Bring the dress and put it on her + That she wore when she was wed." + + Then her people, softly treading, + Bore to earth her body, drest + In the dress that she was wed in, + That her spirit might have rest. + + ALFRED TENNYSON. + + + HIAWATHA'S CHILDHOOD. + +"Hiawatha" needs no commendation. Hundreds of thousands of children in + our land know snatches of it It is a child's poem, every line of it. + One summer in Boston more than 50,000 people went to take a peep at the + poet's house. (1807-82.) + + By the shores of Gitche Gumee, + By the shining Big-Sea-Water, + Stood the wigwam of Nokomis, + Daughter of the Moon, Nokomis. + Dark behind it rose the forest, + Rose the black and gloomy pine-trees, + Rose the firs with cones upon them; + Bright before it beat the water, + Beat the clear and sunny water, + Beat the shining Big-Sea-Water. + + There the wrinkled old Nokomis + Nursed the little Hiawatha, + Rocked him in his linden cradle, + Bedded soft in moss and rushes, + Safely bound with reindeer sinews; + Stilled his fretful wail by saying, + "Hush! the Naked Bear will hear thee!" + Lulled him into slumber, singing, + "Ewa-yea! my little owlet! + Who is this that lights the wigwam? + With his great eyes lights the wigwam? + Ewa-yea! my little owlet!" + + Many things Nokomis taught him + Of the stars that shine in heaven; + Showed him Ishkoodah, the comet, + Ishkoodah, with fiery tresses; + Showed the Death-Dance of the spirits, + Warriors with their plumes and war-clubs, + Flaring far away to northward + In the frosty nights of winter; + Showed the broad, white road in heaven, + Pathway of the ghosts, the shadows, + Running straight across the heavens, + Crowded with the ghosts, the shadows. + + At the door, on summer evenings, + Sat the little Hiawatha; + Heard the whispering of the pine-trees, + Heard the lapping of the water, + Sounds of music, words of wonder; + "Minnie-wawa!" said the pine-trees, + "Mudway-aushka!" said the water; + Saw the fire-fly, Wah-wah-taysee, + Flitting through the dusk of evening, + With the twinkle of its candle + Lighting up the brakes and bushes, + And he sang the song of children. + Sang the song Nokomis taught him: + "Wah-wah-taysee, little fire-fly, + Little, flitting, white-fire insect, + Little, dancing, white-fire creature, + Light me with your little candle, + Ere upon my bed I lay me, + Ere in sleep I close my eyelids!" + + Saw the moon rise from the water + Rippling, rounding from the water, + Saw the flecks and shadows on it, + Whispered, "What is that, Nokomis?" + And the good Nokomis answered: + "Once a warrior, very angry, + Seized his grandmother, and threw her + Up into the sky at midnight; + Right against the moon he threw her; + 'Tis her body that you see there." + + Saw the rainbow in the heaven, + In the eastern sky, the rainbow, + Whispered, "What is that, Nokomis?" + And the good Nokomis answered: + "Tis the heaven of flowers you see there; + All the wild-flowers of the forest, + All the lilies of the prairie, + When on earth they fade and perish, + Blossom in that heaven above us." + + When he heard the owls at midnight, + Hooting, laughing in the forest, + "What is that?" he cried, in terror; + "What is that," he said, "Nokomis?" + And the good Nokomis answered: + "That is but the owl and owlet, + Talking in their native language, + Talking, scolding at each other." + + Then the little Hiawatha + Learned of every bird its language, + Learned their names and all their secrets, + How they built their nests in summer, + Where they hid themselves in winter, + Talked with them whene'er he met them, + Called them "Hiawatha's Chickens." + + Of all beasts he learned the language, + Learned their names and all their secrets, + How the beavers built their lodges, + Where the squirrels hid their acorns, + How the reindeer ran so swiftly, + Why the rabbit was so timid, + Talked with them whene'er he met them, + Called them "Hiawatha's Brothers." + + HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. + + + I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD. + +"The Daffodil" is here out of compliment to a splendid school and a + splendid teacher at Poughkeepsie. I found the pupils learning the poem, + the teacher having placed a bunch of daffodils in a vase before them. + It was a charming lesson. (1770-96.) + + I wandered lonely as a cloud + That floats on high o'er vales and hills, + When all at once I saw a crowd, + A host of golden daffodils: + Beside the lake, beneath the trees, + Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. + + Continuous as the stars that shine + And twinkle on the milky way, + They stretched in never-ending line + Along the margin of a bay; + Ten thousand saw I at a glance, + Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. + + The waves beside them danced, but they + Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:-- + A poet could not but be gay + In such a jocund company; + I gazed--and gazed--but little thought + What wealth the show to me had brought. + + For oft, when on my couch I lie + In vacant or in pensive mood, + They flash upon that inward eye + Which is the bliss of solitude; + And then my heart with pleasure fills, + And dances with the daffodils. + + WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. + + + JOHN BARLEYCORN. + +"John Barleycorn" is a favourite with boys because it pictures a + successful struggle. One editor has made a temperance poem of it, + mistaking its true intent. The poem is a strong expression of a + plow-man's love for a hardy, food-giving grain which has sprung to life + through his efforts. (1759-96.) + + There were three kings into the East, + Three kings both great and high; + And they ha'e sworn a solemn oath + John Barleycorn should die. + + They took a plow and plowed him down, + Put clods upon his head; + And they ha'e sworn a solemn oath + John Barleycorn was dead. + + But the cheerful spring came kindly on, + And showers began to fall; + John Barleycorn got up again, + And sore surprised them all. + + The sultry suns of summer came, + And he grew thick and strong; + His head well arm'd wi' pointed spears, + That no one should him wrong. + + The sober autumn entered mild, + And he grew wan and pale; + His bending joints and drooping head + Showed he began to fail. + + His colour sickened more and more, + He faded into age; + And then his enemies began + To show their deadly rage. + + They took a weapon long and sharp, + And cut him by the knee, + Then tied him fast upon a cart, + Like a rogue for forgery. + + They laid him down upon his back, + And cudgelled him full sore; + They hung him up before the storm, + And turn'd him o'er and o'er. + + They filled up then a darksome pit + With water to the brim, + And heaved in poor John Barleycorn, + To let him sink or swim. + + They laid him out upon the floor, + To work him further woe; + And still as signs of life appeared, + They tossed him to and fro. + + They wasted o'er a scorching flame + The marrow of his bones; + But a miller used him worst of all-- + He crushed him 'tween two stones. + + And they have taken his very heart's blood, + And drunk it round and round; + And still the more and more they drank, + Their joy did more abound. + + ROBERT BURNS. + + + A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE. + +"A Life on the Ocean Wave," by Epes Sargent (1813-80), gives the swing + and motion of the water of the great ocean. Children remember it almost + unconsciously after hearing it read several times. + + A life on the ocean wave, + A home on the rolling deep, + Where the scattered waters rave, + And the winds their revels keep! + Like an eagle caged, I pine + On this dull, unchanging shore: + Oh! give me the flashing brine, + The spray and the tempest's roar! + + Once more on the deck I stand + Of my own swift-gliding craft: + Set sail! farewell to the land! + The gale follows fair abaft. + We shoot through the sparkling foam + Like an ocean-bird set free;-- + Like the ocean-bird, our home + We'll find far out on the sea. + + The land is no longer in view, + The clouds have begun to frown; + But with a stout vessel and crew, + We'll say, Let the storm come down! + And the song of our hearts shall be, + While the winds and the waters rave, + A home on the rolling sea! + A life on the ocean wave! + + EPES SARGENT. + + + THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. + + It is customary, every New Year's eve in America, to ring bells, fire + guns, send up rockets, and, in many other ways, to show joy and + gratitude that the old year has been so kind, and that the new year is + so auspicious. The emphasis in Tennyson's poem is laid on gratitude for + past benefits so easily forgotten rather than upon the possible + advantages of the unknown and untried future. + + Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, + And the winter winds are wearily sighing: + Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, + And tread softly and speak low, + For the old year lies a-dying. + Old year, you must not die; + You came to us so readily, + You lived with us so steadily, + Old year, you shall not die. + + He lieth still: he doth not move: + He will not see the dawn of day. + He hath no other life above. + He gave me a friend, and a true true-love, + And the New-year will take 'em away. + Old year, you must not go; + So long as you have been with us, + Such joy as you have seen with us, + Old year, you shall not go. + + He froth'd his bumpers to the brim; + A jollier year we shall not see. + But tho' his eyes are waxing dim, + And tho' his foes speak ill of him, + He was a friend to me. + Old year, you shall not die; + We did so laugh and cry with you, + I've half a mind to die with you, + Old year, if you must die. + + He was full of joke and jest, + But all his merry quips are o'er. + To see him die, across the waste + His son and heir doth ride post-haste, + But he'll be dead before. + Every one for his own. + The night is starry and cold, my friend, + And the New-year blithe and bold, my friend, + Comes up to take his own. + + How hard he breathes! over the snow + I heard just now the crowing cock. + The shadows flicker to and fro: + The cricket chirps: the light burns low: + 'Tis nearly twelve o'clock. + Shake hands, before you die. + Old year, we'll dearly rue for you: + What is it we can do for you? + Speak out before you die. + + His face is growing sharp and thin. + Alack! our friend is gone. + Close up his eyes: tie up his chin: + Step from the corpse, and let him in + That standeth there alone, + And waiteth at the door. + There's a new foot on the floor, my friend, + And a new face at the door, my friend, + A new face at the door. + + ALFRED TENNYSON. + + + ABOU BEN ADHEM. + +"Abou Ben Adhem" has won its way to the popular heart because the +"Brotherhood of Man" is the motto of this age. (1784-1859.) + + Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) + Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, + And saw within the moonlight in his room, + Making it rich and like a lily in bloom, + An angel writing in a book of gold. + + Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold; + And to the presence in the room he said, + "What writest thou?" The vision raised its head, + And, with a look made of all sweet accord, + Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord." + + "And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so," + Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low, + But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then, + Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." + + The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night + It came again, with a great wakening light, + And showed the names whom love of God had blessed; + And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest. + + LEIGH HUNT. + + + FARM-YARD SONG. + +"A Farm-Yard Song" was popular years ago with Burbank, the great + reader. How the boys and girls loved it! The author, J.T. Trowbridge + (1827-still living), "is a boy-hearted man," says John Burroughs. The + poem is just as popular as it ever was. + + Over the hill the farm-boy goes, + His shadow lengthens along the land, + A giant staff in a giant hand; + In the poplar-tree, above the spring, + The katydid begins to sing; + The early dews are falling;-- + Into the stone-heap darts the mink; + The swallows skim the river's brink; + And home to the woodland fly the crows, + When over the hill the farm-boy goes, + Cheerily calling,-- + "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!" + Farther, farther over the hill, + Faintly calling, calling still,-- + "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!" + + Into the yard the farmer goes, + With grateful heart, at the close of day; + Harness and chain are hung away; + In the wagon-shed stand yoke and plow; + The straw's in the stack, the hay in the mow; + The cooling dews are falling;-- + The friendly sheep his welcome bleat, + The pigs come grunting to his feet, + The whinnying mare her master knows, + When into the yard the farmer goes, + His cattle calling,-- + "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!" + While still the cow-boy, far away, + Goes seeking those that have gone astray,-- + "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!" + + Now to her task the milkmaid goes. + The cattle come crowding through the gate, + Lowing, pushing, little and great; + About the trough, by the farm-yard pump, + The frolicsome yearlings frisk and jump, + While the pleasant dews are falling;-- + The new-milch heifer is quick and shy, + But the old cow waits with tranquil eye; + And the white stream into the bright pail flows, + When to her task the milkmaid goes, + Soothingly calling,-- + "So, boss! so, boss! so! so! so!" + The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool, + And sits and milks in the twilight cool, + Saying, "So! so, boss! so! so!" + + To supper at last the farmer goes. + The apples are pared, the paper read, + The stories are told, then all to bed. + Without, the crickets' ceaseless song + Makes shrill the silence all night long; + The heavy dews are falling. + The housewife's hand has turned the lock; + Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock; + The household sinks to deep repose; + But still in sleep the farm-boy goes. + Singing, calling,-- + "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!" + And oft the milkmaid, in her dreams, + Drums in the pail with the flashing streams, + Murmuring, "So, boss! so!" + + J.T. TROWBRIDGE. + + + TO A MOUSE, + + ON TURNING UP HER NEST WITH THE PLOW, NOVEMBER, 1785 + +"To a Mouse" and "To a Mountain Daisy," by Robert Burns (1759-96), are + the ineffable touches of tenderness that illumine the sturdy plowman. + The contrast between the strong man and the delicate flower or creature + at his mercy makes tenderness in man a vital point in character. + + The lines "To a Mouse" seem by report to have been composed while Burns + was actually plowing. One of the poet's first editors wrote: "John + Blane, who had acted as gaudsman to Burns, and who lived sixty years + afterward, had a distinct recollection of the turning up of the mouse. + Like a thoughtless youth as he was, he ran after the creature to kill + it, but was checked and recalled by his master, who he observed became + thereafter thoughtful and abstracted. Burns, who treated his servants + with the familiarity of fellow-labourers, soon afterward read the poem + to Blane." + + Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, + Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie! + Thou needna start awa' sae hasty, + Wi' bickering brattle! + I wad be laith to rin and chase thee, + Wi' murd'ring pattle! + + I'm truly sorry man's dominion + Has broken Nature's social union, + And justifies that ill opinion, + Which makes thee startle + At me, thy poor earth-born companion + And fellow-mortal! + + I doubtna, whiles, but thou may thieve; + What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! + A daimen icker in a thrave + 'S a sma' request: + I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave, + And never miss 't! + + Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! + Its silly wa's the win's are strewin'! + And naething now to big a new ane + O' foggage green, + And bleak December's winds ensuin', + Baith snell and keen! + + Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste, + And weary winter comin' fast, + And cozie here, beneath the blast, + Thou thought to dwell, + Till, crash! the cruel coulter passed + Out through thy cell. + + That wee bit heap o' leaves and stibble + Has cost thee monie a weary nibble! + Now thou's turned out for a' thy trouble, + But house or hald, + To thole the winter's sleety dribble, + And cranreuch cauld! + + But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, + In proving foresight may be vain: + The best-laid schemes o' mice and men + Gang aft a-gley, + And lea'e us naught but grief and pain, + For promised joy. + + Still thou art blest, compared wi' me! + The present only toucheth thee: + But, och! I backward cast my e'e + On prospects drear! + And forward, though I canna see, + I guess and fear. + + ROBERT BURNS. + + + TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, + + ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOW IN APRIL, 1786 + + Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower, + Thou's met me in an evil hour; + For I maun crush amang the stoure + Thy slender stem: + To spare thee now is past my power, + Thou bonny gem. + + Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, + The bonny lark, companion meet, + Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, + Wi' speckled breast, + When upward-springing, blithe, to greet + The purpling east! + + Cauld blew the bitter biting north + Upon thy early, humble birth; + Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth + Amid the storm, + Scarce reared above the parent earth + Thy tender form. + + The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, + High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield, + But thou, beneath the random bield + O' clod or stane, + Adorns the histie stibble-field, + Unseen, alane. + + There, in thy scanty mantle clad, + Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, + Thou lifts thy unassuming head + In humble guise; + But now the share uptears thy bed, + And low thou lies! + + Such is the fate of artless maid, + Sweet floweret of the rural shade! + By love's simplicity betrayed, + And guileless trust, + Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid + Low i' the dust. + + Such is the fate of simple bard, + On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd! + Unskilful he to note the card + Of prudent lore, + Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, + And whelm him o'er! + + Such fate to suffering worth is given, + Who long with wants and woes has striven, + By human pride or cunning driven + To misery's brink, + Till wrenched of every stay but Heaven, + He, ruined, sink! + + Even thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, + That fate is thine--no distant date; + Stern Ruin's plowshare drives, elate, + Full on thy bloom, + Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight + Shall be thy doom. + + ROBERT BURNS. + + + BARBARA FRIETCHIE. + +"Barbara Frietchie" will be beloved of all times because she was an old + woman (not necessarily an old lady) _worthy of her years_. Old age is + honourable if it carries a head that has a halo. (1807-92.) + + Up from the meadows rich with corn, + Clear in the cool September morn, + + The clustered spires of Frederick stand + Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. + + Roundabout them orchards sweep, + Apple and peach tree fruited deep, + + Fair as the garden of the Lord + To the eyes of the famished rebel horde, + + On that pleasant morn of the early fall + When Lee marched over the mountain-wall, + + Over the mountains winding down, + Horse and foot, into Frederick town. + + Forty flags with their silver stars, + Forty flags with their crimson bars, + + Flapped in the morning wind: the sun + Of noon looked down, and saw not one. + + Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, + Bowed with her fourscore years and ten, + + Bravest of all in Frederick town, + She took up the flag the men hauled down. + + In her attic window the staff she set, + To show that one heart was loyal yet. + + Up the street came the rebel tread, + Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. + + Under his slouched hat left and right + He glanced: the old flag met his sight. + + "Halt!"--the dust-brown ranks stood fast. + "Fire!"--out blazed the rifle-blast. + + It shivered the window, pane and sash; + It rent the banner with seam and gash. + + Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff + Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf. + + She leaned far out on the window-sill, + And shook it forth with a royal will. + + "Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, + But spare your country's flag," she said. + + A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, + Over the face of the leader came; + + The nobler nature within him stirred + To life at that woman's deed and word: + + "Who touches a hair of yon gray head + Dies like a dog! March on!" he said. + + All day long through Frederick street + Sounded the tread of marching feet: + + All day long that free flag tost + Over the heads of the rebel host. + + Even its torn folds rose and fell + On the loyal winds that loved it well; + + And through the hill-gaps sunset light + Shone over it with a warm good-night. + + Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, + And the rebel rides on his raids no more. + + Honour to her! and let a tear + Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. + + Over Barbara Frietchie's grave, + Flag of Freedom and Union, wave! + + Peace and order and beauty draw + Round thy symbol of light and law; + + And ever the stars above look down + On thy stars below in Frederick town! + + JOHN G. WHITTIER. + + + + + PART III. + + The Day's at the Morn + + + LOCHINVAR. + +"Lochinvar" and "Lord Ullin's Daughter," the first by Scott (1771-1832) + and the second by Campbell (1777-1844), are companions in sentiment and + equally popular with boys who love to win anything desirable by heroic + effort. + + Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west. + Through all the wide Border his steed was the best, + And save his good broadsword he weapons had none; + He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. + So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, + There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. + + He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone, + He swam the Eske River where ford there was none; + But ere he alighted at Netherby gate + The bride had consented, the gallant came late: + For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war + Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. + + So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, + Among bridesmen and kinsmen and brothers and all: + Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword + (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word), + "Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, + Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?" + + "I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied;-- + Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide-- + And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, + To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. + There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, + That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar." + + The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up; + He quaffed of the wine, and he threw down the cup. + She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, + With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. + He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar,-- + "Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar. + + So stately his form, and so lovely her face, + That never a hall such a galliard did grace; + While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, + And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume, + And the bridemaidens whispered, "'Twere better by far + To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar." + + One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, + When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood near; + So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, + So light to the saddle before her he sprung! + "She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; + They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar. + + There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan; + Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran: + There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie Lee, + But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. + So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, + Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? + + SIR WALTER SCOTT. + + + LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. + + A chieftain, to the Highlands bound, + Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry! + And I'll give thee a silver pound, + To row us o'er the ferry." + + "Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, + This dark and stormy water?" + "O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, + And this Lord Ullin's daughter. + + "And fast before her father's men + Three days we've fled together, + For should he find us in the glen, + My blood would stain the heather. + + "His horsemen hard behind us ride; + Should they our steps discover, + Then who will cheer my bonny bride + When they have slain her lover?" + + Outspoke the hardy Highland wight, + "I'll go, my chief--I'm ready; + It is not for your silver bright, + But for your winsome lady: + + "And by my word! the bonny bird + In danger shall not tarry; + So though the waves are raging white, + I'll row you o'er the ferry." + + By this the storm grew loud apace, + The water-wraith was shrieking; + And in the scowl of heaven each face + Grew dark as they were speaking. + + But still as wilder blew the wind, + And as the night grew drearer, + Adown the glen rode armed men, + Their trampling sounded nearer. + + "O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, + "Though tempests round us gather; + I'll meet the raging of the skies, + But not an angry father." + + The boat has left a stormy land, + A stormy sea before her,-- + When, oh! too strong for human hand, + The tempest gathered o'er her. + + And still they row'd amid the roar + Of waters fast prevailing: + Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore, + His wrath was changed to wailing. + + For sore dismay'd through storm and shade, + His child he did discover:-- + One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid, + And one was round her lover. + + "Come back! come back!" he cried in grief, + "Across this stormy water: + And I'll forgive your Highland chief, + My daughter!--oh my daughter!" + + 'Twas vain the loud waves lashed the shore, + Return or aid preventing;-- + The waters wild went o'er his child,-- + And he was left lamenting. + + THOMAS CAMPBELL. + + + THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. + +"The Charge of the Light Brigade" (1809-92) unlike "Casabianca" shows + obedience under stern necessity. Obedience is the salvation of any + army. John Burroughs says: "I never hear that poem but what it thrills + me through and through." + + Half a league, half a league, + Half a league onward, + All in the valley of Death + Rode the six hundred. + "Forward, the Light Brigade! + Charge for the guns!" he said: + Into the valley of Death + Rode the six hundred. + + "Forward, the Light Brigade!" + Was there a man dismay'd? + Not tho' the soldier knew + Some one had blunder'd: + Theirs not to make reply, + Theirs not to reason why. + Theirs but to do and die: + Into the valley of Death + Rode the six hundred. + + Cannon to right of them, + Cannon to left of them, + Cannon in front of them + Volley'd and thunder'd; + Storm'd at with shot and shell + Boldly they rode and well, + Into the jaws of Death, + Into the mouth of Hell + Rode the six hundred. + + Flash'd all their sabers bare, + Flash'd as they turn'd in air + Sab'ring the gunners there, + Charging an army, while + All the world wonder'd: + Plunged in the battery-smoke + Right thro' the line they broke; + Cossack and Russian + Reel'd from the saber-stroke + Shatter'd and sunder'd. + Then they rode back, but not + Not the six hundred. + + Cannon to right of them, + Cannon to left of them, + Cannon behind them + Volleyed and thundered: + Stormed at with shot and shell, + While horse and hero fell, + They that had fought so well + Came through the jaws of death + Back from the mouth of hell, + All that was left of them-- + Left of six hundred. + + When can their glory fade? + Oh, the wild charge they made! + All the world wondered. + Honour the charge they made! + Honour the Light Brigade-- + Noble six hundred! + + ALFRED TENNYSON. + + + THE TOURNAMENT. + + There are several of Sidney Lanier's (1842-81) poems that children love + to learn. "Tampa Robins," "The Tournament" (Joust 1.), "Barnacles," +"The Song of the Chattahoochee," and "The First Steamboat Up the + Alabama" are among them. At our "poetry contests" the children have + plainly demonstrated that this great poet has reached his hand down to + the youngest. The time will doubtless come when it will be a part of + education to be acquainted with Lanier, as it is now to be acquainted + with Longfellow or Tennyson. + + + I. + + Bright shone the lists, blue bent the skies, + And the knights still hurried amain + To the tournament under the ladies' eyes, + Where the jousters were Heart and Brain. + + + II. + + Flourished the trumpets, entered Heart, + A youth in crimson and gold; + Flourished again; Brain stood apart, + Steel-armoured, dark and cold. + + + III. + + Heart's palfrey caracoled gaily round, + Heart tra-li-ra'd merrily; + But Brain sat still, with never a sound, + So cynical-calm was he. + + + IV. + + Heart's helmet-crest bore favours three + From his lady's white hand caught; + While Brain wore a plumeless casque; not he + Or favour gave or sought. + + + V. + + The trumpet blew; Heart shot a glance + To catch his lady's eye. + But Brain gazed straight ahead, his lance + To aim more faithfully. + + + VI. + + They charged, they struck; both fell, both bled; + Brain rose again, ungloved; + Heart, dying, smiled and faintly said, + "My love to my beloved." + + SIDNEY LANIER. + + + THE WIND AND THE MOON. + + Little Laddie, do you remember learning "The Wind and the Moon"? You + were eight or nine years old, and you shut your eyes and puffed out + your cheeks when you came to the line "He blew and He blew." The saucy + wind made a great racket and the calm moon never noticed it. That gave + you a great deal of pleasure, didn't it? We did not care much for the + noisy, conceited wind. (1824-.) + + Said the Wind to the Moon, "I will blow you out, + You stare + In the air + Like a ghost in a chair, + Always looking what I am about-- + I hate to be watched; I'll blow you out." + + The Wind blew hard, and out went the Moon. + So, deep + On a heap + Of clouds to sleep, + Down lay the Wind, and slumbered soon, + Muttering low, "I've done for that Moon." + + He turned in his bed; she was there again! + On high + In the sky, + With her one ghost eye, + The Moon shone white and alive and plain. + Said the Wind, "I will blow you out again." + + The Wind blew hard, and the Moon grew dim. + "With my sledge, + And my wedge, + I have knocked off her edge! + If only I blow right fierce and grim, + The creature will soon be dimmer than dim." + + He blew and he blew, and she thinned to a thread. + "One puff + More's enough + To blow her to snuff! + One good puff more where the last was bred, + And glimmer, glimmer, glum will go the thread." + + He blew a great blast, and the thread was gone + In the air + Nowhere + Was a moonbeam bare; + Far off and harmless the shy stars shone-- + Sure and certain the Moon was gone! + + The Wind he took to his revels once more; + On down, + In town, + Like a merry-mad clown, + He leaped and hallooed with whistle and roar-- + "What's that?" The glimmering thread once more! + + He flew in a rage--he danced and blew; + But in vain + Was the pain + Of his bursting brain; + For still the broader the Moon-scrap grew, + The broader he swelled his big cheeks and blew. + + Slowly she grew--till she filled the night, + And shone + On her throne + In the sky alone, + A matchless, wonderful silvery light, + Radiant and lovely, the queen of the night. + + Said the Wind: "What a marvel of power am I + With my breath, + Good faith! + I blew her to death-- + First blew her away right out of the sky-- + Then blew her in; what strength have I!" + + But the Moon she knew nothing about the affair; + For high + In the sky, + With her one white eye, + Motionless, miles above the air, + She had never heard the great Wind blare. + + GEORGE MACDONALD. + + + JESUS THE CARPENTER. + +"Jesus the Carpenter"--"same trade as me"--strikes a high note in + favour of honest toil. (1848-.) + + "Isn't this Joseph's son?"--ay, it is He; + Joseph the carpenter--same trade as me-- + I thought as I'd find it--I knew it was here-- + But my sight's getting queer. + + I don't know right where as His shed must ha' stood-- + But often, as I've been a-planing my wood, + I've took off my hat, just with thinking of He + At the same work as me. + + He warn't that set up that He couldn't stoop down + And work in the country for folks in the town; + And I'll warrant He felt a bit pride, like I've done, + At a good job begun. + + The parson he knows that I'll not make too free, + But on Sunday I feels as pleased as can be, + When I wears my clean smock, and sits in a pew, + And has taught a few. + + I think of as how not the parson hissen, + As is teacher and father and shepherd o' men, + Not he knows as much of the Lord in that shed, + Where He earned His own bread. + + And when I goes home to my missus, says she, + "Are ye wanting your key?" + For she knows my queer ways, and my love for the shed + (We've been forty years wed). + + So I comes right away by mysen, with the book, + And I turns the old pages and has a good look + For the text as I've found, as tells me as He + Were the same trade as me. + + Why don't I mark it? Ah, many say so, + But I think I'd as lief, with your leaves, let it go: + It do seem that nice when I fall on it sudden-- + Unexpected, you know! + + CATHERINE C. LIDDELL. + + + LETTY'S GLOBE. + +"Letty's Globe" gives us the picture of a little golden-haired girl who + covers all Europe with her dainty hands and tresses while giving a kiss + to England, her own dear native land. (1808-79.) + + When Letty had scarce pass'd her third glad year, + And her young, artless words began to flow, + One day we gave the child a colour'd sphere + Of the wide earth, that she might mark and know, + By tint and outline, all its sea and land. + She patted all the world; old empires peep'd + Between her baby fingers; her soft hand + Was welcome at all frontiers. How she leap'd, + And laugh'd and prattled in her world-wide bliss! + But when we turn'd her sweet unlearned eye + On our own isle, she rais'd a joyous cry, + "Oh! yes, I see it! Letty's home is there!" + And, while she hid all England with a kiss, + Bright over Europe fell her golden hair! + + CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER. + + + A DREAM. + + Once a dream did wave a shade + O'er my angel-guarded bed, + That an emmet lost its way + When on grass methought I lay. + + Troubled, 'wildered, and forlorn, + Dark, benighted, travel-worn, + Over many a tangled spray, + All heart-broke, I heard her say: + + "Oh, my children! do they cry? + Do they hear their father sigh? + Now they look abroad to see. + Now return and weep for me." + + Pitying, I dropped a tear; + But I saw a glow-worm near, + Who replied, "What wailing wight + Calls the watchman of the night? + + "I am set to light the ground + While the beetle goes his round. + Follow now the beetle's hum-- + Little wanderer, hie thee home!" + + WILLIAM BLAKE. + + + HEAVEN IS NOT REACHED AT A SINGLE BOUND. + + (A FRAGMENT.) + +"We build the ladder by which we climb" is a line worthy of any poet. + J.G. Holland (1819-81) has immortalised himself in this line, at least. + + Heaven is not reached at a single bound, + But we build the ladder by which we rise + From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies, + And we mount to its summit round by round. + + I count this thing to be grandly true: + That a noble deed is a step toward God,-- + Lifting the soul from the common clod + To a purer air and a broader view. + + J.G. HOLLAND. + + + THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM. + + Have you been to Woodstock, near Oxford, England? If so, you have seen + the palace of the Duke of Marlborough, who won the battle of Blenheim. + The main point of the poem is the doubtful honour in killing in our + great wars. Southey, the poet, lived from 1774 to 1843. + + It was a summer's evening, + Old Kaspar's work was done, + And he before his cottage door + Was sitting in the sun; + And by him sported on the green + His little grandchild Wilhelmine. + + She saw her brother Peterkin + Roll something large and round, + Which he, beside the rivulet, + In playing there, had found. + He came to ask what he had found, + That was so large, and smooth, and round. + + Old Kaspar took it from the boy, + Who stood expectant by; + And then the old man shook his head, + And, with a natural sigh, + "'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, + "Who fell in the great victory! + + "I find them in the garden, + For there's many hereabout; + And often when I go to plow, + The plowshare turns them out; + For many thousand men," said he, + "Were slain in that great victory!" + + "Now tell us what 'twas all about," + Young Peterkin he cries; + And little Wilhelmine looks up + With wonder-waiting eyes; + "Now tell us all about the war, + And what they killed each other for." + + "It was the English," Kaspar cried, + "Who put the French to rout; + But what they killed each other for + I could not well make out. + But everybody said," quoth he, + "That 'twas a famous victory! + + "My father lived at Blenheim then, + Yon little stream hard by: + They burned his dwelling to the ground + And he was forced to fly; + So with his wife and child he fled, + Nor had he where to rest his head. + + "With fire and sword the country round + Was wasted far and wide; + And many a childing mother then + And new-born baby died. + But things like that, you know, must be + At every famous victory. + + "They say it was a shocking sight + After the field was won; + For many thousand bodies here + Lay rotting in the sun. + But things like that, you know, must be + After a famous victory. + + "Great praise the Duke of Marlborough won, + And our good Prince Eugene." + "Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!" + Said little Wilhelmine. + "Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he, + "It was a famous victory! + + "And everybody praised the Duke + Who this great fight did win." + "But what good came of it at last?" + Quoth little Peterkin. + "Why, that I cannot tell," said he, + "But 'twas a famous victory." + + ROBERT SOUTHEY. + + + FIDELITY. + +"Fidelity," by William Wordsworth (1770-1850), is placed here out of + respect to a boy of eleven years who liked the poem well enough to + recite it frequently. The scene is laid on Helvellyn, to me the most + impressive mountain of the Lake District of England. Wordsworth is a + part of this country. I once heard John Burroughs say: "I went to the + Lake District to see what kind of a country it could be that would + produce a Wordsworth." + + A barking sound the Shepherd hears, + A cry as of a dog or fox; + He halts--and searches with his eyes + Among the scattered rocks; + And now at distance can discern + A stirring in a brake of fern; + And instantly a Dog is seen, + Glancing through that covert green. + + The Dog is not of mountain breed; + Its motions, too, are wild and shy; + With something, as the Shepherd thinks, + Unusual in its cry: + Nor is there any one in sight + All round, in hollow or on height; + Nor shout, nor whistle strikes his ear; + What is the Creature doing here? + + It was a cove, a huge recess, + That keeps, till June, December's snow. + A lofty precipice in front, + A silent tarn below! + Far in the bosom of Helvellyn, + Remote from public road or dwelling, + Pathway, or cultivated land; + From trace of human foot or hand. + + There sometimes doth a leaping fish + Send through the tarn a lonely cheer; + The crags repeat the raven's croak, + In symphony austere; + Thither the rainbow comes--the cloud-- + And mists that spread the flying shroud; + And sunbeams; and the sounding blast, + That, if it could, would hurry past, + But that enormous barrier binds it fast. + + Not free from boding thoughts, a while + The Shepherd stood: then makes his way + Toward the Dog, o'er rocks and stones, + As quickly as he may; + Nor far had gone, before he found + A human skeleton on the ground; + The appalled discoverer with a sigh + Looks round, to learn the history. + + From those abrupt and perilous rocks + The Man had fallen, that place of fear! + At length upon the Shepherd's mind + It breaks, and all is clear: + He instantly recalled the name, + And who he was, and whence he came; + Remembered, too, the very day + On which the traveller passed this way. + + But hear a wonder, for whose sake + This lamentable tale I tell! + A lasting monument of words + This wonder merits well. + The Dog, which still was hovering nigh, + Repeating the same timid cry, + This Dog had been through three months space + A dweller in that savage place. + + Yes, proof was plain that, since the day + When this ill-fated traveller died, + The Dog had watched about the spot, + Or by his master's side: + How nourished here through such long time + He knows, who gave that love sublime; + And gave that strength of feeling, great + Above all human estimate. + + WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. + + + THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS. + + People are more and more coming to recognise the fact that each + individual soul has a right to its own stages of development. "The + Chambered Nautilus" is for that reason beloved of the masses. It is one + of the grandest poems ever written. "Build thee more stately mansions, + O my soul!" This line alone would make the poem immortal. (1809-94.) + + This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, + Sailed the unshadowed main,-- + The venturous bark that flings + On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings + In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, + And coral reefs lie bare, + Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. + + Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; + Wrecked is the ship of pearl! + And every chambered cell, + Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, + As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, + Before thee lies revealed,-- + Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed! + + Year after year beheld the silent toil + That spread his lustrous coil; + Still, as the spiral grew, + He left the past year's dwelling for the new, + Stole with soft step its shining archway through, + Built up its idle door, + Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more. + + Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, + Child of the wandering sea, + Cast from her lap, forlorn! + From thy dead lips a clearer note is born + Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn! + While on mine ear it rings, + Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:-- + + Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, + As the swift seasons roll! + Leave thy low-vaulted past! + Let each new temple, nobler than the last, + Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, + Till thou at length art free, + Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea! + + OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. + + + CROSSING THE BAR + + Tennyson's (1809-92) "Crossing the Bar" is one of the noblest + death-songs ever written. I include it in this volume out of respect to + a young Philadelphia publisher who recited it one stormy night before + the passengers of a ship when I was crossing the Atlantic, and also + because so many young people have the good taste to love it. It has + been said that next to Browning's "Prospice" it is the greatest + death-song ever written. + + Sunset and evening star, + And one clear call for me! + And may there be no moaning of the bar, + When I put out to sea, + + But such a tide as moving seems asleep, + Too full for sound and foam, + When that which drew from out the boundless deep + Turns again home. + + Twilight and evening bell, + And after that the dark! + And may there be no sadness of farewell, + When I embark; + + For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place + The flood may bear me far, + I hope to see my Pilot face to face + When I have cross'd the bar. + + ALFRED TENNYSON. + + + THE OVERLAND-MAIL. + +"The Overland-Mail" is a most desirable poem for children to learn. + When one boy learns it the others want to follow. It takes as a hero + the man who gives common service--the one who does not lead or command, + but follows the line of duty. (1865-.) + + In the name of the Empress of India, make way, + O Lords of the Jungle wherever you roam, + The woods are astir at the close of the day-- + We exiles are waiting for letters from Home-- + Let the robber retreat; let the tiger turn tail, + In the name of the Empress the Overland-Mail! + + With a jingle of bells as the dusk gathers in, + He turns to the foot-path that leads up the hill-- + The bags on his back, and a cloth round his chin, + And, tucked in his belt, the Post-Office bill;-- + "Despatched on this date, as received by the rail, + _Per_ runner, two bags of the Overland-Mail." + + Is the torrent in spate? He must ford it or swim. + Has the rain wrecked the road? He must climb by the cliff. + Does the tempest cry "Halt"? What are tempests to him? + The service admits not a "but" or an "if"; + While the breath's in his mouth, he must bear without fail, + In the name of the Empress the Overland-Mail. + + From aloe to rose-oak, from rose-oak to fir, + From level to upland, from upland to crest, + From rice-field to rock-ridge, from rock-ridge to spur, + Fly the soft-sandalled feet, strains the brawny brown chest. + From rail to ravine--to the peak from the vale-- + Up, up through the night goes the Overland-Mail. + + There's a speck on the hillside, a dot on the road-- + A jingle of bells on the foot-path below-- + There's a scuffle above in the monkeys' abode-- + The world is awake, and the clouds are aglow-- + For the great Sun himself must attend to the hail;-- + In the name of the Empress the Overland-Mail. + + RUDYARD KIPLING. + + + GATHERING SONG OF DONALD DHU. + + Jon, do you remember when you used to spout "Pibroch of Donald Dhu"? I + think you were ten years old. Sir Walter Scott's men all have a genius + for standing up to their guns, and boys gather up the man's genius when + reciting his verse. (1771-1832.) + + Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, + Pibroch of Donuil, + Wake thy wild voice anew, + Summon Clan Conuil. + Come away, come away, + Hark to the summons! + Come in your war-array, + Gentles and commons. + + Come from deep glen, and + From mountain so rocky, + The war-pipe and pennon + Are at Inverlochy. + Come every hill-plaid, and + True heart that wears one, + Come every steel blade, and + Strong hand that bears one. + + Leave untended the herd, + The flock without shelter; + Leave the corpse uninterr'd, + The bride at the altar; + Leave the deer, leave the steer, + Leave nets and barges: + Come with your fighting gear, + Broadswords and targes. + + Come as the winds come, when + Forests are rended; + Come as the waves come, when + Navies are stranded: + Faster come, faster come, + Faster and faster, + Chief, vassal, page, and groom, + Tenant and master. + + Fast they come, fast they come; + See how they gather! + Wide waves the eagle plume + Blended with heather, + Cast your plaids, draw your blades, + Forward each man set! + Pibroch of Donuil Dhu + Knell for the onset! + + SIR WALTER SCOTT. + + + MARCO BOZZARIS. + +"Marco Bozzaris," by Fitz-Greene Halleck (1790-1867), was in my old + school-reader. Boys and girls liked it then and they like it now. This + is another of the poems that was not born to die. + + At midnight, in his guarded tent, + The Turk was dreaming of the hour + When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, + Should tremble at his power: + In dreams, through camp and court, he bore + The trophies of a conqueror; + In dreams his song of triumph heard; + Then wore his monarch's signet ring: + Then pressed that monarch's throne--a king; + As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, + As Eden's garden bird. + + At midnight, in the forest shades, + Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band, + True as the steel of their tried blades, + Heroes in heart and hand. + There had the Persian's thousands stood, + There had the glad earth drunk their blood + On old Plataea's day; + And now there breathed that haunted air + The sons of sires who conquered there, + With arm to strike and soul to dare, + As quick, as far as they. + + An hour passed on--the Turk awoke; + That bright dream was his last; + He woke--to hear his sentries shriek, + "To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!" + He woke--to die midst flame, and smoke, + And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke, + And death-shots falling thick and fast + As lightnings from the mountain-cloud; + And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, + Bozzaris cheer his band: + "Strike--till the last armed foe expires; + Strike--for your altars and your fires; + Strike--for the green graves of your sires; + God--and your native land!" + + They fought--like brave men, long and well; + They piled that ground with Moslem slain, + They conquered--but Bozzaris fell, + Bleeding at every vein. + His few surviving comrades saw + His smile when rang their proud hurrah, + And the red field was won; + Then saw in death his eyelids close + Calmly, as to a night's repose, + Like flowers at set of sun. + + Come to the bridal-chamber, Death! + Come to the mother's, when she feels, + For the first time, her first-born's breath; + Come when the blessed seals + That close the pestilence are broke, + And crowded cities wail its stroke; + Come in consumption's ghastly form, + The earthquake shock, the ocean storm; + Come when the heart beats high and warm + With banquet-song, and dance, and wine; + And thou art terrible--the tear, + The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, + And all we know, or dream, or fear + Of agony, are thine. + + But to the hero, when his sword + Has won the battle for the free, + Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word; + And in its hollow tones are heard + The thanks of millions yet to be. + Come, when his task of fame is wrought-- + Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought-- + Come in her crowning hour--and then + Thy sunken eye's unearthly light + To him is welcome as the sight + Of sky and stars to prisoned men; + Thy grasp is welcome as the hand + Of brother in a foreign land; + Thy summons welcome as the cry + That told the Indian isles were nigh + To the world-seeking Genoese, + When the land wind, from woods of palm, + And orange-groves, and fields of balm, + Blew o'er the Haytian seas. + + Bozzaris! with the storied brave + Greece nurtured in her glory's time, + Rest thee--there is no prouder grave, + Even in her own proud clime. + She wore no funeral-weeds for thee, + Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume + Like torn branch from death's leafless tree + In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, + The heartless luxury of the tomb; + But she remembers thee as one + Long loved and for a season gone; + For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, + Her marble wrought, her music breathed; + For thee she rings the birthday bells; + Of thee her babe's first lisping tells; + For thine her evening prayer is said + At palace-couch and cottage-bed; + Her soldier, closing with the foe, + Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow, + His plighted maiden, when she fears + For him the joy of her young years, + Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears; + And she, the mother of thy boys, + Though in her eye and faded cheek + Is read the grief she will not speak, + The memory of her buried joys, + And even she who gave thee birth, + Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth, + Talk of thy doom without a sigh; + For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's: + One of the few, the immortal names, + That were not born to die. + + FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. + + + THE DEATH OF NAPOLEON. + +"The Death of Napoleon," by Isaac McClellan (1806-99), was yet another + of the good old reader songs taught us by a teacher of good taste. We + love those teachers more the older we grow. + + Wild was the night, yet a wilder night + Hung round the soldier's pillow; + In his bosom there waged a fiercer fight + Than the fight on the wrathful billow. + + A few fond mourners were kneeling by, + The few that his stern heart cherished; + They knew, by his glazed and unearthly eye, + That life had nearly perished. + + They knew by his awful and kingly look, + By the order hastily spoken, + That he dreamed of days when the nations shook, + And the nations' hosts were broken. + + He dreamed that the Frenchman's sword still slew, + And triumphed the Frenchman's eagle, + And the struggling Austrian fled anew, + Like the hare before the beagle. + + The bearded Russian he scourged again, + The Prussian's camp was routed, + And again on the hills of haughty Spain + His mighty armies shouted. + + Over Egypt's sands, over Alpine snows, + At the pyramids, at the mountain, + Where the wave of the lordly Danube flows, + And by the Italian fountain, + + On the snowy cliffs where mountain streams + Dash by the Switzer's dwelling, + He led again, in his dying dreams, + His hosts, the proud earth quelling. + + Again Marengo's field was won, + And Jena's bloody battle; + Again the world was overrun, + Made pale at his cannon's rattle. + + He died at the close of that darksome day, + A day that shall live in story; + In the rocky land they placed his clay, + "And left him alone with his glory." + + ISAAC MCCLELLAN. + + + HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE. + + How sleep the brave, who sink to rest + By all their country's wishes blest! + When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, + Returns to deck their hallow'd mould, + She there shall dress a sweeter sod + Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. + + By fairy hands their knell is rung, + By forms unseen their dirge is sung: + There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray, + To bless the turf that wraps their clay; + And Freedom shall a while repair + To dwell a weeping hermit there! + + WILLIAM COLLINS. + + + THE FLAG GOES BY. + +"The Flag Goes By" is included out of regard to a boy of eleven years + who pleased me by his great appreciation of it. It teaches the lesson + of reverence to our great national symbol. It is published by + permission of the author, Henry Holcomb Bennett, of Ohio. (1863-.) + + Hats off! + Along the street there comes + A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums, + A flash of colour beneath the sky: + Hats off! + The flag is passing by! + + Blue and crimson and white it shines + Over the steel-tipped, ordered lines. + Hats off! + The colours before us fly; + But more than the flag is passing by. + + Sea-fights and land-fights, grim and great, + Fought to make and to save the State: + Weary marches and sinking ships; + Cheers of victory on dying lips; + + Days of plenty and years of peace; + March of a strong land's swift increase; + Equal justice, right, and law, + Stately honour and reverend awe; + + Sign of a nation, great and strong + Toward her people from foreign wrong: + Pride and glory and honour,--all + Live in the colours to stand or fall. + + Hats off! + Along the street there comes + A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums; + And loyal hearts are beating high: + Hats off! + The flag is passing by! + + HENRY HOLCOMB BENNETT. + + + HOHENLINDEN. + + On Linden, when the sun was low, + All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow; + And dark as winter was the flow + Of Iser, rolling rapidly. + + But Linden saw another sight, + When the drum beat, at dead of night, + Commanding fires of death to light + The darkness of her scenery. + + By torch and trumpet fast array'd + Each horseman drew his battle-blade, + And furious every charger neigh'd + To join the dreadful revelry. + + Then shook the hills with thunder riven, + Then rush'd the steed to battle driven, + And louder than the bolts of Heaven, + Far flashed the red artillery. + + But redder yet that light shall glow + On Linden's hills or stained snow; + And bloodier yet the torrent flow + Of Iser, rolling rapidly. + + 'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun + Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, + Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, + Shout in their sulphurous canopy. + + The combat deepens. On, ye brave + Who rush to glory or the grave! + Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave, + And charge with all thy chivalry! + + Few, few shall part, where many meet! + The snow shall be their winding-sheet, + And every turf beneath their feet + Shall be a soldier's sepulcher. + + THOMAS CAMPBELL. + + + MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME. + + The sun shines bright in the old Kentucky home; + 'Tis summer, the darkeys are gay; + The corn-top's ripe, and the meadow's in the bloom, + While the birds make music all the day. + The young folks roll on the little cabin floor, + All merry, all happy and bright; + By-'n'-by hard times comes a-knocking at the door:-- + Then my old Kentucky home, good-night! + + Weep no more, my lady, + O, weep no more to-day! + We will sing one song for the old Kentucky home, + For the old Kentucky home, far away. + + They hunt no more for the 'possum and the coon, + On the meadow, the hill, and the shore; + They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon, + On the bench by the old cabin door. + The day goes by like a shadow o'er the heart, + With sorrow, where all was delight; + The time has come when the darkeys have to part:-- + Then my old Kentucky home, good-night! + + The head must bow, and the back will have to bend, + Wherever the darkey may go; + A few more days, and the trouble all will end, + In the field where the sugar-canes grow. + A few more days for to tote the weary load,-- + No matter, 'twill never be light; + A few more days till we totter on the road:-- + Then my old Kentucky home, good-night! + + Weep no more, my lady, + O, weep no more to-day! + We will sing one song for the old Kentucky home, + For the old Kentucky home, far away. + + STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER. + + + OLD FOLKS AT HOME. + + Way down upon de Swanee Ribber, + Far, far away, + Dere's wha my heart is turning ebber, + Dere's wha de old folks stay. + All up and down de whole creation + Sadly I roam, + Still longing for de old plantation, + And for de old folks at home. + + All de world am sad and dreary, + Eberywhere I roam; + Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary, + Far from de old folks at home! + + All round de little farm I wandered + When I was young, + Den many happy days I squandered, + Many de songs I sung. + When I was playing wid my brudder + Happy was I; + Oh, take me to my kind old mudder! + Dere let me live and die. + + One little hut among de bushes, + One dat I love, + Still sadly to my memory rushes, + No matter where I rove. + When will I see de bees a-humming + All round de comb? + When will I hear de banjo tumming, + Down in my good old home? + + All de world am sad and dreary, + Eberywhere I roam; + Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary, + Far from de old folks at home! + + STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER. + + + THE WRECK OF THE "HESPERUS." + +"The Wreck of the _Hesperus_," by Longfellow (1807-82), on "Norman's + Woe," off the coast near Cape Ann, is a historic poem as well as an + imaginative composition. + + It was the schooner _Hesperus_, + That sailed the wintry sea; + And the skipper had taken his little daughter, + To bear him company. + + Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, + Her cheeks like the dawn of day, + And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds + That ope in the month of May. + + The skipper he stood beside the helm, + His pipe was in his mouth, + And he watched how the veering flaw did blow + The smoke now west, now south. + + Then up and spake an old sailor, + Had sailed the Spanish Main, + "I pray thee put into yonder port, + For I fear a hurricane. + + "Last night the moon had a golden ring, + And to-night no moon we see!" + The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe, + And a scornful laugh laughed he. + + Colder and louder blew the wind, + A gale from the northeast, + The snow fell hissing in the brine, + And the billows frothed like yeast. + + Down came the storm, and smote amain + The vessel in its strength; + She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, + Then leaped her cable's length. + + "Come hither! come hither! my little daughter, + And do not tremble so; + For I can weather the roughest gale + That ever wind did blow." + + He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat + Against the stinging blast; + He cut a rope from a broken spar, + And bound her to the mast. + + "O father! I hear the church-bells ring, + O say, what may it be?" + "Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!"-- + And he steered for the open sea. + + "O father! I hear the sound of guns, + O say, what may it be?" + "Some ship in distress, that cannot live + In such an angry sea!" + + "O father! I see a gleaming light, + O say, what may it be?" + But the father answered never a word, + A frozen corpse was he. + + Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, + With his face turned to the skies, + The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow + On his fixed and glassy eyes. + + Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed + That saved she might be; + And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave + On the Lake of Galilee. + + And fast through the midnight dark and drear, + Through the whistling sleet and snow, + Like a sheeted ghost the vessel swept + Toward the reef of Norman's Woe. + + And ever the fitful gusts between + A sound came from the land; + It was the sound of the trampling surf + On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. + + The breakers were right beneath her bows, + She drifted a dreary wreck, + And a whooping billow swept the crew + Like icicles from her deck. + + She struck where the white and fleecy waves + Looked soft as carded wool, + But the cruel rocks they gored her side + Like the horns of an angry bull. + + Her rattling shrouds all sheathed in ice, + With the masts went by the board; + Like a vessel of glass she stove and sank,-- + Ho! ho! the breakers roared! + + At daybreak on the bleak sea-beach + A fisherman stood aghast, + To see the form of a maiden fair + Lashed close to a drifting mast. + + The salt sea was frozen on her breast, + The salt tears in her eyes; + And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, + On the billows fall and rise. + + Such was the wreck of the _Hesperus_, + In the midnight and the snow! + Christ save us all from a death like this, + On the reef of Norman's Woe! + + HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. + + + BANNOCKBURN. + + ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY. + + You can look down on the battle-field of Bannockburn from Stirling + Castle, Scotland, near which stands a magnificent statue of Robert, the + Bruce. How often have I trodden over the old battle-field. The monument + of William Wallace, too, looms up on the Ochil Hills, not far away. + (1759-96.) + + Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, + Scots, wham Bruce has aften led; + Welcome to your gory bed, + Or to victorie. + + Now's the day, and now's the hour; + See the front o' battle lower; + See approach proud Edward's power-- + Chains and slaverie! + + Wha will be a traitor knave? + Wha can fill a coward's grave? + Wha sae base as be a slave? + Let him turn and flee! + + Wha for Scotland's King and law + Freedom's sword will strongly draw, + Freeman stand, or freeman fa'? + Let him follow me! + + By oppression's woes and pains! + By your sons in servile chains! + We will drain our dearest veins, + But they shall be free! + + Lay the proud usurpers low! + Tyrants fall in every foe! + Liberty's in every blow! + Let us do, or die! + + ROBERT BURNS. + + + + + PART IV. + + Lad and Lassie + + [Illustration] + + + THE INCHCAPE ROCK. + + The man is wrecked and his ship is sunken before he ever steps on board + or sees the water if his heart is hard and his estimate of human beings + low. "The Inchcape Rock" is a thrust at hard-heartedness. "What is the + use of life?" To bear one another's burdens, to develop a genius for + pulling people through hard places--that's the use of life. It is the + last resort of a mean mind to crack jokes that wreck innocent voyagers + on life's sea. (1774-1843.) + + No stir in the air, no stir in the sea, + The ship was still as she could be; + Her sails from heaven received no motion; + Her keel was steady in the ocean. + + Without either sign or sound of their shock, + The waves flowed over the Inchcape Rock; + So little they rose, so little they fell, + They did not move the Inchcape Bell. + + The Abbot of Aberbrothok + Had placed that Bell on the Inchcape Rock; + On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung, + And over the waves its warning rung. + + When the Rock was hid by the surge's swell, + The mariners heard the warning Bell; + And then they knew the perilous Rock, + And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok. + + The sun in heaven was shining gay; + All things were joyful on that day; + The sea-birds screamed as they wheeled round, + And there was joyance in their sound. + + The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen, + A dark spot on the ocean green; + Sir Ralph the Rover walked his deck, + And he fixed his eye on the darker speck. + + He felt the cheering power of spring; + It made him whistle, it made him sing: + His heart was mirthful to excess, + But the Rover's mirth was wickedness. + + His eye was on the Inchcape float. + Quoth he, "My men, put out the boat + And row me to the Inchcape Rock, + And I'll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok." + + The boat is lowered, the boatmen row, + And to the Inchcape Rock they go; + Sir Ralph bent over from the boat, + And he cut the Bell from the Inchcape float. + + Down sank the Bell with a gurgling sound; + The bubbles rose and burst around. + Quoth Sir Ralph, "The next who comes to the Rock + Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok." + + Sir Ralph the Rover sailed away; + He scoured the sea for many a day; + And now grown rich with plundered store, + He steers his course for Scotland's shore. + + So thick a haze o'erspread the sky, + They cannot see the sun on high: + The wind hath blown a gale all day, + At evening it hath died away. + + On the deck the Rover takes his stand; + So dark it is they see no land. + Quoth Sir Ralph, "It will be brighter soon, + For there is the dawn of the rising moon." + + "Canst hear," said one, "the broken roar? + For methinks we should be near the shore." + "Now where we are I cannot tell, + But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell." + + They hear no sound; the swell is strong; + Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along + Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock: + "O Christ! it is the Inchcape Rock!" + + Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair, + He curst himself in his despair: + The waves rush in on every side, + The ship is sinking beneath the tide. + + But, even in his dying fear, + One dreadful sound could the Rover hear,-- + A sound as if with the Inchcape Bell + The Devil below was ringing his knell. + + ROBERT SOUTHEY. + + + THE FINDING OF THE LYRE. + + Once a year my pupils teach me "The Finding of the Lyre." By the time I + have learned it they know the meaning of every line and have caught the + spirit of the verse. There is an ancient "lyre," or violin, made in + northern Africa, in the possession of a Boston lady, and I have found + the mud-turtle rattle among the Indians on the Indian reservation at + Syracuse, New York. They use it as a musical instrument in their + Thanksgiving dances. The poem helps to build an interest in history and + mythology while it develops a child's reverence and insight. (1819-91.) + + There lay upon the ocean's shore + What once a tortoise served to cover; + A year and more, with rush and roar, + The surf had rolled it over, + Had played with it, and flung it by, + As wind and weather might decide it, + Then tossed it high where sand-drifts dry + Cheap burial might provide it. + + It rested there to bleach or tan, + The rains had soaked, the sun had burned it; + With many a ban the fisherman + Had stumbled o'er and spurned it; + And there the fisher-girl would stay, + Conjecturing with her brother + How in their play the poor estray + Might serve some use or other. + + So there it lay, through wet and dry, + As empty as the last new sonnet, + Till by and by came Mercury, + And, having mused upon it, + "Why, here," cried he, "the thing of things + In shape, material, and dimension! + Give it but strings, and, lo, it sings, + A wonderful invention!" + + So said, so done; the chords he strained, + And, as his fingers o'er them hovered, + The shell disdained a soul had gained, + The lyre had been discovered. + O empty world that round us lies, + Dead shell, of soul and thought forsaken, + Brought we but eyes like Mercury's, + In thee what songs should waken! + + JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. + + + A CHRYSALIS. + +"A Chrysalis" is a favourite poem with John Burroughs, and is found, + too, in Stedman's collection. We all come to a point in life where we + need to burst the shell and fly away into the new realm. (1835-98.) + + My little Maedchen found one day + A curious something in her play, + That was not fruit, nor flower, nor seed; + It was not anything that grew, + Or crept, or climbed, or swam, or flew; + Had neither legs nor wings, indeed; + And yet she was not sure, she said, + Whether it was alive or dead. + + She brought it in her tiny hand + To see if I would understand, + And wondered when I made reply, + "You've found a baby butterfly." + "A butterfly is not like this," + With doubtful look she answered me. + So then I told her what would be + Some day within the chrysalis: + How, slowly, in the dull brown thing + Now still as death, a spotted wing, + And then another, would unfold, + Till from the empty shell would fly + A pretty creature, by and by, + All radiant in blue and gold. + + "And will it, truly?" questioned she-- + Her laughing lips and eager eyes + All in a sparkle of surprise-- + "And shall your little Maedchen see?" + "She shall!" I said. How could I tell + That ere the worm within its shell + Its gauzy, splendid wings had spread, + My little Maedchen would be dead? + + To-day the butterfly has flown,-- + She was not here to see it fly,-- + And sorrowing I wonder why + The empty shell is mine alone. + Perhaps the secret lies in this: + I too had found a chrysalis, + And Death that robbed me of delight + Was but the radiant creature's flight! + + MARY EMILY BRADLEY. + + + FOR A' THAT. + + Robert Burns, the plowman and poet, "dinnered wi' a lord." The story + goes that he was put at the second table. That lord is dead, but Robert + Burns still lives. He is immortal. It is "the survival of the fittest" +"For a' That and a' That" is a poem that wipes out the superficial + value put on money and other externalities. This poem is more valuable + in education than good penmanship or good spelling. (1759-96.) + + Is there, for honest poverty, + That hangs his head, and a' that? + The coward slave, we pass him by, + We dare be poor for a' that; + For a' that, and a' that, + Our toils obscure, and a' that; + The rank is but the guinea's stamp, + The man's the gowd for a' that! + + What though on hamely fare we dine, + Wear hoddin-gray,[1] and a' that; + Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, + A man's a man for a' that! + For a' that, and a' that, + Their tinsel show, and a' that; + The honest man, though e'er sae poor, + Is king o' men for a' that! + + Ye see yon birkie[2] ca'd a lord, + Wha struts, and stares, and a' that; + Though hundreds worship at his word, + He's but a coof[3] for a' that; + For a' that, and a' that, + His riband, star, and a' that, + The man of independent mind, + He looks and laughs at a' that. + + A prince can make a belted knight, + A marquis, duke, and a' that; + But an honest man's aboon his might. + Guid faith he maunna fa' that! + For a' that, and a' that, + Their dignities, and a' that, + The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, + Are higher rank than a' that. + + Then let us pray that come it may-- + As come it will for a' that-- + That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, + May bear the gree, and a' that; + For a' that, and a' that, + It's coming yet for a' that, + That man to man, the warld o'er, + Shall brothers be for a' that! + + FOOTNOTES: + + [1] Coarse woolen clothes. + + [2] Impudent fellow. + + [3] Fool: blockhead. + + ROBERT BURNS. + + + A NEW ARRIVAL. + +"The New Arrival" is a valuable poem because it expresses the joy of a + young father over his new baby. If girls should be educated to be good + mothers, so should boys be taught that fatherhood is the highest and + holiest joy and right of man. The child is educator to the man. He + teaches him how to take responsibility, how to give unbiased judgments, + and how to be fatherly like "Our Father who is in Heaven." (1844-.) + + There came to port last Sunday night + The queerest little craft, + Without an inch of rigging on; + I looked and looked and laughed. + It seemed so curious that she + Should cross the Unknown water, + And moor herself right in my room, + My daughter, O my daughter! + + Yet by these presents witness all + She's welcome fifty times, + And comes consigned to Hope and Love + And common-meter rhymes. + She has no manifest but this, + No flag floats o'er the water, + She's too new for the British Lloyds-- + My daughter, O my daughter! + + Ring out, wild bells, and tame ones too! + Ring out the lover's moon! + Ring in the little worsted socks! + Ring in the bib and spoon! + Ring out the muse! ring in the nurse! + Ring in the milk and water! + Away with paper, pen, and ink-- + My daughter, O my daughter! + + GEORGE W. CABLE. + + + THE BROOK. + + Tennyson's "The Brook" is included out of love to a dear old schoolmate + in Colorado. The real brook, near Cambridge, England, is tame compared + to your Colorado streams, O beloved comrade. This poem is well liked by + the majority of pupils. (1809-92.) + + I chatter, chatter, as I flow + To join the brimming river; + For men may come and men may go, + But I go on forever. + + I wind about, and in and out, + With here a blossom sailing, + And here and there a lusty trout, + And here and there a grayling. + + I steal by lawns and grassy plots, + I slide by hazel covers; + I move the sweet forget-me-nots + That grow for happy lovers. + + I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, + Among my skimming swallows; + I make the netted sunbeams dance + Against my sandy shallows. + + I murmur under moon and stars + In brambly wildernesses; + I linger by my shingly bars; + I loiter round my cresses. + + And out again I curve and flow + To join the brimming river; + For men may come and men may go, + But I go on forever. + + ALFRED TENNYSON. + + + THE BALLAD OF THE "CLAMPHERDOWN." + +"The Ballad of the _Clampherdown_," by Rudyard Kipling, is included + because my boys always like it. It needs a great deal of explanation, + and few boys will hold out to the end in learning it. But "it pays." + (1865-.) + + It was our war-ship _Clampherdown_ + Would sweep the Channel clean, + Wherefore she kept her hatches close + When the merry Channel chops arose, + To save the bleached marine. + + She had one bow-gun of a hundred ton, + And a great stern-gun beside; + They dipped their noses deep in the sea, + They racked their stays and stanchions free + In the wash of the wind-whipped tide. + + It was our war-ship _Clampherdown_, + Fell in with a cruiser light + That carried the dainty Hotchkiss gun + And a pair o' heels wherewith to run, + From the grip of a close-fought fight. + + She opened fire at seven miles-- + As ye shoot at a bobbing cork-- + And once she fired and twice she fired, + Till the bow-gun drooped like a lily tired + That lolls upon the stalk. + + "Captain, the bow-gun melts apace, + The deck-beams break below, + 'Twere well to rest for an hour or twain, + And botch the shattered plates again." + And he answered, "Make it so." + + She opened fire within the mile-- + As ye shoot at the flying duck-- + And the great stern-gun shot fair and true, + With the heave of the ship, to the stainless blue, + And the great stern-turret stuck. + + "Captain, the turret fills with steam, + The feed-pipes burst below-- + You can hear the hiss of helpless ram, + You can hear the twisted runners jam." + And he answered, "Turn and go!" + + It was our war-ship _Clampherdown_, + And grimly did she roll; + Swung round to take the cruiser's fire + As the White Whale faces the Thresher's ire, + When they war by the frozen Pole. + + "Captain, the shells are falling fast, + And faster still fall we; + And it is not meet for English stock, + To bide in the heart of an eight-day clock, + The death they cannot see." + + "Lie down, lie down, my bold A.B., + We drift upon her beam; + We dare not ram, for she can run; + And dare ye fire another gun, + And die in the peeling steam?" + + It was our war-ship _Clampherdown_ + That carried an armour-belt; + But fifty feet at stern and bow, + Lay bare as the paunch of the purser's sow, + To the hail of the Nordenfeldt. + + "Captain, they lack us through and through; + The chilled steel bolts are swift! + We have emptied the bunkers in open sea, + Their shrapnel bursts where our coal should be." + And he answered, "Let her drift." + + It was our war-ship _Clampherdown_, + Swung round upon the tide. + Her two dumb guns glared south and north, + And the blood and the bubbling steam ran forth, + And she ground the cruiser's side. + + "Captain, they cry the fight is done, + They bid you send your sword." + And he answered, "Grapple her stern and bow. + They have asked for the steel. They shall have it now; + Out cutlasses and board!" + + It was our war-ship _Clampherdown_, + Spewed up four hundred men; + And the scalded stokers yelped delight, + As they rolled in the waist and heard the fight, + Stamp o'er their steel-walled pen. + + They cleared the cruiser end to end, + From conning-tower to hold. + They fought as they fought in Nelson's fleet; + They were stripped to the waist, they were bare to the feet, + As it was in the days of old. + + It was the sinking _Clampherdown_ + Heaved up her battered side-- + And carried a million pounds in steel, + To the cod and the corpse-fed conger-eel, + And the scour of the Channel tide. + + It was the crew of the _Clampherdown_ + Stood out to sweep the sea, + On a cruiser won from an ancient foe, + As it was in the days of long-ago, + And as it still shall be. + + RUDYARD KIPLING. + + + THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. + +"The Destruction of Sennacherib," by Lord Byron, finds a place in this + collection because Johnnie, a ten-year-old, and many of his friends + say, "It's great." (1788-1824.) + + The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold, + And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; + And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, + When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. + + Like the leaves of the forest when the Summer is green, + That host with their banners at sunset were seen: + Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, + That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. + + For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, + And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; + And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, + And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still! + + And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, + But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride; + And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, + And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. + + And there lay the rider distorted and pale, + With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail, + And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, + The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. + + And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, + And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; + And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, + Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord! + + LORD BYRON. + + + I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. + + I remember, I remember + The house where I was born, + The little window where the sun + Came peeping in at morn; + He never came a wink too soon + Nor brought too long a day; + But now, I often wish the night + Had borne my breath away. + + I remember, I remember + The roses, red and white, + The violets, and the lily-cups-- + Those flowers made of light! + The lilacs where the robin built, + And where my brother set + The laburnum on his birthday,-- + The tree is living yet! + + I remember, I remember + Where I was used to swing, + And thought the air must rush as fresh + To swallows on the wing; + My spirit flew in feathers then + That is so heavy now, + And summer pools could hardly cool + The fever on my brow. + + I remember, I remember + The fir trees dark and high; + I used to think their slender tops + Were close against the sky: + It was a childish ignorance, + But now 'tis little joy + To know I'm farther off from Heaven + Than when I was a boy. + + THOMAS HOOD. + + + DRIVING HOME THE COWS. + + Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass + He turned them into the river lane; + One after another he let them pass, + Then fastened the meadow bars again. + + Under the willows and over the hill, + He patiently followed their sober pace; + The merry whistle for once was still, + And something shadowed the sunny face. + + Only a boy! and his father had said + He never could let his youngest go: + Two already were lying dead, + Under the feet of the trampling foe. + + But after the evening work was done, + And the frogs were loud in the meadow-swamp, + Over his shoulder he slung his gun, + And stealthily followed the footpath damp. + + Across the clover, and through the wheat, + With resolute heart and purpose grim: + Though the dew was on his hurrying feet, + And the blind bat's flitting startled him. + + Thrice since then had the lanes been white, + And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom; + And now, when the cows came back at night, + The feeble father drove them home. + + For news had come to the lonely farm + That three were lying where two had lain; + And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm + Could never lean on a son's again. + + The summer day grew cool and late: + He went for the cows when the work was done; + But down the lane, as he opened the gate, + He saw them coming one by one: + + Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, + Shaking their horns in the evening wind; + Cropping the buttercups out of the grass, + But who was it following close behind? + + Loosely swung in the idle air + The empty sleeve of army blue; + And worn and pale, from the crisping hair, + Looked out a face that the father knew. + + For close-barred prisons will sometimes yawn, + And yield their dead unto life again; + And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn, + In golden glory at last may wane. + + The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes; + For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb, + And under the silent evening skies + Together they followed the cattle home. + + KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD. + + + KRINKEN. + +"Krinken" is the dearest of poems. + + "Krinken was a little child. + It was summer when he smiled!" + + Eugene Field, above all other poets, paid the finest tribute to + children. This poet only, could make the whole ocean warm because a + child's heart was there to warm it. + + Krinken was a little child,-- + It was summer when he smiled. + Oft the hoary sea and grim + Stretched its white arms out to him, + Calling, "Sun-child, come to me; + Let me warm my heart with thee!" + But the child heard not the sea + Calling, yearning evermore + For the summer on the shore. + + Krinken on the beach one day + Saw a maiden Nis at play; + On the pebbly beach she played + In the summer Krinken made. + Fair, and very fair, was she, + Just a little child was he. + "Krinken," said the maiden Nis, + "Let me have a little kiss,-- + Just a kiss, and go with me + To the summer-lands that be + Down within the silver sea." + + Krinken was a little child-- + By the maiden Nis beguiled, + Hand in hand with her went he + And 'twas summer in the sea. + And the hoary sea and grim + To its bosom folded him-- + Clasped and kissed the little form, + And the ocean's heart was warm. + + Now the sea calls out no more; + It is winter on the shore,-- + Winter where that little child + Made sweet summer when he smiled; + Though 'tis summer on the sea + Where with maiden Nis went he,-- + It is winter on the shore, + Winter, winter evermore. + + Of the summer on the deep + Come sweet visions in my sleep; + _His_ fair face lifts from the sea, + _His_ dear voice calls out to me,-- + These my dreams of summer be. + + Krinken was a little child, + By the maiden Nis beguiled; + Oft the hoary sea and grim + Reached its longing arms to him, + Crying, "Sim-child, come to me; + Let me warm my heart with thee!" + But the sea calls out no more; + It is winter on the shore,-- + Winter, cold and dark and wild. + + Krinken was a little child,-- + It was summer when he smiled; + Down he went into the sea, + And the winter bides with me, + Just a little child was he. + + EUGENE FIELD. + + + STEVENSON'S BIRTHDAY. + + "How I should like a birthday!" said the child, + "I have so few, and they so far apart." + She spoke to Stevenson--the Master smiled-- + "Mine is to-day; I would with all my heart + That it were yours; too many years have I! + Too swift they come, and all too swiftly fly" + + So by a formal deed he there conveyed + All right and title in his natal day, + To have and hold, to sell or give away,-- + Then signed, and gave it to the little maid. + + Joyful, yet fearing to believe too much, + She took the deed, but scarcely dared unfold. + Ah, liberal Genius! at whose potent touch + All common things shine with transmuted gold! + A day of Stevenson's will prove to be + Not part of Time, but Immortality. + + KATHERINE MILLER. + + + A MODEST WIT. + + I learned "A Modest Wit" as a reading-lesson when I was a child. It has + clung to me and so I cling to it. It is just as good as it ever was. It + is a sharp thrust at power that depends on externalities. Selleck + Osborne. (----.) + + A supercilious nabob of the East-- + Haughty, being great--purse-proud, being rich-- + A governor, or general, at the least, + I have forgotten which-- + Had in his family a humble youth, + Who went from England in his patron's suit, + An unassuming boy, in truth + A lad of decent parts, and good repute. + + This youth had sense and spirit; + But yet with all his sense, + Excessive diffidence + Obscured his merit. + + One day, at table, flushed with pride and wine, + His honour, proudly free, severely merry, + Conceived it would be vastly fine + To crack a joke upon his secretary. + + "Young man," he said, "by what art, craft, or trade, + Did your good father gain a livelihood?"-- + "He was a saddler, sir," Modestus said, + "And in his time was reckon'd good." + + "A saddler, eh! and taught you Greek, + Instead of teaching you to sew! + Pray, why did not your father make + A saddler, sir, of you?" + + Each parasite, then, as in duty bound, + The joke applauded, and the laugh went round. + At length Modestus, bowing low, + Said (craving pardon, if too free he made), + "Sir, by your leave, I fain would know + Your father's trade!" + + "My father's trade! by heaven, that's too bad! + My father's trade? Why, blockhead, are you mad? + My father, sir, did never stoop so low-- + He was a gentleman, I'd have you know." + + "Excuse the liberty I take," + Modestus said, with archness on his brow, + "Pray, why did not your father make + A gentleman of you?" + + SELLECK OSBORNE. + + + THE LEGEND OF BISHOP HATTO. + +"The Legend of Bishop Hatto" is doubtless a myth (Robert Southey, + 1774-1843). But "The Mouse-Tower on the Rhine" is an object of interest + to travellers, and the story has a point + + The summer and autumn had been so wet, + That in winter the corn was growing yet: + 'Twas a piteous sight to see, all around, + The grain lie rotting on the ground. + + Every day the starving poor + Crowded around Bishop Hatto's door; + For he had a plentiful last-year's store, + And all the neighbourhood could tell + His granaries were furnished well. + + At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day + To quiet the poor without delay: + He bade them to his great barn repair, + And they should have food for winter there. + + Rejoiced such tidings good to hear, + The poor folk flocked from far and near; + The great barn was full as it could hold + Of women and children, and young and old. + + Then, when he saw it could hold no more, + Bishop Hatto, he made fast the door; + And while for mercy on Christ they call, + He set fire to the barn and burned them all. + + "I' faith, 'tis an excellent bonfire!" quoth he; + "And the country is greatly obliged to me + For ridding it in these times forlorn + Of Rats that only consume the corn." + + So then to his palace returned he, + And he sat down to supper merrily, + And he slept that night like an innocent man; + But Bishop Hatto never slept again. + + In the morning as he entered the hall, + Where his picture hung against the wall, + A sweat-like death all over him came; + For the Rats had eaten it out of the frame. + + As he looked, there came a man from his farm; + He had a countenance white with alarm: + "My Lord, I opened your granaries this morn, + And the Rats had eaten all your corn." + + Another came running presently, + And he was pale as pale could be: + "Fly, my Lord Bishop, fly!" quoth he, + "Ten thousand Rats are coming this way; + The Lord forgive you yesterday!" + + "I'll go to my town on the Rhine," replied he; + "'Tis the safest place in Germany; + The walls are high, and the shores are steep, + And the stream is strong, and the water deep." + + Bishop Hatto fearfully hastened away, + And he crossed the Rhine without delay, + And reached his tower, and barred with care + All windows, doors, and loop-holes there. + + He laid him down, and closed his eyes; + But soon a scream made him arise: + He started and saw two eyes of flame + On his pillow, from whence the screaming came. + + He listened and looked; it was only the cat: + But the Bishop he grew more fearful for that; + For she sat screaming, mad with fear + At the army of Rats that was drawing near. + + For they have swum over the river so deep, + And they have climbed the shore so steep; + And up the tower their way is bent, + To do the work for which they were sent. + + They are not to be told by the dozen or score; + By thousands they come, and by myriads and more; + Such numbers had never been heard of before, + Such a judgment had never been witnessed of yore. + + Down on his knees the Bishop fell, + And faster and faster his beads did tell, + As, louder and louder drawing near, + The gnawing of their teeth he could hear. + + And in at the windows and in at the door, + And through the walls, helter-skelter they pour, + And down from the ceiling and up through the floor, + From the right and the left, from behind and before, + And all at once to the Bishop they go. + + They have whetted their teeth against the stones; + And now they pick the Bishop's bones: + They gnawed the flesh from every limb; + For they were sent to do judgment on him! + + ROBERT SOUTHEY. + + + COLUMBUS. + + We are greatly indebted to Joaquin Miller for his "Sail On! Sail On!" + Endurance is the watchword of the poem and the watchword of our + republic. Every man to his gun! Columbus discovered America in his own + mind before he realised it or proved its existence. I have often drawn + a chart of Columbus's life and voyages to show what need he had of the + motto "Sail On!" to accomplish his end. This is one of our greatest + American poems. The writer still lives in California. + + Behind him lay the gray Azores, + Behind the gates of Hercules; + Before him not the ghost of shores, + Before him only shoreless seas. + The good mate said: "Now must we pray, + For lo! the very stars are gone; + Speak, Admiral, what shall I say?" + "Why say, sail on! and on!" + + "My men grow mut'nous day by day; + My men grow ghastly wan and weak." + The stout mate thought of home; a spray + Of salt wave wash'd his swarthy cheek. + "What shall I say, brave Admiral, + If we sight naught but seas at dawn?" + "Why, you shall say, at break of day: + 'Sail on! sail on! and on!'" + + They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow, + Until at last the blanch'd mate said; + "Why, now, not even God would know + Should I and all my men fall dead. + These very winds forget their way, + For God from these dread seas is gone. + Now speak, brave Admiral, and say----" + He said: "Sail on! and on!" + + They sailed, they sailed, then spoke his mate: + "This mad sea shows his teeth to-night, + He curls his lip, he lies in wait, + With lifted teeth as if to bite! + Brave Admiral, say but one word; + What shall we do when hope is gone?" + The words leaped as a leaping sword: + "Sail on! sail on! and on!" + + Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck, + And thro' the darkness peered that night. + Ah, darkest night! and then a speck,-- + A light! a light! a light! a light! + It grew--a star-lit flag unfurled! + It grew to be Time's burst of dawn; + He gained a world! he gave that world + Its watch-word: "On! and on!" + + JOAQUIN MILLER. + + + THE SHEPHERD OF KING ADMETUS. + + Once a year the children learn "The Shepherd of King Admetus," which is + one of the finest poems ever written as showing the possible growth of + real history into mythology, the tendency of mankind to deify what is + fine or sublime in human action. Not every child will learn this entire + poem, because it is too long. But every child will learn the best lines + in it while the children are teaching it to me and when I take my turn + in teaching it to them. No child fails to catch the spirit and intent + of the poem and to become entirely familiar with it. (1819-91.) + + There came a youth upon the earth, + Some thousand years ago, + Whose slender hands were nothing worth, + Whether to plow, or reap, or sow. + + Upon an empty tortoise-shell + He stretched some chords, and drew + Music that made men's bosoms swell + Fearless, or brimmed their eyes with dew. + + Then King Admetus, one who had + Pure taste by right divine, + Decreed his singing not too bad + To hear between the cups of wine: + + And so, well pleased with being soothed + Into a sweet half-sleep, + Three times his kingly beard he smoothed, + And made him viceroy o'er his sheep. + + His words were simple words enough, + And yet he used them so, + That what in other mouths was rough + In his seemed musical and low. + + Men called him but a shiftless youth, + In whom no good they saw; + And yet, unwittingly, in truth, + They made his careless words their law. + + They knew not how he learned at all, + For idly, hour by hour, + He sat and watched the dead leaves fall, + Or mused upon a common flower. + + It seemed the loveliness of things + Did teach him all their use, + For, in mere weeds, and stones, and springs, + He found a healing power profuse. + + Men granted that his speech was wise, + But, when a glance they caught + Of his slim grace and woman's eyes, + They laughed, and called him good-for-naught. + + Yet after he was dead and gone, + And e'en his memory dim, + Earth seemed more sweet to live upon, + More full of love, because of him. + + And day by day more holy grew + Each spot where he had trod, + Till after-poets only knew + Their first-born brother as a god. + + JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. + + + HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX. + + I have an old essay written by a lad of fourteen years on "How They + Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix." I should judge from this + essay that any boy at that age would like the poem, even if he had not + himself been over the ground as this boy had. (1812-89.) + + I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he; + I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three; + "Good speed!" cried the watch as the gate-bolts undrew; + "Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through; + Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, + And into the midnight we galloped abreast. + + Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace + Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place; + I turned in my saddle and made its girth tight, + Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, + Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, + Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. + + 'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near + Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear; + At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see; + At Dueffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be; + And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime, + So Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is time!" + + At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, + And against him the cattle stood black every one, + To stare through the mist at us galloping past, + And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last, + With resolute shoulders, each butting away + The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray: + + And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back + For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; + And one eye's black intelligence,--ever that glance + O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance! + And the thick, heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon + His fierce lips shook upward in galloping on. + + By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur! + Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her, + We'll remember at Aix"--for one heard the quick wheeze + Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees, + And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, + As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. + + So, we were left galloping, Joris and I, + Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky; + The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, + 'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; + Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, + And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!" + + "How they'll greet us!"--and all in a moment his roan + Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; + And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight + Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate, + With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, + And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. + + Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall, + Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, + Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, + Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer; + Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, + Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. + + And all I remember is--friends flocking round + As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground; + And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, + As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, + Which (the burgesses voting by common consent) + Was no more than his due who brought the good news from Ghent. + + ROBERT BROWNING. + + + THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA. + +"The Burial of Sir John Moore" was one of my reading-lessons when I was + a child. A distinguished teacher says: "It has become a part of popular + education," as has also "The Eve of Waterloo" and "The Death of + Napoleon." They are all poems of great rhythmical swing, intense and + graphic. (1791-1823.) + + Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, + As his corse to the rampart we hurried; + Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot + O'er the grave where our hero we buried. + + We buried him darkly at dead of night, + The sods with our bayonets turning; + By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, + And the lantern dimly burning. + + No useless coffin enclosed his breast, + Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; + But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, + With his martial cloak around him. + + Few and short were the prayers we said, + And we spoke not a word of sorrow; + But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, + And we bitterly thought of the morrow. + + We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, + And smoothed down his lonely pillow, + That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, + And we far away on the billow! + + Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, + And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,-- + But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on + In the grave where a Briton has laid him. + + But half of our heavy task was done + When the clock struck the hour for retiring; + And we heard the distant and random gun + That the foe was sullenly firing. + + Slowly and sadly we laid him down, + From the field of his fame fresh and gory; + We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone-- + But we left him alone with his glory! + + C. WOLFE. + + + THE EVE OF WATERLOO. + +"The Eve of Waterloo," by Lord Byron (1788-1824). Here is another old + reading-book gem that will always be dear to every boy's heart if he + only reads it a few times. + + There was a sound of revelry by night, + And Belgium's capital had gathered then + Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright + The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men. + A thousand hearts beat happily; and when + Music arose with its voluptuous swell, + Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, + And all went merry as a marriage-bell: + But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell! + + Did ye not hear it? No; 'twas but the wind, + Or the car rattling o'er the stony street. + On with the dance! let joy be unconfined! + No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet + To chase the glowing hours with flying feet! + But hark!--that heavy sound breaks in once more, + As if the clouds its echo would repeat; + And nearer, clearer, deadlier, than before! + Arm! arm! it is--it is the cannon's opening roar! + + Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, + And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress + And cheeks all pale, which, but an hour ago, + Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; + And there were sudden partings, such as press + The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs + Which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess + If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, + Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise? + + And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, + The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, + Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, + And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; + And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; + And near, the beat of the alarming drum + Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; + While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, + Or whispering with white lips, "The foe! They come! They come!" + + And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, + Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pass, + Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, + Over the unreturning brave--alas! + Ere evening to be trodden like the grass + Which, now beneath them, but above shall grow + In its next verdure, when this fiery mass + Of living valour, rolling on the foe, + And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low. + + Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, + Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay; + The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, + The morn the marshalling in arms,--the day, + Battle's magnificently stern array! + The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which, when rent, + The earth is covered thick with other clay, + Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, + Rider, and horse--friend, foe--in one red burial blent! + + LORD BYRON. + + + IVRY. + + A SONG OF THE HUGUENOTS. + + Laddie, aged eleven, do you remember how you studied and recited "King + Henry of Navarre" every poetry hour for a year? It was a long poem, but + you stuck to it to the end. We did not know the meaning of a certain + word, but I found it up in Switzerland. It is the name of a little + town. (1800-59.) + + Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are! + And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre! + + Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, + Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, O pleasant + land of France! + And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, + Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters. + As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, + For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy. + Hurrah! Hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war, + Hurrah! Hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre. + + Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, + We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array; + With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, + And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears. + There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land; + And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand; + And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood, + And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood; + And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war, + To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre. + + The King is come to marshal us, in all his armour drest, + And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest. + He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; + He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. + Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, + Down all our line, a deafening shout, "God save our Lord the King!" + "And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may, + For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray, + Press where ye see my white plume shine, amid the ranks of war, + And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre." + + Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din + Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin. + The fiery Duke is pricking fast across St. Andre's plain, + With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. + Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, + Charge for the golden lilies,--upon them with the lance. + A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, + A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest; + And in they burst, and on they rushed, while like a guiding star, + Amid the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre. + + Now, God be praised, the day is ours. Mayenne hath turned his rein. + D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish count is slain. + Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale; + The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail. + And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van, + "Remember St. Bartholomew!" was passed from man to man. + But out spake gentle Henry, "No Frenchman is my foe: + Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go." + Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, + As our Sovereign Lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre? + + Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France to-day; + And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey. + But we of the Religion have borne us best in fight; + And the good lord of Rosny has ta'en the cornet white. + Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en, + The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false Lorraine. + Up with it high; unfurl it wide; that all the host may know + How God hath humbled the proud house which wrought His church such woe. + Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest points of war, + Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henry of Navarre. + + Ho! maidens of Vienna; Ho! matrons of Lucerne; + Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return. + Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, + That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearman's souls. + Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright; + Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night. + For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave, + And mocked the counsel of the wise, the valour of the brave. + Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are; + And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre. + + THOMAS B. MACAULAY. + + + THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS. + +"The Glove and the Lions" was one of my early reading-lessons. It is an + incisive thrust at the vanity of "fair" women. A woman be a "true + knight" as well as a man. Leigh Hunt (1784-1859.) + + King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport, + And one day as his lions fought, sat looking on the court; + The nobles filled the benches, with the ladies in their pride, + And 'mong them sat the Count de Lorge with one for whom he sighed: + And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show, + Valour, and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below. + + Ramp'd and roar'd the lions, with horrid laughing jaws; + They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind + went with their paws; + With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled on one another, + Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a thunderous smother; + The bloody foam above the bars came whisking through the air; + Said Francis then, "Faith, gentlemen, we're better here than there." + + De Lorge's love o'erheard the King,--a beauteous lively dame + With smiling lips and sharp, bright eyes, which always seem'd the same: + She thought, "The Count, my lover, is brave as brave can be; + He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me; + King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine; + I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be mine." + + She dropped her glove, to prove his love, then look'd + at him and smiled; + He bowed, and in a moment leapt among the lions wild: + His leap was quick, return was quick, he has regain'd his place, + Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face. + "Well done!" cried Francis, "bravely done!" and he rose + from where he sat: + "No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that." + + LEIGH HUNT. + + + THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE. + + I found the Well of St. Keyne in Cornwall, England--not the poem, but + the real well. The poem is of the great body of world-lore. Southey + (1774-1843). + + A well there is in the west country, + And a clearer one never was seen; + There is not a wife in the west-country + But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne. + + An oak and an elm tree stand beside, + And behind does an ash tree grow, + And a willow from the bank above + Droops to the water below. + + A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne: + Pleasant it was to his eye, + For from cock-crow he had been travelling + And there was not a cloud in the sky. + + He drank of the water so cool and clear, + For thirsty and hot was he, + And he sat down upon the bank, + Under the willow tree. + + There came a man from the neighbouring town + At the well to fill his pail; + On the well-side he rested it, + And bade the stranger hail. + + "Now, art thou a bachelor, stranger?" quoth he, + "For an if thou hast a wife, + The happiest draught thou hast drunk this day + That ever thou didst in thy life. + + "Or has your good woman, if one you have, + In Cornwall ever been? + For an if she have, I'll venture my life + She has drunk of the Well of St. Keyne." + + "I have left a good woman who never was here," + The stranger he made reply; + "But that my draught should be better for that, + I pray you answer me why," + + "St. Keyne," quoth the countryman, "many a time + Drank of this crystal well, + And before the angel summoned her + She laid on the water a spell. + + "If the husband of this gifted well + Shall drink before his wife, + A happy man thenceforth is he, + For he shall be master for life. + + "But if the wife should drink of it first, + God help the husband then!" + The stranger stoop'd to the Well of St. Keyne, + And drank of the waters again. + + "You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes?" + He to the countryman said; + But the countryman smiled as the stranger spake, + And sheepishly shook his head. + + "I hastened as soon as the wedding was done, + And left my wife in the porch, + But i' faith she had been wiser than me, + For she took a bottle to church," + + ROBERT SOUTHEY. + + + THE NAUTILUS AND THE AMMONITE. + +"The Nautilus and the Ammonite" finds a place here out of respect to a + twelve-year-old girl who recited it at one of our poetry hours years + ago. It made a profound impression on the fifty pupils assembled, I + never read it without feeling that it stands test. Anonymous. + + The nautilus and the ammonite + Were launched in friendly strife, + Each sent to float in its tiny boat + On the wide, wide sea of life. + + For each could swim on the ocean's brim, + And, when wearied, its sail could furl, + And sink to sleep in the great sea-deep, + In its palace all of pearl. + + And theirs was a bliss more fair than this + Which we taste in our colder clime; + For they were rife in a tropic life-- + A brighter and better clime. + + They swam 'mid isles whose summer smiles + Were dimmed by no alloy; + Whose groves were palm, whose air was balm, + And life one only joy. + + They sailed all day through creek and bay, + And traversed the ocean deep; + And at night they sank on a coral bank, + In its fairy bowers to sleep. + + And the monsters vast of ages past + They beheld in their ocean caves; + They saw them ride in their power and pride, + And sink in their deep-sea graves. + + And hand in hand, from strand to strand, + They sailed in mirth and glee; + These fairy shells, with their crystal cells, + Twin sisters of the sea. + + And they came at last to a sea long past, + But as they reached its shore, + The Almighty's breath spoke out in death, + And the ammonite was no more. + + So the nautilus now in its shelly prow, + As over the deep it strays, + Still seems to seek, in bay and creek, + Its companion of other days. + + And alike do we, on life's stormy sea, + As we roam from shore to shore, + Thus tempest-tossed, seek the loved, the lost, + And find them on earth no more. + + Yet the hope how sweet, again to meet, + As we look to a distant strand, + Where heart meets heart, and no more they part + Who meet in that better land. + + ANONYMOUS. + + + THE SOLITUDE OF ALEXANDER SELKIRK. + + I am monarch of all I survey, + My right there is none to dispute, + From the center all round to the sea, + I am lord of the fowl and the brute. + O Solitude! where are the charms + That sages have seen in thy face? + Better dwell in the midst of alarms + Than reign in this horrible place. + + I am out of humanity's reach, + I must finish my journey alone, + Never hear the sweet music of speech,-- + I start at the sound of my own. + The beasts that roam over the plain + My form with indifference see; + They are so unacquainted with man, + Their tameness is shocking to me. + + Society, Friendship, and Love, + Divinely bestow'd upon man, + Oh, had I the wings of a dove, + How soon would I taste you again! + My sorrows I then might assuage + In the ways of religion and truth, + Might learn from the wisdom of age, + And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth. + + Ye winds that have made me your sport, + Convey to this desolate shore + Some cordial endearing report + Of a land I shall visit no more! + + My friends--do they now and then send + A wish or a thought after me? + Oh, tell me I yet have a friend, + Though a friend I am never to see. + + How fleet is a glance of the mind! + Compared with the speed of its flight, + The tempest itself lags behind, + And the swift-winged arrows of light. + When I think of my own native land, + In a moment I seem to be there; + But alas! recollection at hand + Soon hurries me back to despair. + + But the seafowl is gone to her nest, + The beast is laid down in his lair, + Even here is a season of rest, + And I to my cabin repair. + There's mercy in every place, + And mercy, encouraging thought! + Gives even affliction a grace, + And reconciles man to his lot. + + WILLIAM COWPER. + + + THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. + + I wonder if the English people appreciate "The Homes of England." It is + a stately poem worthy of a Goethe or a Shakespeare. England is + distinctively a country of homes, pretty, little, humble homes as well + as stately palaces and castles, homes well made of stone or brick for + the most part, and clad with ivy and roses. Who would not be proud to + have had such a home as Ann Hathaway's humble cottage or one of the + little huts in the Lake District? The homes of America are often more + palatial, especially in small cities, but the use of wood in America + makes them less substantial than the slate-and-brick houses of England. + (1749-1835.) + + The stately homes of England! + How beautiful they stand, + Amidst their tall ancestral trees, + O'er all the pleasant land! + The deer across their greensward bound + Through shade and sunny gleam, + And the swan glides past them with the sound + Of some rejoicing stream. + + The merry homes of England! + Around their hearths by night + What gladsome looks of household love + Meet in the ruddy light! + There woman's voice flows forth in song, + Or childish tale is told, + Or lips move tunefully along + Some glorious page of old. + + The blessed homes of England! + How softly on their bowers + Is laid the holy quietness + That breathes from Sabbath hours! + Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime + Floats through their woods at morn; + All other sounds, in that still time, + Of breeze and leaf are born. + + The cottage homes of England! + By thousands on her plains, + They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, + And round the hamlets' fanes. + Through glowing orchards forth they peep, + Each from its nook of leaves; + And fearless there the lowly sleep, + As the bird beneath their eaves. + + The free, fair homes of England! + Long, long, in hut and hall + May hearts of native proof be reared + To guard each hallowed wall! + And green forever be the groves, + And bright the flowery sod, + Where first the child's glad spirit loves + Its country and its God! + + FELICIA HEMANS. + + + HORATIUS AT THE BRIDGE. + +"Horatius at the Bridge" is too long a poem for children to memorise. + But I never saw a boy who did not want some stanzas of it. "Hold the + bridge with me!" Boys like that motto instinctively. T.B. Macaulay + (1800-59). + + Lars Porsena of Clusium, + By the Nine Gods he swore + That the great house of Tarquin + Should suffer wrong no more. + By the Nine Gods he swore it, + And named a trysting-day, + And bade his messengers ride forth, + East and west and south and north, + To summon his array. + + East and west and south and north + The messengers ride fast, + And tower and town and cottage + Have heard the trumpet's blast. + Shame on the false Etruscan + Who lingers in his home + When Porsena of Clusium + Is on the march for Rome! + + The horsemen and the footmen + Are pouring in amain, + From many a stately market-place, + From many a fruitful plain; + From many a lonely hamlet, + Which, hid by beech and pine, + Like an eagle's nest, hangs on the crest + Of purple Apennine. + + The harvests of Arretium, + This year, old men shall reap; + This year, young boys in Umbro + Shall plunge the struggling sheep; + And in the vats of Luna, + This year, the must shall foam + Round the white feet of laughing girls + Whose sires have marched to Rome. + + There be thirty chosen prophets, + The wisest of the land, + Who alway by Lars Porsena + Both morn and evening stand: + Evening and morn the Thirty + Have turned the verses o'er, + Traced from the right on linen white + By mighty seers of yore. + + And with one voice the Thirty + Have their glad answer given: + "Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena; + Go forth, beloved of Heaven; + Go, and return in glory + To Clusium's royal dome; + And hang round Nurscia's altars + The golden shields of Rome." + + And now hath every city + Sent up her tale of men; + The foot are fourscore thousand, + The horse are thousands ten. + Before the gates of Sutrium + Is met the great array. + A proud man was Lars Porsena + Upon the trysting-day. + + For all the Etruscan armies + Were ranged beneath his eye, + And many a banished Roman, + And many a stout ally; + And with a mighty following + To join the muster came + The Tusculan Mamilius, + Prince of the Latian name. + + But by the yellow Tiber + Was tumult and affright: + From all the spacious champaign + To Rome men took their flight. + A mile around the city, + The throng stopped up the ways; + A fearful sight it was to see + Through two long nights and days. + + Now, from the rock Tarpeian, + Could the wan burghers spy + The line of blazing villages + Red in the midnight sky. + The Fathers of the City, + They sat all night and day, + For every hour some horseman came + With tidings of dismay. + + To eastward and to westward + Have spread the Tuscan bands; + Nor house, nor fence, nor dovecot, + In Crustumerium stands. + Verbenna down to Ostia + Hath wasted all the plain; + Astur hath stormed Janiculum, + And the stout guards are slain. + + I wis, in all the Senate, + There was no heart so bold, + But sore it ached, and fast it beat, + When that ill news was told. + Forthwith up rose the Consul, + Up rose the Fathers all; + In haste they girded up their gowns, + And hied them to the wall. + + They held a council standing + Before the River Gate; + Short time was there, ye well may guess, + For musing or debate. + Out spoke the Consul roundly: + "The bridge must straight go down; + For, since Janiculum is lost, + Naught else can save the town." + + Just then a scout came flying, + All wild with haste and fear: + "To arms! to arms! Sir Consul; + Lars Porsena is here." + On the low hills to westward + The Consul fixed his eye, + And saw the swarthy storm of dust + Rise fast along the sky. + + And nearer, fast, and nearer + Doth the red whirlwind come; + And louder still, and still more loud, + From underneath that rolling cloud, + Is heard the trumpet's war-note proud, + The trampling and the hum. + And plainly and more plainly + Now through the gloom appears, + Far to left and far to right, + In broken gleams of dark-blue light, + The long array of helmets bright, + The long array of spears. + + And plainly and more plainly, + Above the glimmering line, + Now might ye see the banners + Of twelve fair cities shine; + But the banner of proud Clusium + Was the highest of them all, + The terror of the Umbrian, + The terror of the Gaul. + + Fast by the royal standard, + O'erlooking all the war, + Lars Porsena of Clusium + Sat in his ivory car. + By the right wheel rode Mamilius, + Prince of the Latian name, + And by the left false Sextus, + That wrought the deed of shame. + + But when the face of Sextus + Was seen among the foes, + A yell that rent the firmament + From all the town arose. + On the house-tops was no woman + But spat toward him and hissed, + No child but screamed out curses, + And shook its little fist. + + But the Consul's brow was sad, + And the Consul's speech was low, + And darkly looked he at the wall, + And darkly at the foe. + "Their van will be upon us + Before the bridge goes down; + And if they once may win the bridge, + What hope to save the town?" + + Then out spake brave Horatius, + The Captain of the Gate: + "To every man upon this earth + Death cometh soon or late; + And how can man die better + Than facing fearful odds, + For the ashes of his fathers, + And the temples of his gods. + + "And for the tender mother + Who dandled him to rest, + And for the wife who nurses + His baby at her breast, + And for the holy maidens + Who feed the eternal flame, + To save them from false Sextus + That wrought the deed of shame? + + "Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, + With all the speed ye may; + I, with two more to help me, + Will hold the foe in play. + In yon straight path a thousand + May well be stopped by three. + Now who will stand on either hand, + And keep the bridge with me?" + + Then out spake Spurius Lartius-- + A Ramnian proud was he-- + I will stand at thy right hand, + And keep the bridge with thee." + And out spake strong Herminius-- + Of Titian blood was he-- + "I will abide on thy left side, + And keep the bridge with thee." + + "Horatius," quoth the Consul, + "As thou say'st, so let it be," + And straight against that great array + Forth went the dauntless Three. + For Romans in Rome's quarrel + Spared neither land nor gold, + Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life, + In the brave days of old. + + Now while the Three were tightening + Their harness on their backs, + The Consul was the foremost man + To take in hand an ax; + And Fathers mixed with Commons + Seized hatchet, bar, and crow, + And smote upon the planks above, + And loosed the props below. + Meanwhile the Tuscan army, + Right glorious to behold, + Came flashing back the noonday light, + Rank behind rank, like surges bright + Of a broad sea of gold. + + Four hundred trumpets sounded + A peal of warlike glee, + As that great host, with measured tread, + And spears advanced, and ensigns spread, + Rolled slowly toward the bridge's head, + Where stood the dauntless Three. + + The Three stood calm and silent, + And looked upon the foes, + And a great shout of laughter + From all the vanguard rose: + And forth three chiefs came spurring + Before that deep array; + To earth they sprang, their swords they drew, + And lifted high their shields, and flew + To win the narrow way; + + Aunus from green Tifernum, + Lord of the Hill of Vines; + And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves + Sicken in Ilva's mines; + And Picus, long to Clusium + Vassal in peace and war, + Who led to fight his Umbrian powers + From that gray crag where, girt with towers, + The fortress of Nequinum lowers + O'er the pale waves of Nar. + + Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus + Into the stream beneath; + Herminius struck at Seius, + And clove him to the teeth; + At Picus brave Horatius + Darted one fiery thrust; + And the proud Umbrian's gilded arms + Clashed in the bloody dust. + + Then Ocnus of Falerii + Rushed on the Roman Three; + And Lausulus of Urgo, + The rover of the sea; + And Aruns of Volsinium, + Who slew the great wild boar, + The great wild boar that had his den + Amid the reeds of Cosa's fen. + And wasted fields and slaughtered men + Along Albinia's shore. + + Herminius smote down Aruns; + Lartius laid Ocnus low; + Right to the heart of Lausulus + Horatius sent a blow. + "Lie there," he cried, "fell pirate! + No more, aghast and pale, + From Ostia's walls the crowd shall mark + The tracks of thy destroying bark, + No more Campania's hinds shall fly + To woods and caverns when they spy + Thy thrice accursed sail." + + But now no sound of laughter + Was heard among the foes. + A wild and wrathful clamour + From all the vanguard rose. + Six spears' length from the entrance + Halted that deep array, + And for a space no man came forth + To win the narrow way. + + But hark! the cry is Astur: + And lo! the ranks divide; + And the great Lord of Luna + Comes with his stately stride. + Upon his ample shoulders + Clangs loud the fourfold shield, + And in his hand he shakes the brand + Which none but he can wield. + + He smiled on those bold Romans, + A smile serene and high; + He eyed the flinching Tuscans, + And scorn was in his eye. + Quoth he: "The she-wolf's litter + Stand savagely at bay; + But will ye dare to follow, + If Astur clears the way?" + + Then, whirling up his broadsword + With both hands to the height, + He rushed against Horatius, + And smote with all his might. + With shield and blade Horatius + Right deftly turned the blow. + The blow, though turned, came yet too nigh; + It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh: + The Tuscans raised a joyful cry + To see the red blood flow. + + He reeled, and on Herminius + He leaned one breathing space; + Then, like a wildcat mad with wounds, + Sprang right at Astur's face. + Through teeth, and skull, and helmet, + So fierce a thrust he sped, + The good sword stood a handbreadth out + Behind the Tuscan's head. + + And the great Lord of Luna + Fell at the deadly stroke, + As falls on Mount Alvernus + A thunder-smitten oak. + Far o'er the crashing forest + The giant arms lie spread; + And the pale augurs, muttering low, + Gaze on the blasted head. + + On Astur's throat Horatius + Right firmly pressed his heel, + And thrice and four times tugged amain + Ere he wrenched out the steel. + "And see," he cried, "the welcome, + Fair guests, that waits you here! + What noble Lucumo comes next + To taste our Roman cheer?" + + But at his haughty challenge + A sullen murmur ran, + Mingled of wrath, and shame, and dread, + Along that glittering van. + There lacked not men of prowess, + Nor men of lordly race; + For all Etruria's noblest + Were round the fatal place. + + But all Etruria's noblest + Felt their hearts sink to see + On the earth the bloody corpses, + In the path the dauntless Three: + And, from the ghastly entrance + Where those bold Romans stood, + All shrank, like boys who unaware, + Ranging the woods to start a hare, + Come to the mouth of the dark lair + Where, growling low, a fierce old bear + Lies amid bones and blood. + + Was none who would be foremost + To lead such dire attack? + But those behind cried "Forward!" + And those before cried "Back!" + And backward now and forward + Wavers the deep array; + And on the tossing sea of steel + To and fro the standards reel; + And the victorious trumpet peal + Dies fitfully away. + + Yet one man for one moment + Strode out before the crowd; + Well known was he to all the Three, + And they gave him greeting loud: + "Now welcome, welcome, Sextus! + Now welcome to thy home! + Why dost thou stay, and turn away? + Here lies the road to Rome." + + Thrice looked he at the city; + Thrice looked he at the dead; + And thrice came on in fury, + And thrice turned back in dread: + And, white with fear and hatred, + Scowled at the narrow way + Where, wallowing in a pool of blood, + The bravest Tuscans lay. + + But meanwhile ax and lever + Have manfully been plied, + And now the bridge hangs tottering + Above the boiling tide. + "Come back, come back, Horatius!" + Loud cried the Fathers all. + "Back, Lartius! Back, Herminius! + Back, ere the ruin fall!" + + Back darted Spurius Lartius; + Herminius darted back: + And, as they passed, beneath their feet + They felt the timbers crack. + But when they turned their faces, + And on the farther shore + Saw brave Horatius stand alone, + They would have crossed once more. + + But with a crash like thunder + Fell every loosened beam, + And, like a dam, the mighty wreck + Lay right athwart the stream; + And a long shout of triumph + Rose from the walls of Rome, + As to the highest turret tops + Was splashed the yellow foam. + + And, like a horse unbroken + When first he feels the rein, + The furious river struggled hard, + And tossed his tawny mane; + And burst the curb, and bounded, + Rejoicing to be free, + And whirling down, in fierce career, + Battlement, and plank, and pier, + Rushed headlong to the sea. + + Alone stood brave Horatius, + But constant still in mind; + Thrice thirty thousand foes before, + And the broad flood behind. + "Down with him!" cried false Sextus, + With a smile on his pale face. + "Now yield thee," cried Lars Porsena, + "Now yield thee to our grace." + + Round turned he, as not deigning + Those craven ranks to see; + Naught spake he to Lars Porsena, + To Sextus naught spake he; + But he saw on Palatinus + The white porch of his home; + And he spake to the noble river + That rolls by the towers of Rome: + + "O Tiber! Father Tiber! + To whom the Romans pray, + A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, + Take thou in charge this day!" + So he spake, and speaking sheathed + The good sword by his side, + And, with his harness on his back, + Plunged headlong in the tide. + + No sound of joy or sorrow + Was heard from either bank; + But friends and foes in dumb surprise, + With parted lips and straining eyes, + Stood gazing where he sank; + And when above the surges + They saw his crest appear, + All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, + And even the ranks of Tuscany + Could scarce forbear to cheer. + + And fiercely ran the current, + Swollen high by months of rain; + And fast his blood was flowing, + And he was sore in pain, + And heavy with his armour, + And spent with changing blows: + And oft they thought him sinking, + But still again he rose. + + Never, I ween, did swimmer, + In such an evil case, + Struggle through such a raging flood + Safe to the landing place; + But his limbs were borne up bravely + By the brave heart within, + And our good Father Tiber + Bore bravely up his chin. + + "Curse on him!" quoth false Sextus; + "Will not the villain drown? + But for this stay, ere close of day + We should have sacked the town!" + "Heaven help him!" quoth Lars Porsena, + "And bring him safe to shore; + For such a gallant feat of arms + Was never seen before." + + And now he feels the bottom; + Now on dry earth he stands; + Now round him throng the Fathers + To press his gory hands; + And now with shouts and clapping, + And noise of weeping loud, + He enters through the River Gate, + Borne by the joyous crowd. + + They gave him of the corn land, + That was of public right. + As much as two strong oxen + Could plow from morn till night: + And they made a molten image, + And set it up on high, + And there it stands unto this day + To witness if I lie. + + It stands in the Comitium, + Plain for all folk to see,-- + Horatius in his harness, + Halting upon one knee: + And underneath is written, + In letters all of gold, + How valiantly he kept the bridge + In the brave days of old. + + And still his name sounds stirring + Unto the men of Rome, + As the trumpet blast that cries to them + To charge the Volscian home; + And wives still pray to Juno + For boys with hearts as bold + As his who kept the bridge so well + In the brave days of old. + + And in the nights of winter, + When the cold north winds blow, + And the long howling of the wolves + Is heard amid the snow; + When round the lonely cottage + Roars loud the tempest's din, + And the good logs of Algidus + Roar louder yet within; + + When the oldest cask is opened, + And the largest lamp is lit; + When the chestnuts glow in the embers, + And the kid turns on the spit; + When young and old in circle + Around the firebrands close; + When the girls are weaving baskets, + And the lads are shaping bows; + + When the goodman mends his armour, + And trims his helmet's plume; + When the goodwife's shuttle merrily + Goes flashing through the loom,-- + With weeping and with laughter + Still is the story told, + How well Horatius kept the bridge + In the brave days of old. + + THOMAS B. MACAULAY. + + + THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE-TREE. + +"The Planting of the Apple-Tree" has become a favourite for "Arbour + Day" exercises. The planting of trees as against their destruction is a + vital point in our political and national welfare. William Cullen + Bryant (1794-1878). + + Come, let us plant the apple-tree. + Cleave the tough greensward with the spade; + Wide let its hollow bed be made; + There gently lay the roots, and there + Sift the dark mould with kindly care, + And press it o'er them tenderly, + As round the sleeping infant's feet + We softly fold the cradle sheet; + So plant we the apple-tree. + + What plant we in this apple-tree? + Buds, which the breath of summer days + Shall lengthen into leafy sprays; + Boughs where the thrush, with crimson breast, + Shall haunt, and sing, and hide her nest; + We plant, upon the sunny lea, + A shadow for the noontide hour, + A shelter from the summer shower, + When we plant the apple-tree. + + What plant we in this apple-tree? + Sweets for a hundred flowery springs, + To load the May wind's restless wings, + When, from the orchard row, he pours + Its fragrance through our open doors; + A world of blossoms for the bee, + Flowers for the sick girl's silent room, + For the glad infant sprigs of bloom, + We plant with the apple-tree. + + What plant we in this apple-tree? + Fruits that shall swell in sunny June, + And redden in the August noon, + And drop, when gentle airs come by, + That fan the blue September sky, + While children come, with cries of glee, + And seek them where the fragrant grass + Betrays their bed to those who pass, + At the foot of the apple-tree. + + And when, above this apple-tree, + The winter stars are quivering bright, + The winds go howling through the night, + Girls, whose eyes o'erflow with mirth, + Shall peel its fruit by cottage hearth, + And guests in prouder homes shall see, + Heaped with the grape of Cintra's vine, + And golden orange of the line, + The fruit of the apple-tree. + + The fruitage of this apple-tree, + Winds and our flag of stripe and star + Shall bear to coasts that lie afar, + Where men shall wonder at the view, + And ask in what fair groves they grew; + And sojourners beyond the sea + Shall think of childhood's careless day, + And long, long hours of summer play, + In the shade of the apple-tree. + + Each year shall give this apple-tree + A broader flush of roseate bloom, + A deeper maze of verdurous gloom, + And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower, + The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower. + The years shall come and pass, but we + Shall hear no longer, where we lie, + The summer's songs, the autumn's sigh, + In the boughs of the apple-tree. + + And time shall waste this apple-tree. + Oh, when its aged branches throw + Thin shadows on the ground below, + Shall fraud and force and iron will + Oppress the weak and helpless still! + What shall the tasks of mercy be, + Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears + Of those who live when length of years + Is wasting this apple-tree? + + "Who planted this old apple-tree?" + The children of that distant day + Thus to some aged man shall say; + And, gazing on its mossy stem, + The gray-haired man shall answer them: + "A poet of the land was he, + Born in the rude but good old times; + 'Tis said he made some quaint old rhymes + On planting the apple-tree." + + WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. + + [Illustration] + + + + + PART V. + + On and On + + + JUNE. + +"June" (by James Russell Lowell, 1819-91), is a fragment from "The + Vision of Sir Launfal." It finds a place in this volume because it is + the most perfect description of a charming day ever written. + + What is so rare as a day in June? + Then, if ever, come perfect days; + Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, + And over it softly her warm ear lays: + Whether we look, or whether we listen, + We hear life murmur, or see it glisten; + Every clod feels a stir of might, + An instinct within it that reaches and towers, + And, groping blindly above it for light, + Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; + The flush of life may well be seen + Thrilling back over hills and valleys; + The cowslip startles in meadows green. + The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, + And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean + To be some happy creature's palace; + The little bird sits at his door in the sun, + Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, + And lets his illumined being o'errun + With the deluge of summer it receives; + His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, + And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings; + He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,-- + In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best? + + JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. + + + A PSALM OF LIFE. + + WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST. + +"A Psalm of Life," by Henry W. Longfellow (1807-82), is like a treasure + laid up in heaven. It should be learned for its future value to the + child, not necessarily because the child likes it. Its value will dawn + on him. + + Tell me not, in mournful numbers, + Life is but an empty dream!-- + For the soul is dead that slumbers, + And things are not what they seem. + + Life is real! Life is earnest! + And the grave is not its goal; + Dust thou art, to dust returnest, + Was not spoken of the soul. + + Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, + Is our destined end or way; + But to act, that each to-morrow + Find us farther than to-day. + + Art is long, and Time is fleeting, + And our hearts, though stout and brave, + Still, like muffled drums, are beating + Funeral marches to the grave. + + In the world's broad field of battle, + In the bivouac of Life, + Be not like dumb, driven cattle! + Be a hero in the strife! + + Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! + Let the dead Past bury its dead! + Act,--act in the living Present! + Heart within, and God o'erhead! + + Lives of great men all remind us + We can make our lives sublime, + And, departing, leave behind us + Footprints on the sands of time; + + Footprints, that perhaps another, + Sailing o'er life's solemn main, + A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, + Seeing, shall take heart again. + + Let us, then, be up and doing, + With a heart for any fate; + Still achieving, still pursuing, + Learn to labour and to wait. + + HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. + + + BARNACLES. + +"Barnacles" (by Sidney Lanier, 1842-81), is a poem that I teach in + connection with my lessons on natural history. We have a good specimen + of a barnacle, and the children see them on the shells on the coast. + The ethical point is invaluable. + + My soul is sailing through the sea, + But the Past is heavy and hindereth me. + The Past hath crusted cumbrous shells + That hold the flesh of cold sea-mells + About my soul. + The huge waves wash, the high waves roll, + Each barnacle clingeth and worketh dole + And hindereth me from sailing! + + Old Past, let go, and drop i' the sea + Till fathomless waters cover thee! + For I am living, but thou art dead; + Thou drawest back, I strive ahead + The Day to find. + Thy shells unbind! Night comes behind; + I needs must hurry with the wind + And trim me best for sailing. + + SIDNEY LANIER. + + + A HAPPY LIFE. + + How happy is he born and taught + That serveth not another's will; + Whose armour is his honest thought, + And simple truth his utmost skill! + + Whose passions not his master's are, + Whose soul is still prepared for death, + Not tied unto the world with care + Of public fame, or private breath. + + SIR HENRY WOTTON. + + + HOME, SWEET HOME! + +"Home, Sweet Home" (John Howard Payne, 1791-1852) is a poem that + reaches into the heart. What is home? A place where we experience + independence, safety, privacy, and where we can dispense hospitality. +"The family is the true unit." + + 'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, + Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home; + A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there, + Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere. + Home! Home! sweet, sweet Home! + There's no place like Home! there's no place like Home! + + An exile from Home, splendour dazzles in vain; + O, give me my lowly thatched cottage again! + The birds singing gaily, that came at my call,-- + Give me them,--and the peace of mind, dearer than all! + Home! Home! sweet, sweet Home! + There's no place like Home! there's no place like Home! + + How sweet 'tis to sit 'neath a fond father's smile, + And the cares of a mother to soothe and beguile! + Let others delight 'mid new pleasures to roam, + But give me, oh, give me, the pleasures of Home! + Home! Home! sweet, sweet Home! + There's no place like Home! there's no place like Home! + + To thee I'll return, overburdened with care; + The heart's dearest solace will smile on me there; + No more from that cottage again will I roam; + Be it ever so humble, there's no place like Home. + Home! Home! sweet, sweet Home! + There's no place like Home! there's no place like Home! + + JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. + + + FROM CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. + + JULIET OF NATIONS. + + I heard last night a little child go singing + 'Neath Casa Guidi windows, by the church, + _O bella liberta, O bella!_--stringing + The same words still on notes he went in search + So high for, you concluded the upspringing + Of such a nimble bird to sky from perch + Must leave the whole bush in a tremble green, + And that the heart of Italy must beat, + While such a voice had leave to rise serene + 'Twixt church and palace of a Florence street; + A little child, too, who not long had been + By mother's finger steadied on his feet, + And still _O bella liberta_ he sang. + + ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. + + + WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE! + +"Woodman, Spare That Tree" (by George Pope Morris, 1802-64) is included + in this collection because I have loved it all my life, and I never + knew any one who could or would offer a criticism upon it. Its value + lies in its recognition of childhood's pleasures. + + Woodman, spare that tree! + Touch not a single bough! + In youth it sheltered me, + And I'll protect it now. + 'Twas my forefather's hand + That placed it near his cot; + There, woodman, let it stand, + Thy ax shall harm it not. + + That old familiar tree, + Whose glory and renown + Are spread o'er land and sea-- + And wouldst thou hew it down? + Woodman, forbear thy stroke! + Cut not its earth-bound ties; + Oh, spare that aged oak + Now towering to the skies! + + When but an idle boy, + I sought its grateful shade; + In all their gushing joy + Here, too, my sisters played. + My mother kissed me here; + My father pressed my hand-- + Forgive this foolish tear, + But let that old oak stand. + + My heart-strings round thee cling, + Close as thy bark, old friend! + Here shall the wild-bird sing, + And still thy branches bend. + Old tree! the storm still brave! + And, woodman, leave the spot; + While I've a hand to save, + Thy ax shall harm it not. + + GEORGE POPE MORRIS. + + + ABIDE WITH ME. + +"Abide With Me" (Henry Francis Lyte, 1793-1847) appeals to our natural + longing for the unchanging and to our love of security. + + Abide with me! fast falls the eventide; + The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide! + When other helpers fail, and comforts flee, + Help of the helpless, O abide with me. + + Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day; + Earth's joys grow dim, its glories pass away; + Change and decay in all around I see: + O Thou who changest not, abide with me! + + HENRY FRANCIS LYTE. + + + LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT + +"Lead, Kindly Light," by John Henry Newman (1801-90), was written when + Cardinal Newman was in the stress and strain of perplexity and mental + distress and bodily pain. The poem has been a star in the darkness to + thousands. It was the favourite poem of President McKinley. + + Lead, kindly Light, amid th' encircling gloom, + Lead Thou me on, + The night is dark, and I am far from home, + Lead Thou me on. + Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see + The distant scene; one step enough for me. + + I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou + Shouldst lead me on; + I loved to choose and see my path; but now + Lead Thou me on. + I loved the garish day; and, spite of fears, + Pride ruled my will: remember not past years. + + So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still + Will lead me on + O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till + The night is gone, + And with the morn those angel faces smile, + Which I have loved long since, and lost a while. + + JOHN HENRY NEWMAN. + + + THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. + + 'Tis the last rose of summer + Left blooming alone; + All her lovely companions + Are faded and gone; + No flower of her kindred, + No rose-bud is nigh, + To reflect back her blushes, + Or give sigh for sigh. + + I'll not leave thee, thou lone one! + To pine on the stem; + Since the lovely are sleeping, + Go, sleep thou with them. + Thus kindly I scatter + Thy leaves o'er the bed + Where thy mates of the garden + Lie scentless and dead. + + So soon may I follow, + When friendships decay, + And from Love's shining circle + The gems drop away. + When true hearts lie withered, + And fond ones are flown, + O! who would inhabit + This bleak world alone? + + THOMAS MOORE. + + + ANNIE LAURIE. + +"Annie Laurie" finds a place in this collection because it is the most + popular song on earth. Written by William Douglas, (----). + + Maxwelton braes are bonnie + Where early fa's the dew, + And it's there that Annie Laurie + Gie'd me her promise true-- + Gie'd me her promise true, + Which ne'er forgot will be; + And for bonnie Annie Laurie + I'd lay me doune and dee. + + Her brow is like the snawdrift, + Her throat is like the swan, + Her face it is the fairest + That e'er the sun shone on-- + That e'er the sun shone on; + And dark blue is her e'e; + And for bonnie Annie Laurie + I'd lay me doune and dee. + + Like dew on the gowan lying + Is the fa' o' her fairy feet; + Like the winds in summer sighing, + Her voice is low and sweet-- + Her voice is low and sweet; + And she's a' the world to me; + And for bonnie Annie Laurie + I'd lay me doune and dee. + + WILLIAM DOUGLAS. + + + THE SHIP OF STATE. + + A president of a well-known college writes me that "The Ship of State" + was his favourite poem when he was a boy, and did more than any other + to shape his course in life. Longfellow (1807-82). + + Sail on, sail on, O Ship of State! + Sail on, O Union, strong and great! + Humanity, with all its fears, + With all the hopes of future years, + Is hanging breathless on thy fate! + We know what Master laid thy keel, + What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, + Who made each mast, and sail, and rope; + What anvils rang, what hammers beat, + In what a forge and what a heat + Were forged the anchors of thy hope! + Fear not each sudden sound and shock-- + 'Tis of the wave, and not the rock; + 'Tis but the flapping of the sail, + And not a rent made by the gale! + In spite of rock, and tempest roar, + In spite of false lights on the shore, + Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea! + Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee. + Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, + Our faith, triumphant o'er our fears, + Are all with thee, are all with thee! + + HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. + + The Constitution and Laws are here personified, and addressed as "The + Ship of State." + + + AMERICA. + +"America" (Samuel Francis Smith, 1808-95) is a good poem to learn as a + poem, regardless of the fact that every American who can sing it ought + to know it, that he may join in the chorus when patriotic celebrations + call for it. My boys love to repeat the entire poem, but I often find + masses of people trying to sing it, knowing only one stanza. It is our + national anthem, and a part of our education to know every word of it. + + My country, 'tis of thee, + Sweet land of liberty, + Of thee I sing; + Land where my fathers died, + Land of the Pilgrims' pride; + From every mountain side, + Let freedom ring. + + My native country, thee-- + Land of the noble free-- + Thy name I love; + I love thy rocks and rills, + Thy woods and templed hills; + My heart with rapture thrills, + Like that above. + + Let music swell the breeze, + And ring from all the trees + Sweet freedom's song; + Let mortal tongues awake; + Let all that breathe partake; + Let rocks their silence break-- + The sound prolong. + + Our fathers' God, to Thee, + Author of liberty, + To Thee we sing: + Long may our land be bright + With freedom's holy light: + Protect us by Thy might, + Great God, our King. + + S.F. SMITH. + + + THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIMS. + +"The Landing of the Pilgrims," by Felicia Hemans (1749-1835), is a poem + that children want when they study the early history of America. + + The breaking waves dashed high + On a stern and rock-bound coast, + And the woods against a stormy sky + Their giant branches tossed. + + And the heavy night hung dark + The hills and waters o'er, + When a band of exiles moored their bark + On the wild New England shore. + + Not as the conqueror comes, + They, the true-hearted, came; + Not with the roll of the stirring drums, + And the trumpet that sings of fame. + + Not as the flying come, + In silence and in fear; + They shook the depths of the desert gloom + With their hymns of lofty cheer. + + Amid the storm they sang, + And the stars heard, and the sea, + And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang + To the anthem of the free! + + The ocean eagle soared + From his nest by the white wave's foam; + And the rocking pines of the forest roared,-- + This was their welcome home! + + There were men with hoary hair, + Amid that pilgrim band; + Why had _they_ come to wither there, + Away from their childhood's land? + + There was woman's fearless eye, + Lit by her deep love's truth; + There was manhood's brow serenely high, + And the fiery heart of youth. + + What sought they thus afar? + Bright jewels of the mine? + The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?-- + They sought a faith's pure shrine! + + Ay! call it holy ground, + The soil where first they trod: + They have left unstained what there they found, + Freedom to worship God. + + FELICIA HEMANS. + + + THE LOTOS-EATERS. + + The main idea in "The Lotos-Eaters" is, are we justified in running + away from unpleasant duties? Or, is insensibility justifiable? + + Laddie, do you recollect learning this poem after we had read the story + of "Odysseus"? "The struggle of the soul urged to action, but held back + by the spirit of self-indulgence." These were the points we discussed. + Alfred Tennyson (1809-92). + + "Courage!" he said, and pointed toward the land, + "This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon." + In the afternoon they came unto a land + In which it seemed always afternoon. + All round the coast the languid air did swoon, + Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. + Full-faced above the valley stood the moon; + And like a downward smoke, the slender stream + Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem. + + A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke, + Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go; + And some thro' wavering lights and shadows broke, + Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. + They saw the gleaming river seaward flow + From the inner land: far off, three mountain-tops, + Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, + Stood sunset-flush'd: and, dew'd with showery drops, + Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse. + + The charmed sunset linger'd low adown + In the red West: thro' mountain clefts the dale + Was seen far inland, and the yellow down + Border'd with palm, and many a winding vale + And meadow, set with slender galingale; + A land where all things always seem'd the same! + And round about the keel with faces pale, + Dark faces pale against that rosy flame, + The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came. + + Branches they bore of that enchanted stem, + Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave + To each, but whoso did receive of them, + And taste, to him the gushing of the wave + Far, far away did seem to mourn and rave + On alien shores; and if his fellow spake, + His voice was thin, as voices from the grave; + And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all awake, + And music in his ears his beating heart did make. + + They sat them down upon the yellow sand, + Between the sun and moon upon the shore; + And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland, + Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore + Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar, + Weary the wandering fields of barren foam. + Then some one said, "We will return no more;" + And all at once they sang, "Our island home + Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam." + + ALFRED TENNYSON. + + + MOLY. + +"Moly" (mo'ly), by Edith M. Thomas (1850-), in the best possible + presentation of the value of integrity. This poem ranks with "Sir + Galahad," if not above it. It is a stroke of genius, and every American + ought to be proud of it. Every time my boys read "Odysseus" or the + story of Ulysses with me we read or learn "Moly." The plant moly grows + in the United States as well as in Europe. + + Traveller, pluck a stem of moly, + If thou touch at Circe's isle,-- + Hermes' moly, growing solely + To undo enchanter's wile! + When she proffers thee her chalice,-- + Wine and spices mixed with malice,-- + When she smites thee with her staff + To transform thee, do thou laugh! + Safe thou art if thou but bear + The least leaf of moly rare. + Close it grows beside her portal, + Springing from a stock immortal, + Yes! and often has the Witch + Sought to tear it from its niche; + But to thwart her cruel will + The wise God renews it still. + Though it grows in soil perverse, + Heaven hath been its jealous nurse, + And a flower of snowy mark + Springs from root and sheathing dark; + Kingly safeguard, only herb + That can brutish passion curb! + Some do think its name should be + Shield-Heart, White Integrity. + Traveller, pluck a stem of moly, + If thou touch at Circe's isle,-- + Hermes' moly, growing solely + To undo enchanter's wile! + + EDITH M. THOMAS. + + + CUPID DROWNED. + +"Cupid Drowned" (1784-1859), "Cupid Stung" (1779-1852), and "Cupid and + My Campasbe" (1558-1606) are three dainty poems recommended by Mrs. + Margaret Mooney, of the Albany Teachers' College, in her "Foundation + Studies in Literature." Children are always delighted with them. + + T'other day as I was twining + Roses, for a crown to dine in, + What, of all things, 'mid the heap, + Should I light on, fast asleep, + But the little desperate elf, + The tiny traitor, Love, himself! + By the wings I picked him up + Like a bee, and in a cup + Of my wine I plunged and sank him, + Then what d'ye think I did?--I drank him. + Faith, I thought him dead. Not he! + There he lives with tenfold glee; + And now this moment with his wings + I feel him tickling my heart-strings. + + LEIGH HUNT. + + + CUPID STUNG. + + Cupid once upon a bed + Of roses laid his weary head; + Luckless urchin, not to see + Within the leaves a slumbering bee. + The bee awak'd--with anger wild + The bee awak'd, and stung the child. + Loud and piteous are his cries; + To Venus quick he runs, he flies; + "Oh, Mother! I am wounded through-- + I die with pain--in sooth I do! + Stung by some little angry thing, + Some serpent on a tiny wing-- + A bee it was--for once, I know, + I heard a rustic call it so." + Thus he spoke, and she the while + Heard him with a soothing smile; + Then said, "My infant, if so much + Thou feel the little wild bee's touch, + How must the heart, ah, Cupid! be, + The hapless heart that's stung by thee!" + + THOMAS MOORE. + + + CUPID AND MY CAMPASBE. + + Cupid and my Campasbe played + At cards for kisses. Cupid paid. + He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows, + His mother's doves and team of sparrows. + Loses them, too; then down he throws + The coral of his lips, the rose + Growing on his cheek, but none knows how; + With them the crystal of his brow, + And then the dimple of his chin. + All these did my Campasbe win. + At last he set her both his eyes; + She won and Cupid blind did rise. + Oh, Love, hath she done this to thee! + What shall, alas, become of me! + + JOHN LYLY. + + + A BALLAD FOR A BOY. + + Violo Roseboro, one of our good authors, brought to me "A Ballad for a + Boy," saying: "I believe it is one of the poems that every child ought + to know." It is included in this compilation out of respect to her + opinion and also because the boys to whom I have read it said it was +"great," The lesson in it is certainly fine. Men who are true men want + to settle their own disputes by a hand-to-hand fight, but they will + always help each other when a third party or the elements interfere. + Humanity is greater than human interests. + + When George the Third was reigning, a hundred years ago, + He ordered Captain Farmer to chase the foreign foe, + "You're not afraid of shot," said he, "you're not afraid of wreck, + So cruise about the west of France in the frigate called _Quebec_. + + "Quebec was once a Frenchman's town, but twenty years ago + King George the Second sent a man called General Wolfe, you know, + To clamber up a precipice and look into Quebec, + As you'd look down a hatchway when standing on the deck. + + "If Wolfe could beat the Frenchmen then, so you can beat them now. + Before he got inside the town he died, I must allow. + But since the town was won for us it is a lucky name, + And you'll remember Wolfe's good work, and you shall do the same." + + Then Farmer said, "I'll try, sir," and Farmer bowed so low + That George could see his pigtail tied in a velvet bow. + George gave him his commission, and that it might be safer, + Signed "King of Britain, King of France," and sealed it with a wafer. + + Then proud was Captain Farmer in a frigate of his own, + And grander on his quarter-deck than George upon his throne. + He'd two guns in his cabin, and on the spar-deck ten, + And twenty on the gun-deck, and more than ten-score men. + + And as a huntsman scours the brakes with sixteen brace of dogs, + With two-and-thirty cannon the ship explored the fogs. + From Cape la Hogue to Ushant, from Rochefort to Belleisle, + She hunted game till reef and mud were rubbing on her keel. + + The fogs are dried, the frigate's side is bright with melting tar, + The lad up in the foretop sees square white sails afar; + The east wind drives three square-sailed masts from out the Breton bay, + And "Clear for action!" Farmer shouts, and reefers yell "Hooray!" + + The Frenchmen's captain had a name I wish I could pronounce; + A Breton gentleman was he, and wholly free from bounce, + One like those famous fellows who died by guillotine + For honour and the fleur-de-lys, and Antoinette the Queen. + + The Catholic for Louis, the Protestant for George, + Each captain drew as bright a sword as saintly smiths could forge; + And both were simple seamen, but both could understand + How each was bound to win or die for flag and native land. + + The French ship was _La Surveillante_, which means the watchful maid; + She folded up her head-dress and began to cannonade. + Her hull was clean, and ours was foul; we had to spread more sail. + On canvas, stays, and topsail yards her bullets came like hail. + + Sore smitten were both captains, and many lads beside, + And still to cut our rigging the foreign gunners tried. + A sail-clad spar came flapping down athwart a blazing gun; + We could not quench the rushing flames, and so the Frenchman won. + + Our quarter-deck was crowded, the waist was all aglow; + Men hung upon the taffrail half scorched, but loth to go; + Our captain sat where once he stood, and would not quit his chair. + He bade his comrades leap for life, and leave him bleeding there. + + The guns were hushed on either side, the Frenchmen lowered boats, + They flung us planks and hen-coops, and everything that floats. + They risked their lives, good fellows! to bring their rivals aid. + Twas by the conflagration the peace was strangely made. + + _La Surveillante_ was like a sieve; the victors had no rest; + They had to dodge the east wind to reach the port of Brest. + And where the waves leapt lower and the riddled ship went slower, + In triumph, yet in funeral guise, came fisher-boats to tow her. + + They dealt with us as brethren, they mourned for Farmer dead; + And as the wounded captives passed each Breton bowed the head. + Then spoke the French Lieutenant, "Twas fire that won, not we. + You never struck your flag to us; you'll go to England free." + + Twas the sixth day of October, seventeen hundred seventy-nine, + A year when nations ventured against us to combine, + _Quebec_ was burned and Farmer slain, by us remembered not; + But thanks be to the French book wherein they're not forgot. + + Now you, if you've to fight the French, my youngster, bear in mind + Those seamen of King Louis so chivalrous and kind; + Think of the Breton gentlemen who took our lads to Brest, + And treat some rescued Breton as a comrade and a guest. + + + THE SKELETON IN ARMOUR. + +"The Skeleton in Armour" (Longfellow, 1807-82) is a "boy's poem." It + it pure literature and good history. + + "Speak! speak! thou fearful guest! + Who, with thy hollow breast + Still in rude armour drest, + Comest to daunt me! + Wrapt not in Eastern balms, + But with thy fleshless palms + Stretched, as if asking alms, + Why dost thou haunt me?" + + Then from those cavernous eyes + Pale flashes seemed to rise, + As when the Northern skies + Gleam in December; + And, like the water's flow + Under December's snow, + Came a dull voice of woe + From the heart's chamber. + + "I was a Viking old! + My deeds, though manifold, + No Skald in song has told, + No Saga taught thee! + Take heed that in thy verse + Thou dost the tale rehearse, + Else dread a dead man's curse; + For this I sought thee. + + "Far in the Northern Land, + By the wild Baltic's strand, + I, with my childish hand, + Tamed the gerfalcon; + And, with my skates fast-bound, + Skimmed the half-frozen Sound, + That the poor whimpering hound + Trembled to walk on. + + "Oft to his frozen lair + Tracked I the grizzly bear, + While from my path the hare + Fled like a shadow; + Oft through the forest dark + Followed the were-wolf's bark, + Until the soaring lark + Sang from the meadow. + + "But when I older grew, + Joining a corsair's crew, + O'er the dark sea I flew + With the marauders. + Wild was the life we led; + Many the souls that sped, + Many the hearts that bled, + By our stern orders. + + "Many a wassail-bout + Wore the long Winter out; + Often our midnight shout + Set the cocks crowing, + As we the Berserk's tale + Measured in cups of ale, + Draining the oaken pail + Filled to overflowing. + + "Once as I told in glee + Tales of the stormy sea, + Soft eyes did gaze on me, + Burning yet tender; + And as the white stars shine + On the dark Norway pine, + On that dark heart of mine + Fell their soft splendour. + + "I wooed the blue-eyed maid, + Yielding, yet half afraid, + And in the forest's shade + Our vows were plighted. + Under its loosened vest + Fluttered her little breast, + Like birds within their nest + By the hawk frighted. + + "Bright in her father's hall + Shields gleamed upon the wall, + Loud sang the minstrels all, + Chanting his glory; + When of old Hildebrand + I asked his daughter's hand, + Mute did the minstrels stand + To hear my story. + + "While the brown ale he quaffed, + Loud then the champion laughed, + And as the wind-gusts waft + The sea-foam brightly, + So the loud laugh of scorn, + Out of those lips unshorn, + From the deep drinking-horn + Blew the foam lightly. + + "She was a Prince's child, + I but a Viking wild, + And though she blushed and smiled, + I was discarded! + Should not the dove so white + Follow the sea-mew's flight? + Why did they leave that night + Her nest unguarded? + + "Scarce had I put to sea, + Bearing the maid with me,-- + Fairest of all was she + Among the Norsemen!-- + When on the white sea-strand, + Waving his armed hand, + Saw we old Hildebrand, + With twenty horsemen. + + "Then launched they to the blast, + Bent like a reed each mast, + Yet we were gaining fast, + When the wind failed us; + And with a sudden flaw + Came round the gusty Skaw, + So that our foe we saw + Laugh as he hailed us. + + "And as to catch the gale + Round veered the flapping sail, + 'Death!' was the helmsman's hail, + 'Death without quarter!' + Midships with iron keel + Struck we her ribs of steel; + Down her black hulk did reel + Through the black water! + + "As with his wings aslant, + Sails the fierce cormorant, + Seeking some rocky haunt, + With his prey laden, + So toward the open main, + Beating to sea again, + Through the wild hurricane, + Bore I the maiden. + + "Three weeks we westward bore, + And when the storm was o'er, + Cloud-like we saw the shore + Stretching to leeward; + There for my lady's bower + Built I the lofty tower + Which to this very hour + Stands looking seaward. + + "There lived we many years; + Time dried the maiden's tears; + She had forgot her fears, + She was a mother; + Death closed her mild blue eyes; + Under that tower she lies; + Ne'er shall the sun arise + On such another. + + "Still grew my bosom then, + Still as a stagnant fen! + Hateful to me were men, + The sunlight hateful! + In the vast forest here, + Clad in my warlike gear, + Fell I upon my spear, + Oh, death was grateful! + + "Thus, seamed with many scars, + Bursting these prison bars, + Up to its native stars + My soul ascended! + There from the flowing bowl + Deep drinks the warrior's soul, + _Skoal_! to the Northland! _skoal_!" + Thus the tale ended. + + HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. + + + THE REVENGE. + + A BALLAD OF THE FLEET + + Tennyson's (1807-92) "The _Revenge_" finds a welcome here because it is + a favourite with teachers of elocution and their audiences. It teaches + us to hold life cheap when the nation's safety is at stake. + + At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay, + And a pinnace, like a fluttered bird, came flying from away: + "Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fifty-three!" + Then sware Lord Thomas Howard: "'Fore God, I am no coward; + But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear, + And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick. + We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty-three?" + + Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: "I know you are no coward; + You fly them for a moment, to fight with them again. + But I've ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore. + I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord Howard, + To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain." + + So Lord Howard passed away with five ships of war that day, + Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven; + But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the land + Very carefully and slow, + Men of Bideford in Devon, + And we laid them on the ballast down below; + For we brought them all aboard, + And they blest him in their pain that they were not left to Spain, + To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the Lord. + + He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight, + And he sail'd away from Flores till the Spaniard came in sight, + With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather bow. + "Shall we fight or shall we fly? + Good Sir Richard, tell us now, + For to fight is but to die! + + "There'll be little of us left by the time this sun be set" + And Sir Richard said again: "We be all good Englishmen. + Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the devil, + For I never turn'd my back upon Don or devil yet." + + Sir Richard spoke and he laugh'd, and we roar'd a hurrah, and so + The little _Revenge_ ran on sheer into the heart of the foe, + With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick below; + For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were seen, + And the little _Revenge_ ran on thro' the long sea-lane between. + + Thousands of their soldiers looked down from their decks and laugh'd, + Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little craft + Running on and on, till delay'd + By their mountain-like _San Philip_ that, of fifteen hundred tons, + And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning tiers of guns, + Took the breath from our sails, and we stay'd. + + And while now the great _San Philip_ hung above us like a cloud + Whence the thunderbolt will fall + Long and loud. + Four galleons drew away + From the Spanish fleet that day, + And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay, + And the battle-thunder broke from them all. + + But anon the great _San Philip_, she bethought herself and went, + Having that within her womb that had left her ill content; + And the rest they came aboard us, and they fought us hand to hand, + For a dozen times they came with their pikes and musqueteers, + And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a dog that shakes his ears + When he leaps from the water to the land. + + And the sun went down, and the stars came out far over the summer sea, + But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-three; + Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built galleons came, + Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle-thunder + and flame; + Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her dead + and her shame. + For some were sunk and many were shatter'd, and so could + fight us no more-- + God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world before? + + For he said, "Fight on! fight on!" + Tho' his vessel was all but a wreck; + And it chanced that, when half of the short summer night was gone, + With a grisly wound to be drest he had left the deck, + But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead, + And himself he was wounded again in the side and the head, + And he said, "Fight on! Fight on!" + + And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far + over the summer sea, + And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us all in a ring; + But they dared not touch us again, for they fear'd that + we still could sting, + So they watched what the end would be. + And we had not fought them in vain, + But in perilous plight were we, + Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain, + And half of the rest of us maim'd for life + In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife; + And the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark and cold, + And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder was + all of it spent; + And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side; + But Sir Richard cried in his English pride: + "We have fought such a fight for a day and a night + As may never be fought again! + We have won great glory, my men! + And a day less or more + At sea or ashore, + We die--does it matter when? + Sink me the ship, Master Gunner--sink her, split her in twain! + Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain!" + + And the gunner said. "Ay, ay," but the seamen made reply: + "We have children, we have wives, + And the Lord hath spared our lives. + We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us go; + We shall live to fight again, and to strike another blow." + And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe. + And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore him then, + Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard caught at last, + And they praised him to his face with their courtly foreign grace; + But he rose upon their decks, and he cried: + "I have fought for Queen and Faith like a valiant man and true; + I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do. + With a joyful spirit I, Sir Richard Grenville, die!" + And he fell upon their decks, and he died. + + And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and true, + And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheap + That he dared her with one little ship and his English few. + Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they knew, + But they sank his body with honour down into the deep, + And they mann'd the _Revenge_ with a swarthier alien crew, + And away she sail'd with her loss and long'd for her own; + When a wind from the lands they had ruin'd awoke from sleep, + And the water began to heave and the weather to moan, + And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew, + And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earthquake grew, + Till it smote on their hulls, and their sails, and their masts, + and their flags, + And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shatter'd navy of Spain, + And the little _Revenge_ herself went down by the island crags, + To be lost evermore in the main. + + ALFRED TENNYSON. + + + SIR GALAHAD. + + Sir Galahad is the most moral and upright of all the Knights of the + Round Table. The strong lines of the poem (Tennyson, 1809-92) are the + strong lines of human destiny-- + + "My strength is as the strength of ten + Because my heart is pure." + + + My good blade carves the casques of men, + My tough lance thrusteth sure, + My strength is as the strength of ten, + Because my heart is pure. + The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, + The hard brands shiver on the steel, + The splintered spear-shafts crack and fly, + The horse and rider reel: + They reel, they roll in clanging lists, + And when the tide of combat stands, + Perfume and flowers fall in showers, + That lightly rain from ladies' hands. + + How sweet are looks that ladies bend + On whom their favours fall! + For them I battle till the end, + To save from shame and thrall: + But all my heart is drawn above, + My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine: + I never felt the kiss of love, + Nor maiden's hand in mine. + More bounteous aspects on me beam, + Me mightier transports move and thrill; + So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer + A virgin heart in work and will. + + When down the stormy crescent goes, + A light before me swims, + Between dark stems the forest glows, + I hear a noise of hymns: + Then by some secret shrine I ride; + I hear a voice, but none are there; + The stalls are void, the doors are wide, + The tapers burning fair. + Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, + The silver vessels sparkle clean, + The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, + And solemn chaunts resound between. + + Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres + I find a magic bark; + I leap on board: no helmsman steers, + I float till all is dark. + A gentle sound, an awful light! + Three angels bear the holy Grail: + With folded feet, in stoles of white, + On sleeping wings they sail. + Ah, blessed vision! blood of God! + My spirit beats her mortal bars, + As down dark tides the glory slides, + And star-like mingles with the stars. + + When on my goodly charger borne + Thro' dreaming towns I go, + The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, + The streets are dumb with snow. + The tempest crackles on the leads, + And, ringing, springs from brand and mail; + But o'er the dark a glory spreads, + And gilds the driving hail. + I leave the plain, I climb the height; + No branchy thicket shelter yields; + But blessed forms in whistling storms + Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields. + + A maiden knight--to me is given + Such hope, I know not fear; + I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven + That often meet me here. + I muse on joy that will not cease, + Pure spaces cloth'd in living beams, + Pure lilies of eternal peace, + Whose odours haunt my dreams; + And, stricken by an angel's hand, + This mortal armour that I wear, + This weight and size, this heart and eyes, + Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air. + + The clouds are broken in the sky, + And thro' the mountain-walls + A rolling organ-harmony + Swells up, and shakes and falls. + Then move the trees, the copses nod, + Wings flutter, voices hover clear: + "O just and faithful knight of God! + Ride on! the prize is near." + So pass I hostel, hall, and grange; + By bridge and ford, by park and pale, + All-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide, + Until I find the holy Grail. + + ALFRED TENNYSON. + + + A NAME IN THE SAND. + +"A Name in the Sand," by Hannah Flagg Gould (1789-1865), is a poem to + correct our ready overestimate of our own importance. + + Alone I walked the ocean strand; + A pearly shell was in my hand: + I stooped and wrote upon the sand + My name--the year--the day. + As onward from the spot I passed, + One lingering look behind I cast; + A wave came rolling high and fast, + And washed my lines away. + + And so, methought, 'twill shortly be + With every mark on earth from me: + A wave of dark oblivion's sea + Will sweep across the place + Where I have trod the sandy shore + Of time, and been, to be no more, + Of me--my day--the name I bore, + To leave nor track nor trace. + + And yet, with Him who counts the sands + And holds the waters in His hands, + I know a lasting record stands + Inscribed against my name, + Of all this mortal part has wrought, + Of all this thinking soul has thought, + And from these fleeting moments caught + For glory or for shame. + + HANNAH FLAGG GOULD. + + + + + [Illustration] + + PART VI. + + "Grow old along with me! + The best is yet to be,-- + The last of life, for which the first was made." + + + THE VOICE OF SPRING. + +"The Voice of Spring," by Felicia Hemans (1749-1835), becomes + attractive as years go on. The line in this poem that captivated my + youthful fancy was: + + "The larch has hung all his tassels forth," + + The delight with which trees hang out their new little tassels every + year is one of the charms of "the pine family." John Burroughs sent us + down a tiny hemlock, that grew in our window-box at school for five + years, and every spring it was a new joy on account of the fine, tender + tassels. Mrs. Hemans had a vivid imagination backed up by an abundant + information. + + I come, I come! ye have called me long; + I come o'er the mountains, with light and song. + Ye may trace my step o'er the waking earth + By the winds which tell of the violet's birth, + By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass, + By the green leaves opening as I pass. + + I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut-flowers + By thousands have burst from the forest bowers, + And the ancient graves and the fallen fanes + Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains; + But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, + To speak of the ruin or the tomb! + + I have looked o'er the hills of the stormy North, + And the larch has hung all his tassels forth; + The fisher is out on the sunny sea, + And the reindeer bounds o'er the pastures free, + And the pine has a fringe of softer green, + And the moss looks bright, where my step has been. + + I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh, + And called out each voice of the deep blue sky, + From the night-bird's lay through the starry time, + In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime, + To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes, + When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks. + + From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain; + They are sweeping on to the silvery main, + They are flashing down from the mountain brows, + They are flinging spray o'er the forest boughs, + They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves, + And the earth resounds with the joy of waves. + + FELICIA HEMANS. + + + THE FORSAKEN MERMAN. + +"The Forsaken Merman," by Matthew Arnold (1822-88), is a poem that I do + not expect children to appreciate fully, even when they care enough for + it to learn it. It is too long for most children to commit to memory, + and I generally assign one stanza to one pupil and another to another + pupil until it is divided up among them. The poem is a masterpiece. + Doubtless the poet meant to show that the forsaken merman had a greater + soul to save than the woman who sought to save her soul by deserting + natural duty. Salvation does not come through the faith that builds + itself at the expense of love. + + Come, dear children, let us away; + Down and away below! + Now my brothers call from the bay, + Now the great winds shoreward blow, + Now the salt tides seaward flow; + Now the wild white horses play, + Champ and chafe and toss in the spray. + Children dear, let us away! + This way, this way! + + Call her once before you go-- + Call once yet! + In a voice that she will know: + "Margaret! Margaret!" + Children's voices should be dear + (Call once more) to a mother's ear; + Children's voices, wild with pain-- + Surely she will come again! + Call her once and come away; + This way, this way! + "Mother dear, we cannot stay! + The wild white horses foam and fret." + Margaret! Margaret! + + Come, dear children, come away down; + Call no more! + One last look at the white-wall'd town, + And the little gray church on the windy shore; + Then come down! + She will not come though you call all day; + Come away, come away! + + Children dear, was it yesterday + We heard the sweet bells over the bay? + In the caverns where we lay, + Through the surf and through the swell, + The far-off sound of a silver bell? + Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep, + Where the winds are all asleep; + Where the spent lights quiver and gleam, + Where the salt weed sways in the stream, + Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round, + Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground; + Where the sea-snakes coil and twine, + Dry their mail and bask in the brine; + Where great whales come sailing by, + Sail and sail, with unshut eye, + Round the world forever and aye? + When did music come this way? + Children dear, was it yesterday? + + Children dear, was it yesterday + (Call yet once) that she went away? + Once she sate with you and me, + On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea, + And the youngest sate on her knee. + She comb'd its bright hair, and she tended it well, + When down swung the sound of a far-off bell. + She sigh'd, she look'd up through the clear green sea; + She said: "I must go, for my kinsfolk pray + In the little gray church on the shore to-day. + 'Twill be Easter-time in the world--ah me! + And I lose my poor soul, Merman! here with thee." + I said: "Go up, dear heart, through the waves; + Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves!" + She smil'd, she went up through the surf in the bay. + Children dear, was it yesterday? + + Children dear, were we long alone? + "The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan; + Long prayers," I said, "in the world they say; + Come!" I said; and we rose through the surf in the bay. + We went up the beach, by the sandy down + Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-wall'd town; + Through the narrow pav'd streets, where all was still, + To the little gray church on the windy hill. + From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers, + But we stood without in the cold blowing airs. + We climb'd on the graves, on the stones worn with rains, + And we gaz'd up the aisle through the small leaded panes. + She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear: + "Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here! + Dear heart," I said, "we are long alone; + The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan." + But, ah, she gave me never a look, + For her eyes were seal'd to the holy book! + Loud prays the priest: shut stands the door. + Come away, children, call no more! + Come away, come down, call no more! + + Down, down, down! + Down to the depths of the sea! + She sits at her wheel in the humming town, + Singing most joyfully. + Hark what she sings: "O joy, O joy, + For the humming street, and the child with its toy! + For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well; + For the wheel where I spun, + And the blessed light of the sun!" + And so she sings her fill, + Singing most joyfully, + Till the spindle drops from her hand, + And the whizzing wheel stands still. + She steals to the window, and looks at the sand, + And over the sand at the sea; + And her eyes are set in a stare; + And anon there breaks a sigh, + And anon there drops a tear, + From a sorrow-clouded eye, + And a heart sorrow-laden, + A long, long sigh; + For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden, + And the gleam of her golden hair. + + Come away, away, children; + Come, children, come down! + The hoarse wind blows colder; + Lights shine in the town. + She will start from her slumber + When gusts shake the door; + She will hear the winds howling, + Will hear the waves roar. + We shall see, while above us + The waves roar and whirl, + A ceiling of amber, + A pavement of pearl. + Singing: "Here came a mortal, + But faithless was she! + And alone dwell forever + The kings of the sea." + + But, children, at midnight, + When soft the winds blow, + When clear falls the moonlight, + When spring-tides are low; + When sweet airs come seaward + From heaths starr'd with broom, + And high rocks throw mildly + On the blanch'd sands a gloom; + Up the still, glistening beaches, + Up the creeks we will hie, + Over banks of bright seaweed + The ebb-tide leaves dry. + We will gaze, from the sand-hills, + At the white, sleeping town; + At the church on the hill-side-- + And then come back down. + Singing: "There dwells a lov'd one, + But cruel is she! + She left lonely forever + The kings of the sea." + + MATTHEW ARNOLD. + + + THE BANKS O' DOON. + +"The Banks o' Doon," by Robert Burns (1759-96). Bonnie Doon is in the + southwestern part of Scotland. Robert Burns's old home it close to it. + The house has low walls, a thatched roof, and only two rooms. Alloway + Kirk and the two bridges so famous in Robert Burns's verse are near by. + This is an enchanted land, and the Scotch people for miles around Ayr + speak of the poet with sincere affection. Burns, more than any other + poet, has thrown the enchantment of poetry over his own locality. + + Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, + How can ye blume sae fair! + How can ye chant, ye little birds, + And I sae fu' o' care. + + Thou'lt break my heart, thou bonnie bird + That sings upon the bough; + Thou minds me o' the happy days + When my fause luve was true. + + Thou'lt break my heart, thou bonnie bird + That sings beside thy mate; + For sae I sat, and sae I sang, + And wist na o' my fate. + + Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, + To see the woodbine twine, + And ilka bird sang o' its love, + And sae did I o' mine. + + Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose + Frae off its thorny tree; + And my fause luver staw the rose, + But left the thorn wi' me. + + ROBERT BURNS. + + + THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS. + + Oft in the stilly night + Ere slumber's chain has bound me, + Fond Memory brings the light + Of other days around me: + The smiles, the tears + Of boyhood's years, + The words of love then spoken; + The eyes that shone, + Now dimmed and gone, + The cheerful hearts now broken! + Thus in the stilly night + Ere slumber's chain has bound me, + Sad Memory brings the light + Of other days around me. + + When I remember all + The friends so link'd together + I've seen around me fall + Like leaves in wintry weather, + I feel like one + Who treads alone + Some banquet-hall deserted, + Whose lights are fled, + Whose garlands dead, + And all but he departed! + Thus in the stilly night + Ere slumber's chain has bound me, + Sad Memory brings the light + Of other days around me. + + THOMAS MOORE. + + + MY OWN SHALL COME TO ME. + + If John Burroughs (1837-) had never written any other poem than "My Own + Shall Come to Me," he would have stood to all ages as one of the + greatest of American poets. The poem is most characteristic of the + tall, majestic, slow-going poet and naturalist. There is no greater + line in Greek or English literature than + + "I stand amid the eternal ways." + + + Serene I fold my hands and wait, + Nor care for wind, nor tide, nor sea. + I rave no more 'gainst time or fate, + For lo! my own shall come to me. + + I stay my haste, I make delays, + For what avails this eager pace? + I stand amid the eternal ways, + And what is mine shall know my face. + + Asleep, awake, by night or day + The friends I seek are seeking me; + No wind can drive my bark astray, + Nor change the tide of destiny. + + What matter if I stand alone? + I wait with joy the coming years; + My heart shall reap when it has sown, + And gather up its fruit of tears. + + The stars come nightly to the sky; + The tidal wave comes to the sea; + Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high, + Can keep my own away from me. + + The waters know their own and draw + The brook that springs in yonder heights; + So flows the good with equal law + Unto the soul of pure delights. + + JOHN BURROUGHS. + + + ODE TO A SKYLARK. + +"Ode to a Skylark," by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822), is usually + assigned to "grammar grades" of schools. It is included here out of + respect to a boy of eleven years who was more impressed with these + lines than with any other lines in any poem: + + "Like a poet hidden, + In the light of thought + Singing songs unbidden + Till the world is wrought + To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not." + + + Hail to thee, blithe spirit-- + Bird thou never wert-- + That from heaven or near it + Pourest thy full heart + In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. + + Higher still and higher + From the earth thou springest, + Like a cloud of fire; + The blue deep thou wingest, + And singing still dost soar and soaring ever singest. + + In the golden lightning + Of the sunken sun, + O'er which clouds are brightening, + Thou dost float and run, + Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. + + The pale purple even + Melts around thy flight; + Like a star of heaven, + In the broad daylight + Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight. + + All the earth and air + With thy voice is loud, + As, when night is bare, + From one lonely cloud + The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. + + What thou art we know not; + What is most like thee? + From rainbow-clouds there flow not + Drops so bright to see + As from thy presence showers a rain of melody:-- + + Like a poet hidden + In the light of thought; + Singing hymns unbidden, + Till the world is wrought + To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not. + + Teach us, sprite or bird, + What sweet thoughts are thine: + I have never heard + Praise of love or wine + That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. + + Chorus hymeneal + Or triumphal chaunt, + Matched with thine, would be all + But an empty vaunt-- + A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. + + What objects are the fountains + Of thy happy strain? + What fields, or waves, or mountains? + What shapes of sky or plain? + What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? + + Teach me half the gladness + That thy brain must know, + Such harmonious madness + From my lips would flow, + The world should listen then, as I am listening now! + + PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. + + + THE SANDS OF DEE. + + I have often had the pleasure of riding across the coast from Chester, + England, to Rhyl, on the north coast of Wales, where stretch "The Sands + of Dee" (Charles Kingsley, 1819-75). These purple sands at low tide + stretch off into the sea miles away, and are said to be full of + quicksands. + + "O Mary, go and call the cattle home, + And call the cattle home, + And call the cattle home, + Across the sands of Dee." + The western wind was wild and dark with foam + And all alone went she. + + The western tide crept up along the sand, + And o'er and o'er the sand, + And round and round the sand, + As far as eye could see. + The rolling mist came down and hid the land; + And never home came she. + Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair,-- + A tress of golden hair, + A drowned maiden's hair, + Above the nets at sea? + Was never salmon yet that shone so fair + Among the stakes on Dee. + + They rowed her in across the rolling foam, + The cruel crawling foam, + The cruel hungry foam, + To her grave beside the sea. + But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home + Across the sands of Dee. + + CHARLES KINGSLEY. + + + A WISH. + +"A Wish" (by Samuel Rogers, 1763-1855) and "Lucy" (by Wordsworth, + 1770-1850) are two gems that can be valued only for the spirit of quiet + and modesty diffused by them. + + Mine be a cot beside the hill; + A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear; + A willowy brook that turns a mill + With many a fall shall linger near. + + The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch + Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; + Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, + And share my meal, a welcome guest. + + Around my ivied porch shall spring + Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; + And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing + In russet gown and apron blue. + + The village church among the trees, + Where first our marriage-vows were given, + With merry peals shall swell the breeze + And point with taper spire to Heaven. + + S. ROGERS. + + + LUCY. + + She dwelt among the untrodden ways + Beside the springs of Dove; + A maid whom there were none to praise, + And very few to love. + + A violet by a mossy stone + Half-hidden from the eye! + Fair as a star, when only one + Is shining in the sky. + + She lived unknown, and few could know + When Lucy ceased to be; + But she is in her grave, and, oh, + The difference to me! + + WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. + + + SOLITUDE. + + Happy the man, whose wish and care + A few paternal acres bound, + Content to breathe his native air + In his own ground. + + Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, + Whose flocks supply him with attire; + Whose trees in summer yield him shade, + In winter fire. + + Blest, who can unconcern'dly find + Hours, days, and years slide soft away + In health of body, peace of mind, + Quiet by day, + + Sound sleep by night; study and ease + Together mixt, sweet recreation, + And innocence, which most does please + With meditation. + + Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; + Thus unlamented let me die; + Steal from the world, and not a stone + Tell where I lie. + + ALEXANDER POPE. + + + JOHN ANDERSON + +"John Anderson," by Robert Burns (1759-96). This poem is included to + please several teachers. + + John Anderson, my jo, John, + When we were first acquent + Your locks were like the raven, + Your bonnie brow was brent; + But now your brow is bald, John, + Your locks are like the snow; + But blessings on your frosty pow, + John Anderson, my jo. + + John Anderson, my jo, John, + We clamb the hill thegither, + And mony a canty day, John, + We've had wi' ane anither; + Now we maun totter down, John, + But hand in hand we'll go, + And sleep thegither at the foot, + John Anderson, my jo. + + ROBERT BURNS. + + + THE GOD OF MUSIC. + +"The God of Music," by Edith M. Thomas, an Ohio poetess now living. In + this sonnet the poetess has touched the power of Wordsworth or Keats + and placed herself among the immortals. + + The God of Music dwelleth out of doors. + All seasons through his minstrelsy we meet, + Breathing by field and covert haunting-sweet + From organ-lofts in forests old he pours: + A solemn harmony: on leafy floors + To smooth autumnal pipes he moves his feet, + Or with the tingling plectrum of the sleet + In winter keen beats out his thrilling scores. + Leave me the reed unplucked beside the stream. + And he will stoop and fill it with the breeze; + Leave me the viol's frame in secret trees, + Unwrought, and it shall wake a druid theme; + Leave me the whispering shell on Nereid shores. + The God of Music dwelleth out of doors. + + EDITH M. THOMAS. + + + A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT. + +"A Musical Instrument" by Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-61). This + poem is the supreme masterpiece of Mrs. Browning. The prime thought in + it is the sacrifice and pain that must go to make a poet of any genius. + + "The great god sighed for the cost and the pain." + + + What was he doing, the great god Pan, + Down in the reeds by the river? + Spreading ruin and scattering ban, + Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat, + And breaking the golden lilies afloat + With the dragon-fly on the river. + + He tore out a reed, the great god Pan, + From the deep cool bed of the river: + The limpid water turbidly ran, + And the broken lilies a-dying lay, + And the dragon-fly had fled away, + Ere he brought it out of the river. + + High on the shore sat the great god Pan, + While turbidly flow'd the river; + And hack'd and hew'd as a great god can, + With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed, + Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed + To prove it fresh from the river. + + He cut it short, did the great god Pan + (How tall it stood in the river!), + Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man, + Steadily from the outside ring, + And notched the poor dry empty thing + In holes, as he sat by the river. + + "This is the way," laugh'd the great god Pan + (Laugh'd while he sat by the river), + "The only way, since gods began + To make sweet music, they could succeed." + Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed + He blew in power by the river. + + Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan! + Piercing sweet by the river! + Blinding sweet, O great god Pan! + The sun on the hill forgot to die, + And the lilies reviv'd, and the dragon-fly + Came back to dream on the river. + + Yet half a beast is the great god Pan, + To laugh as he sits by the river, + Making a poet out of a man: + The true gods sigh for the cost and pain,-- + For the reed which grows nevermore again + As a reed with the reeds in the river. + + ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. + + + THE BRIDES OF ENDERBY. + +"The Brides of Enderby," by Jean Ingelow (1830-97). This poem is very + dramatic, and the music of the refrain has done much to make it + popular. But the pathos is that which endears it. + + The old mayor climb'd the belfry tower, + The ringers ran by two, by three; + "Pull, if ye never pull'd before; + Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he. + "Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells! + Ply all your changes, all your swells, + Play uppe, 'The Brides of Enderby.'" + + Men say it was a stolen tyde-- + The Lord that sent it, He knows all; + But in myne ears doth still abide + The message that the bells let fall: + And there was naught of strange, beside + The flight of mews and peewits pied + By millions crouch'd on the old sea wall. + + I sat and spun within the doore, + My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes; + The level sun, like ruddy ore, + Lay sinking in the barren skies; + And dark against day's golden death + She moved where Lindis wandereth, + My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth. + + "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, + Ere the early dews were falling, + Farre away I heard her song, + "Cusha! Cusha!" all along; + Where the reedy Lindis floweth, + Floweth, floweth, + From the meads where melick groweth + Faintly came her milking song-- + + "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, + "For the dews will soone be falling; + Leave your meadow grasses mellow, + Mellow, mellow; + Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; + Come uppe, Whitefoot, come uppe, Lightfoot; + Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, + Hollow, hollow; + Come uppe, Jetty, rise and follow, + From the clovers lift your head; + Come uppe, Whitefoot, come uppe, Lightfoot, + Come uppe, Jetty, rise and follow, + Jetty, to the milking shed." + + If it be long ay, long ago, + When I beginne to think howe long, + Againe I hear the Lindis flow, + Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong; + And all the aire, it seemeth mee, + Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), + That ring the tune of Enderby. + + Alle fresh the level pasture lay, + And not a shadowe mote be seene, + Save where full fyve good miles away + The steeple tower'd from out the greene; + And lo! the great bell farre and wide + Was heard in all the country side + That Saturday at eventide. + + The swanherds where their sedges are + Mov'd on in sunset's golden breath, + The shepherde lads I heard afarre, + And my sonne's wife, Elizabeth; + Till floating o'er the grassy sea + Came downe that kyndly message free, + The "Brides of Mavis Enderby." + + Then some look'd uppe into the sky, + And all along where Lindis flows + To where the goodly vessels lie, + And where the lordly steeple shows. + They sayde, "And why should this thing be? + What danger lowers by land or sea? + They ring the tune of Enderby! + + "For evil news from Mablethorpe, + Of pyrate galleys warping down; + For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe, + They have not spar'd to wake the towne: + But while the west bin red to see, + And storms be none, and pyrates flee, + Why ring 'The Brides of Enderby'?" + + I look'd without, and lo! my sonne + Came riding downe with might and main; + He rais'd a shout as he drew on, + Till all the welkin rang again, + "Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" + (A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath + Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.) + + "The olde sea wall," he cried, "is downe, + The rising tide comes on apace, + And boats adrift in yonder towne + Go sailing uppe the market-place." + He shook as one that looks on death: + "God save you, mother!" straight he saith + "Where is my wife, Elizabeth?" + + "Good sonne, where Lindis winds her way + With her two bairns I marked her long; + And ere yon bells beganne to play + Afar I heard her milking song." + He looked across the grassy lea, + To right, to left, "Ho, Enderby!" + They rang "The Brides of Enderby!" + + With that he cried and beat his breast; + For, lo! along the river's bed + A mighty eygre rear'd his crest, + And uppe the Lindis raging sped. + It swept with thunderous noises loud; + Shap'd like a curling snow-white cloud, + Or like a demon in a shroud. + + And rearing Lindis backward press'd + Shook all her trembling bankes amaine; + Then madly at the eygre's breast + Flung uppe her weltering walls again. + Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout-- + Then beaten foam flew round about-- + Then all the mighty floods were out. + + So farre, so fast the eygre drave, + The heart had hardly time to beat + Before a shallow seething wave + Sobb'd in the grasses at oure feet: + The feet had hardly time to flee + Before it brake against the knee, + And all the world was in the sea. + + Upon the roofe we sate that night, + The noise of bells went sweeping by; + I mark'd the lofty beacon light + Stream from the church tower, red and high-- + A lurid mark and dread to see; + And awsome bells they were to mee, + That in the dark rang "Enderby." + + They rang the sailor lads to guide + From roofe to roofe who fearless row'd; + And I--my sonne was at my side, + And yet the ruddy beacon glow'd: + And yet he moan'd beneath his breath, + "O come in life, or come in death! + O lost! my love, Elizabeth." + + And didst thou visit him no more? + Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare + The waters laid thee at his doore, + Ere yet the early dawn was clear. + Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, + The lifted sun shone on thy face, + Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place. + + That flow strew'd wrecks about the grass, + That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea; + A fatal ebbe and flow, alas! + To manye more than myne and mee; + But each will mourn his own (she saith); + And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath + Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth. + + I shall never hear her more + By the reedy Lindis shore, + "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, + Ere the early dews be falling; + I shall never hear her song, + "Cusha! Cusha!" all along + Where the sunny Lindis floweth, + Goeth, floweth; + From the meads where melick groweth, + When the water winding down, + Onward floweth to the town. + + I shall never see her more + Where the reeds and rushes quiver, + Shiver, quiver; + Stand beside the sobbing river, + Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling + To the sandy lonesome shore; + I shall never hear her calling, + "Leave your meadow grasses mellow, + Mellow, mellow; + Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; + + "Come uppe, Whitefoot, come uppe, Lightfoot; + Quit your pipes of parsley hollow, + Hollow, hollow; + Come uppe, Lightfoot, rise and follow; + Lightfoot, Whitefoot, + From your clovers lift the head; + Come uppe, Jetty, follow, follow, + Jetty, to the milking shed." + + JEAN INGELOW. + + + THE LYE. + +"The Lye," by Sir Walter Raleigh (1552-1618), is one of the strongest + and most appealing poems a teacher can read to her pupils when teaching + early American history. The poem is full of magnificent lines, such as +"Go, soul, the body's guest." The poem never lacks an attentive + audience of young people when correlated with the study of North + Carolina and Sir Walter Raleigh. The solitary, majestic character of + Sir Walter Raleigh, his intrepidity while undergoing tortures inflicted + by a cowardly king, the ring of indignation--- all these make a weapon + for him stronger than the ax that beheaded him. In this poem he "has + the last word." + + Goe, soule, the bodie's guest, + Upon a thanklesse arrant; + Feare not to touche the best-- + The truth shall be thy warrant! + Goe, since I needs must dye, + And give the world the lye. + + Goe tell the court it glowes + And shines like rotten wood; + Goe tell the church it showes + What's good, and doth no good; + If church and court reply, + Then give them both the lye. + + Tell potentates they live + Acting by others' actions-- + Not loved unlesse they give, + Not strong but by their factions; + If potentates reply, + Give potentates the lye. + + Tell men of high condition, + That rule affairs of state, + Their purpose is ambition, + Their practice only hate; + And if they once reply, + Then give them all the lye. + + Tell zeale it lacks devotion; + Tell love it is but lust; + Tell time it is but motion; + Tell flesh it is but dust; + And wish them not reply, + For thou must give the lye. + + Tell wit how much it wrangles + In tickle points of nicenesse; + Tell wisdome she entangles + Herselfe in over-wisenesse; + And if they do reply, + Straight give them both the lye. + + Tell physicke of her boldnesse; + Tell skill it is pretension; + Tell charity of coldnesse; + Tell law it is contention; + And as they yield reply, + So give them still the lye. + + Tell fortune of her blindnesse; + Tell nature of decay; + Tell friendship of unkindnesse; + Tell justice of delay; + And if they dare reply, + Then give them all the lye. + + Tell arts they have no soundnesse, + But vary by esteeming; + Tell schooles they want profoundnesse, + And stand too much on seeming; + If arts and schooles reply, + Give arts and schooles the lye. + + So, when thou hast, as I + Commanded thee, done blabbing-- + Although to give the lye + Deserves no less than stabbing-- + Yet stab at thee who will, + No stab the soule can kill. + + SIR WALTER RALEIGH. + + + L'ENVOI. + +"L'Envoi," by Rudyard Kipling, is a favourite on account of its + sweeping assertion of the individual's right to self-development. + + When Earth's last picture is painted, and the tubes are + twisted and dried, + When the oldest colours have faded, and the youngest critic has died, + We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it--lie down + for an aeon or two, + Till the Master of All Good Workmen shall set us to work anew! + + And those who were good shall be happy: they shall sit + in a golden chair; + They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of comet's hair; + They shall find real saints to draw from--Magdalene, Peter, and Paul; + They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all! + + And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame; + And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame; + But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star, + Shall draw the Thing as he sees It for the God of Things as They Are! + + RUDYARD KIPLING + + + CONTENTMENT + +"Contentment," by Edward Dyer (1545-1607). This poem holds much to + comfort and control people who are shut up to the joys of + meditation--people to whom the world of activity is closed. To be + independent of things material--this is the soul's pleasure. + + My mind to me a kingdom is; + Such perfect joy therein I find + As far excels all earthly bliss + That God or Nature hath assigned; + Though much I want that most would have, + Yet still my mind forbids to crave. + + Content I live; this is my stay,-- + I seek no more than may suffice. + I press to bear no haughty sway; + Look, what I lack my mind supplies. + Lo, thus I triumph like a king, + Content with that my mind doth bring. + + I laugh not at another's loss, + I grudge not at another's gain; + No worldly wave my mind can toss; + I brook that is another's bane. + I fear no foe, nor fawn on friend; + I loathe not life, nor dread mine end. + + My wealth is health and perfect ease; + My conscience clear my chief defense; + I never seek by bribes to please + Nor by desert to give offense. + Thus do I live, thus will I die; + Would all did so as well as I! + + EDWARD DYER. + + + THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS. + + The harp that once through Tara's halls + The soul of music shed, + Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls + As if that soul were fled. + So sleeps the pride of former days, + So glory's thrill is o'er, + And hearts, that once beat high for praise, + Now feel that pulse no more. + + No more to chiefs and ladies bright + The harp of Tara swells; + The chord alone, that breaks at night, + Its tale of ruin tells. + Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, + The only throb she gives + Is when some heart indignant breaks, + To show that still she lives. + + THOMAS MOORE. + + + THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET + +"The Old Oaken Bucket," by Samuel Woodworth (1785-1848), is a poem we + love because it is an elegant expression of something very dear and + homely. + + How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, + When fond recollection presents them to view! + The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood, + And every loved spot which my infancy knew! + The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it, + The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell, + The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, + And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well-- + The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, + The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. + + That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure, + For often at noon, when returned from the field, + I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, + The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. + How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing, + And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; + Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, + And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well-- + The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, + The moss-covered bucket arose from the well. + + How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it + As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips! + Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, + The brightest that beauty or revelry sips. + And now, far removed from the loved habitation, + The tear of regret will intrusively swell. + As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, + And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well-- + The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, + The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well! + + SAMUEL WOODWORTH. + + + THE RAVEN. + +"The Raven," by Edgar Allan Poe (1809-49), is placed here because so + many college men speak of it at once as the great poem of their + boyhood. The poem caught me when a child by its refrain and weird + picturesqueness. It has never outgrown its mechanical charm. + + Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, + Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore-- + While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, + As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door" + 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-- + Only this, and nothing more." + + Ah! distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, + And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor; + Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow + From my books surcease of sorrow--sorrow for the lost Lenore-- + For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore-- + Nameless here for evermore. + + And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain + Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; + So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, + "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-- + Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door: + This it is, and nothing more." + + Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, + "Sir," said I, "or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; + But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, + And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, + That I scarce was sure I heard you." Here I opened wide the door: + Darkness there, and nothing more. + + Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, + fearing, + Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; + But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, + And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!" + This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" + Merely this, and nothing more. + + Back into my chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, + Soon again I heard a rapping, something louder than before: + "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice; + Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore-- + Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore. + 'Tis the wind, and nothing more." + + Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, + In there stepped a stately Raven, of the saintly days of yore; + Not the least obeisance made he, not a minute stopped or stayed he; + But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door-- + Perched above a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door-- + Perched, and sat, and nothing more. + + Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, + By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore; + "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art + sure, no craven; + Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, wandering from the nightly shore, + Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Plutonian shore?" + Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." + + Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, + Though its answer, little meaning, little relevancy bore; + For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being + Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door-- + Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door + With such a name as "Nevermore." + + But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only + That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour; + Nothing further then he uttered, not a feather then he fluttered, + Till I scarcely more than muttered--"Other friends have flown before, + On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." + Then the bird said, "Nevermore." + + Startled by the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, + "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store, + Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster + Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore-- + Till the dirges of his hope this melancholy burden bore-- + Of 'Never, nevermore,'" + + But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, + Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and + bust, and door; + Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking + Fancy into fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore-- + What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore + Meant in croaking "Nevermore." + + Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing + To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; + This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining + On the cushion's velvet lining, that the lamp-light gloated o'er, + But whose velvet violet lining, with the lamp-light gloating o'er, + She shall press, ah, nevermore! + + Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer + Swung by seraphim, whose footfalls twinkled on the tufted floor. + "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee--by these angels He + hath sent thee + Respite--respite and nepenthe from my memories of Lenore! + Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!" + Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." + + "Prophet," said I, "thing of evil--prophet still, if bird or devil! + Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore + Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted, + On this home by horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore, + Is there--_is_ there balm in Gilead?--tell me, tell me, I implore!" + Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." + + "Prophet," said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still if bird or devil! + By that heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore-- + Tell this soul, with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aiden + It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore! + Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore?" + Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." + + "Be that our sign of parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting-- + "Get thee back into the tempest and the night's Plutonian shore; + Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken, + Leave my loneliness unbroken--quit the bust above my door, + Take thy beak from out my heart and take thy form from off my door!" + Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." + + And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting, + On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door; + And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, + And the lamp-light o'er him streaming, throws his shadow on the floor; + And my soul from out that shadow, that lies floating on the floor, + Shall be lifted--nevermore! + + EDGAR ALLAN POE. + + + ARNOLD VON WINKLERIED. + + "Make way for liberty!" he cried, + Make way for liberty, and died. + In arms the Austrian phalanx stood, + A living wall, a human wood,-- + A wall, where every conscious stone + Seemed to its kindred thousands grown. + A rampart all assaults to bear, + Till time to dust their frames should wear; + So still, so dense the Austrians stood, + A living wall, a human wood. + + Impregnable their front appears, + All horrent with projected spears. + Whose polished points before them shine, + From flank to flank, one brilliant line, + Bright as the breakers' splendours run + Along the billows to the sun. + + Opposed to these a hovering band + Contended for their fatherland; + Peasants, whose new-found strength had broke + From manly necks the ignoble yoke, + And beat their fetters into swords, + On equal terms to fight their lords; + And what insurgent rage had gained, + In many a mortal fray maintained; + Marshalled, once more, at Freedom's call, + They came to conquer or to fall, + Where he who conquered, he who fell, + Was deemed a dead or living Tell, + Such virtue had that patriot breathed, + So to the soil his soul bequeathed, + That wheresoe'er his arrows flew, + Heroes in his own likeness grew, + And warriors sprang from every sod, + Which his awakening footstep trod. + + And now the work of life and death + Hung on the passing of a breath; + The fire of conflict burned within, + The battle trembled to begin; + Yet, while the Austrians held their ground, + Point for attack was nowhere found; + Where'er the impatient Switzers gazed, + The unbroken line of lances blazed; + That line 'twere suicide to meet, + And perish at their tyrant's feet; + How could they rest within their graves, + And leave their homes, the homes of slaves! + Would not they feel their children tread, + With clanging chains, above their head? + + It must not be; this day, this hour, + Annihilates the invader's power; + All Switzerland is in the field; + She will not fly,--she cannot yield,-- + She must not fall; her better fate + Here gives her an immortal date. + Few were the numbers she could boast, + But every freeman was a host, + And felt as 'twere a secret known + That one should turn the scale alone, + While each unto himself was he + On whose sole arm hung victory. + + It did depend on one indeed; + Behold him,--Arnold Winkelried; + There sounds not to the trump of fame + The echo of a nobler name. + Unmarked he stood amid the throng, + In rumination deep and long, + Till you might see, with sudden grace, + The very thought come o'er his face; + And, by the motion of his form, + Anticipate the bursting storm, + And, by the uplifting of his brow, + Tell where the bolt would strike, and how. + + But 'twas no sooner thought than done! + The field was in a moment won; + "Make way for liberty!" he cried, + Then ran, with arms extended wide, + As if his dearest friend to clasp; + Ten spears he swept within his grasp. + "Make way for liberty!" he cried. + Their keen points crossed from side to side; + He bowed amidst them like a tree, + And thus made way for liberty. + + Swift to the breach his comrades fly, + "Make way for liberty!" they cry, + And through the Austrian phalanx dart, + As rushed the spears through Arnold's heart. + While instantaneous as his fall, + Rout, ruin, panic, seized them all; + An earthquake could not overthrow + A city with a surer blow. + + Thus Switzerland again was free; + Thus Death made way for Liberty! + + JAMES MONTGOMERY. + + + LIFE, I KNOW NOT WHAT THOU ART. + + Life! I know not what thou art. + But know that thou and I must part; + And when, or how, or where we met, + I own to me's a secret yet. + Life! we've been long together + Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; + Tis hard to part when friends are dear-- + Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear; + --Then steal away, give little warning, + Choose thine own time; + Say not Good Night,--but in some brighter clime + Bid me Good Morning. + + A.L. BARBAULD. + + + MERCY. + +"Mercy," an excerpt from "The Merchant of Venice," "Polonius' Advice," + from "Hamlet," and "Antony's Speech," from "Julius Caesar" (all + fragments from Shakespeare, 1564-1616), find a place in this book + because a well-known New York teacher--one who is unremitting in his + efforts to raise the good taste and character of his pupils--says: "A + book of poetry could not be complete without these extracts." + + The quality of mercy is not strain'd; + It droppeth as the gentle rain from Heaven + Upon the place beneath: it is twice bless'd; + It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes: + 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes + The throned monarch better than his crown: + His scepter shows the force of temporal power, + The attribute to awe and majesty, + Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; + But mercy is above his sceptered sway; + It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, + It is an attribute to God himself; + And earthly power doth then show likest God's + When mercy seasons justice. + + SHAKESPEARE ("Merchant of Venice"). + + + POLONIUS' ADVICE. + + See thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue, + Nor any unproportion'd thought his act. + Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar: + The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, + Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel; + But do not dull thy palm with entertainment + Of each new-hatch'd, unfledg'd comrade. Beware + Of entrance to a quarrel; but, being in, + Bear 't that th' opposed may beware of thee. + Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice: + Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment. + Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy + But not expressed in fancy; rich, not gaudy: + For the apparel oft proclaims the man. + Neither a borrower nor a lender be; + For loan oft loses both itself and friend, + And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. + This above all: to thine own self be true; + And it must follow, as the night the day, + Thou canst not then be false to any man. + + SHAKESPEARE ("Hamlet"). + + + A FRAGMENT FROM MARK ANTONY'S SPEECH. + + This was the noblest Roman of them all: + All the conspirators, save only he, + Did that they did in envy of great Caesar; + He only, in a general honest thought + And common good to all, made one of them. + His life was gentle; and the elements + So mix'd in him, that Nature might stand up, + And say to all the world, "This was a man!" + + SHAKESPEARE ("Julius Caesar"). + + + THE SKYLARK. + + Bird of the wilderness, + Blithesome and cumberless, + Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea! + Emblem of happiness, + Blest is thy dwelling-place-- + Oh, to abide in the desert with thee! + + Wild is thy lay and loud, + Far in the downy cloud, + Love gives it energy, love gave it birth. + Where, on thy dewy wing, + Where art thou journeying? + Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. + + O'er fell and fountain sheen, + O'er moor and mountain green, + O'er the red streamer that heralds the day, + Over the cloudlet dim, + Over the rainbow's rim, + Musical cherub, soar, singing, away! + + Then, when the gloaming comes, + Low in the heather blooms + Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be! + Emblem of happiness, + Blest is thy dwelling-place-- + Oh, to abide in the desert with thee! + + THOMAS HOGG. + + + THE CHOIR INVISIBLE. + +"The Choir Invisible" (by George Eliot, 1819-80) is a fitting + exposition in poetry of this "Shakespeare of prose." + + O, may I join the choir invisible + Of those immortal dead who live again + In minds made better by their presence; live + In pulses stirred to generosity, + In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn + Of miserable aims that end with self, + In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars, + And with their mild persistence urge men's minds + To vaster issues. + May I reach + That purest heaven,--be to other souls + The cup of strength in some great agony, + Enkindle generous ardour, feed pure love, + Beget the smiles that have no cruelty, + Be the sweet presence of good diffused, + And in diffusion ever more intense! + So shall I join the choir invisible, + Whose music is the gladness of the world. + + GEORGE ELIOT. + + + THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US. + +"The World Is Too Much With Us," by Wordsworth (1770-1850), is perhaps + the greatest sonnet ever written. It is true that "the eyes of the + soul" are blinded by a surfeit of worldly "goods." "I went to the Lake + District" (England), said John Burroughs, "to see what kind of a + country could produce a Wordsworth." Of course he found simple houses, + simple people, barren moors, heather-clad mountains, wild flowers, calm + lakes, plain, rugged simplicity. + + The world is too much with us; late and soon, + Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers; + Little we see in Nature that is ours. + We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! + This sea, that bares her bosom to the moon, + The winds that will be howling at all hours, + And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers-- + For this, for everything, we are out of tune; + It moves us not. Great God! I'd rather be + A pagan, suckled in a creed outworn, + So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, + Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; + Have sight of Proteus, rising from the sea, + Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. + + WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. + + + ON HIS BLINDNESS. + +"Sonnet on His Blindness" (by John Milton, 1608-74). This is the most + stately and pathetic sonnet in existence. The soul enduring enforced + idleness and loss of power without repining. Inactivity made to serve a + higher end. + + "All service ranks the same with God! + There is no first or last." + + + When I consider how my light is spent + Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, + And that one talent which is death to hide, + Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent + To serve therewith my Maker, and present + My true account, lest He, returning, chide; + Doth God exact day-labour, light denied? + I fondly ask: but Patience, to prevent + That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need + Either man's work, or His own gifts; who best + Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best; His state + Is kingly; thousands at His bidding speed, + And post o'er land and ocean without rest; + They also serve who only stand and wait. + + JOHN MILTON. + + + SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. + +"She Was a Phantom of Delight" (by William Wordsworth, 1770-1850) is + included here because it is a picture of woman as she should be, not + made dainty by finery, but by fine ideals-- + + "And not too good + For human nature's daily food." + + + She was a Phantom of delight + When first she gleamed upon my sight; + A lovely Apparition, sent + To be a moment's ornament; + Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; + Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair: + But all things else about her drawn + From May-time and the cheerful Dawn. + A dancing Shape, an Image gay, + To haunt, to startle, and waylay. + + I saw her upon nearer view, + A Spirit, yet a Woman too! + Her household motions light and free, + And steps of virgin liberty; + A countenance in which did meet + Sweet records, promises as sweet; + A Creature not too bright or good + For human nature's daily food; + For transient sorrows, simple wiles, + Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. + + And now I see with eye serene + The very pulse of the machine; + A Being breathing thoughtful breath, + A Traveller between life and death: + The reason firm, the temperate will, + Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; + A perfect Woman, nobly planned, + To warn, to comfort, and command; + And yet a Spirit still, and bright, + With something of angelic light. + + WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. + + + ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. + +"Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard" (Gray, 1716-71). I once drove + from Windsor Castle through Eton, down the long hedge-bound road which + passes the estate of William Penn's descendants to Stoke Pogis, the + little churchyard where this poem was written. They were trimming a + great yew-tree under which Gray was said to have written this poem. The + scene is one of peace and quiet. The "elegy" was a favourite form of + poem with the ancients, but Gray is said to have reached the climax + among poets in this style of verse. The great line of the poem is: + + "The path of glory leads but to the grave." + + It would almost seem that poetry has for its greatest mission the + lesson of a proper humility. + + The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, + The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, + The plowman homeward plods his weary way, + And leaves the world to darkness and to me. + + Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, + And all the air a solemn stillness holds, + Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, + And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds. + + Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r + The moping owl does to the moon complain + Of such as, wandering near her secret bow'r, + Molest her ancient solitary reign. + + Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, + Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, + Each in his narrow cell forever laid, + The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep. + + The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, + The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, + The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, + No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. + + For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, + Or busy housewife ply her evening care: + No children run to lisp their sire's return, + Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. + + Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, + Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; + How jocund did they drive their team afield! + How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! + + Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, + Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; + Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, + The short and simple annals of the Poor. + + The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, + And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, + Await alike th' inevitable hour. + The paths of glory lead but to the grave. + + Forgive, ye Proud, th' involuntary fault + If Memory to these no trophies raise, + Where thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault + The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. + + Can storied urn or animated bust + Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? + Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, + Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death? + + Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid + Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire, + Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, + Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. + + But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page + Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; + Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage, + And froze the genial current of the soul. + + Full many a gem of purest ray serene, + The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: + Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, + And waste its sweetness on the desert air. + + Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast + The little tyrant of his fields withstood; + Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, + Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. + + Th' applause of listening senates to command, + The threats of pain and ruin to despise, + To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, + And read their history in a nation's eyes, + + Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed alone + Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined + Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne, + And shut the gates of mercy on mankind, + + The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, + To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, + Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride + With incense, kindled at the Muse's flame. + + Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, + Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; + Along the cool sequester'd vale of life + They kept the noiseless tenour of their way. + + Yet e'en those bones from insult to protect + Some frail memorial still erected nigh, + With uncouth rhimes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, + Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. + + Their name, their years, spelt by th' unlettered Muse, + The place of fame and elegy supply. + And many a holy text around she strews + That teach the rustic moralist to die. + + For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey, + This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned, + Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, + Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind? + + On some fond breast the parting soul relies, + Some pious drops the closing eye requires; + E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, + E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. + + For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, + Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; + If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, + Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, + + Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, + "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn + Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, + To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. + + "There at the foot of yonder nodding beech + That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, + His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch, + And pore upon the brook that babbles by. + + "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, + Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; + Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, + Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. + + "One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill, + Along the heath, and near his favourite tree; + Another came; nor yet beside the rill, + Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he. + + "The next with dirges due in sad array + Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him borne. + Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, + Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." + + + THE EPITAPH. + + Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth + A Youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown; + Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, + And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. + + Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, + Heaven did a recompense as largely send: + He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear: + He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend. + + No farther seek his merits to disclose, + Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, + (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) + The bosom of his Father and his God. + + THOMAS GRAY. + + + RABBI BEN EZRA + +"Rabbi Ben Ezra" (by Robert Browning, 1812-89). Youth is for dispute + and age for counsel; each year, each period of a man's life is but the + necessary step to the next. Youth is an uncertain thing to bank on. + + "Grow old along with me! + The best is yet to be, + The last of life for which the first was made." + +"Rabbi Ben Ezra" is a plea for each period in life. Aspiration is the + keynote. + + " ... Trust God; see all, nor be afraid!" + + + Grow old along with me! + The best is yet to be, + The last of life, for which the first was made: + Our times are in His hand + Who saith, "A whole I plann'd, + Youth shows but half; trust God: see all nor be afraid!" + + Not that, amassing flowers, + Youth sigh'd, "Which rose make ours, + Which lily leave and then as best recall?" + Not that, admiring stars, + It yearn'd, "Nor Jove, nor Mars; + Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all!" + + Not for such hopes and fears + Annulling youth's brief years, + Do I remonstrate: folly wide the mark! + Rather I prize the doubt + Low kinds exist without, + Finish'd and finite clods, untroubled by a spark. + + Poor vaunt of life indeed, + Were man but formed to feed + On joy, to solely seek and find and feast: + Such feasting ended, then + As sure an end to men; + Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets doubt the maw-cramm'd beast? + + Rejoice we are allied + To That which doth provide + And not partake, effect and not receive! + A spark disturbs our clod; + Nearer we hold of God + Who gives, than of His tribes that take, I must believe. + + Then, welcome each rebuff + That turns earth's smoothness rough, + Each sting, that bids nor sit nor stand, but go! + Be our joys three parts pain! + Strive, and hold cheap the strain; + Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe! + + For thence,--a paradox + Which comforts while it mocks,-- + Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail: + What I aspired to be, + And was not, comforts me: + A brute I might have been, but would not sink i' the scale. + + What is he but a brute + Whose flesh has soul to suit, + Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play? + To man, propose this test-- + Thy body at its best, + How far can that project thy soul on its lone way? + + Yet gifts should prove their use: + I own the Past profuse + Of power each side, perfection every turn: + Eyes, ears took in their dole, + Brain treasured up the whole: + Should not the heart beat once "How good to live and learn?" + + Not once beat "Praise be Thine! + I see the whole design, + I, who saw power, see now love perfect too: + Perfect I call Thy plan: + Thanks that I was a man! + Maker, remake, complete,--I trust what Thou shalt do!" + + For pleasant is this flesh, + Our soul, in its rose-mesh + Pull'd ever to the earth, still yearns for rest; + Would we some prize might hold + To match those manifold + Possessions of the brute,--gain most, as we did best! + + Let us not always say, + "Spite of this flesh to-day + I strove, made head, gained ground upon the whole!" + As the bird wings and sings, + Let us cry, "All good things + Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul!" + + Therefore I summon age + To grant youth's heritage, + Life's struggle having so far reached its term: + Thence shall I pass, approved + A man, for aye removed + From the developed brute; a god though in the germ. + + And I shall thereupon + Take rest, ere I be gone + Once more on my adventure brave and new: + Fearless and unperplex'd, + When I wage battle next, + What weapons to select, what armour to indue. + + Youth ended, I shall try + My gain or loss thereby; + Leave the fire ashes, what survives is gold: + And I shall weigh the same, + Give life its praise or blame: + Young, all lay in dispute; I shall know, being old. + + For note, when evening shuts, + A certain moment cuts + The deed off, calls the glory from the gray: + A whisper from the west + Shoots--"Add this to the rest, + Take it and try its worth: here dies another day." + + So, still within this life, + Though lifted o'er its strife, + Let me discern, compare, pronounce at last, + "This rage was right i' the main, + That acquiescence vain: + The Future I may face now I have proved the Past" + + For more is not reserved + To man, with soul just nerved + To act to-morrow what he learns to-day: + Here, work enough to watch + The Master work, and catch + Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool's true play. + + As it was better, youth + Should strive, through acts uncouth, + Toward making, than repose on aught found made: + So, better, age, exempt + From strife, should know, than tempt + Further. Thou waitedest age: wait death nor be afraid! + + Enough now, if the Right + And Good and Infinite + Be named here, as thou callest thy hand thine own, + With knowledge absolute, + Subject to no dispute + From fools that crowded youth, nor let thee feel alone. + + Be there, for once and all, + Sever'd great minds from small, + Announced to each his station in the Past! + Was I, the world arraigned, + Were they, my soul disdain'd, + Right? Let age speak the truth and give us peace at last! + + Now, who shall arbitrate? + Ten men love what I hate, + Shun what I follow, slight what I receive; + Ten, who in ears and eyes + Match me: we all surmise, + They this thing, and I that: whom shall my soul believe? + + Not on the vulgar mass + Call'd "work," must sentence pass, + Things done, that took the eye and had the price; + O'er which, from level stand, + The low world laid its hand, + Found straightway to its mind, could value in a trice: + + But all, the world's coarse thumb + And finger fail'd to plumb, + So pass'd in making up the main account; + All instincts immature, + All purposes unsure, + That weigh'd not as his work, yet swell'd the man's amount: + + Thoughts hardly to be pack'd + Into a narrow act, + Fancies that broke through language and escaped, + All I could never be, + All, men ignored in me, + This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped. + + Ay, note that Potter's wheel, + That metaphor! and feel + Why time spins fast, why passive lies our clay,-- + Thou, to whom fools propound, + When the wine makes its round, + "Since life fleets, all is change; the Past gone, seize to-day!" + + Fool! All that is, at all, + Lasts ever, past recall; + Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure; + What enter'd into thee, + _That_ was, is, and shall be: + Time's wheel runs back or stops: Potter and clay endure. + + He fix'd thee 'mid this dance + Of plastic circumstance, + This Present, thou, forsooth, wouldst fain arrest + Machinery just meant + To give thy soul its bent, + Try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently impress'd. + + What though the earlier grooves + Which ran the laughing loves + Around thy base, no longer pause and press? + What though, about thy rim, + Scull-things in order grim + Grow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner stress? + + Look not thou down but up! + To uses of a cup, + The festal board, lamp's flash and trumpet's peal, + The new wine's foaming flow, + The master's lips aglow! + Thou, heaven's consummate cup, what need'st thou with earth's wheel? + + But I need, now as then, + Thee, God, who mouldest men; + And since, not even while the whirl was worst + Did I,--to the wheel of life + With shapes and colours rife, + Bound dizzily,--mistake my end, to slake Thy thirst: + + So, take and use Thy work: + Amend what flaws may lurk, + What strain o' the stuff, what warpings past the aim! + My times be in Thy hand! + Perfect the cup as plann'd! + Lest age approve of youth, and death complete the same! + + ROBERT BROWNING. + + + PROSPICE. + +"Prospice," by Robert Browning (1812-89), is the greatest death song + ever written. It is a battle-song and a paean of victory. + + "The journey is done, the summit attained, + And the strong man must go." + "I would hate that Death bandaged my eyes and forebore, + And bade me creep past." + "No! let me taste the whole of it" + "The reward of all." + + This poem is included in this book because these lines are enough to + reconcile any one to any fate. + + Fear death?--to feel the fog in my throat, + The mist in _my_ face, + When the snows begin, and the blasts denote + I am nearing the place, + The power of the night, the press of the storm, + The post of the foe; + Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form, + Yet the strong man must go: + For the journey is done and the summit attained, + And the barriers fall, + Though a battle's to fight ere a guerdon be gained, + The reward of it all. + I was ever a fighter, so--one fight more. + The best and the last! + I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forebore, + And bade me creep past. + No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers + The heroes of old, + Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears + Of pain, darkness, and cold. + For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, + The black minute's at end. + And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave + Shall dwindle, shall blend, + Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain, + Then a light, then thy breast, + O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again, + And with God be the rest! + + ROBERT BROWNING. + + + RECESSIONAL. + + The "Recessional" (by Rudyard Kipling, 1865-) is one of the most + popular poems of this century. It is a warning to an age and a nation + drunk with power, a rebuke to materialistic tendencies and + boastfulness, a protest against pride. + + "Reverence is the master-key of knowledge." + + + God of our fathers, known of old-- + Lord of our far-flung battle-line-- + Beneath whose awful Hand we hold + Dominion over palm and pine-- + Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, + Lest we forget--lest we forget! + + The tumult and the shouting dies-- + The captains and the kings depart-- + Still stands Thine ancient Sacrifice, + An humble and a contrite heart. + Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, + Lest we forget--lest we forget! + + Far-called our navies melt away-- + On dune and headland sinks the fire-- + Lo, all our pomp of yesterday + Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! + Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, + Lest we forget--lest we forget! + + If, drunk with sight of power, we loose + Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe-- + Such boasting as the Gentiles use + Or lesser breeds without the Law-- + Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, + Lest we forget--lest we forget! + + For heathen heart that puts her trust + In reeking tube and iron shard-- + All valiant dust that builds on dust, + And guarding calls not Thee to guard-- + For frantic boast and foolish word, + Thy mercy on Thy People, Lord! Amen. + + RUDYARD KIPLING. + + + OZYMANDIAS OF EGYPT. + +"Ozymandias of Egypt," by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822). This sonnet + is a rebuke to the insolent pride of kings and empires. It is extremely + picturesque. It finds a place here because more elderly scholars of + good judgment are pleased with it. I remember an old gray-haired + scholar in Chicago who often recited it to his friends merely because + it touched his fancy. + + I met a traveller from an antique land + Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone + Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand, + Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown + And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command + Tell that its sculptor well those passions read + Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, + The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed; + And on the pedestal these words appear: + 'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: + Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!' + Nothing beside remains. Round the decay + Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, + The lone and level sands stretch far away;" + + PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. + + + MORTALITY. + +"Mortality" (by William Knox, 1789-1825) is always quoted as Lincoln's + favourite poem. + + O why should the spirit of mortal be proud? + Like a fast-flitting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, + A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, + He passes from life to his rest in the grave. + + The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, + Be scattered around and together be laid; + And the young and the old, and the low and the high, + Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie. + + The child that a mother attended and loved, + The mother that infant's affection that proved, + The husband that mother and infant that blessed, + Each, all, are away to their dwelling of rest. + + The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye, + Shone beauty and pleasure,--her triumphs are by; + And the memory of those that beloved her and praised + Are alike from the minds of the living erased. + + The hand of the king that the scepter hath borne, + The brow of the priest that the miter hath worn, + The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave, + Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave. + + The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap, + The herdsman who climbed with his goats to the steep, + The beggar that wandered in search of his bread, + Have faded away like the grass that we tread. + + The saint that enjoyed the communion of heaven, + The sinner that dared to remain unforgiven, + The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just, + Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust. + + So the multitude goes, like the flower and the weed + That wither away to let others succeed; + So the multitude comes, even those we behold, + To repeat every tale that hath often been told. + + For we are the same that our fathers have been; + We see the same sights that our fathers have seen,-- + We drink the same stream, and we feel the same sun, + And we run the same course that our fathers have run. + + The thoughts we are thinking, our fathers would think; + From the death we are shrinking from, they too would shrink; + To the life we are clinging to, they too would cling; + But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing. + + They loved, but their story we cannot unfold; + They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold; + They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers may come; + They enjoyed, but the voice of their gladness is dumb. + + They died, ay! they died! and we things that are now, + Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow, + Who make in their dwellings a transient abode, + Meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage road. + + Yea! hope and despondence, and pleasure and pain, + Are mingled together like sunshine and rain; + And the smile and the tear, and the song and the dirge, + Still follow each other, like surge upon surge. + + 'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath, + From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, + From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud,-- + O why should the spirit of mortal be proud? + + WILLIAM KNOX. + + + ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S "HOMER." + +"On First Looking Into Chapman's 'Homer,'" by John Keats (1795-1821). + The last four lines of this sonnet form the most tremendous climax in + literature. The picture is as vivid as if done with a brush. Every + great book, every great poem is a new world, an undiscovered country. + Every learned person is a whole territory, a universe of new thought. + Every one who does anything with a heart for it, every specialist every + one, however simple, who is strenuous and genuine, is a "new + discovery." Let us give credit to the smallest planet that is true to + its own orbit. + + Much have I travelled in the realms of gold, + And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; + Round many western islands have I been + Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. + + Oft of one wide expanse had I been told + That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne: + Yet did I never breathe its pure serene + Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: + + Then felt I like some watcher of the skies + When a new planet swims into his ken; + Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes + + He stared at the Pacific--and all his men + Look'd at each other with a wild surmise-- + Silent, upon a peak in Darien. + + JOHN KEATS. + + + HERVE RIEL. + +"Herve Riel" (by Robert Browning, 1812-89) is a poem for older boys. + Here is a hero who does a great deed simply as a part of his day's + work. He puts no value on what he has done, because he could have done + no other way. + + On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two, + Did the English fight the French--woe to France! + And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the blue, + Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue, + Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the Rance, + With the English fleet in view. + + 'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase, + First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville; + Close on him fled, great and small, + Twenty-two good ships in all; + And they signalled to the place, + "Help the winners of a race! + Get us guidance, give us harbour, take us quick--or, quicker still, + Here's the English can and will!" + + Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leaped on board: + "Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?" + laughed they; + "Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred + and scored, + Shall the _Formidable_ here, with her twelve and eighty guns, + Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way, + Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons. + And with flow at full beside? + Now 'tis slackest ebb of tide. + Reach the mooring! Rather say, + While rock stands or water runs, + Not a ship will leave the bay!" + + Then was called a council straight; + Brief and bitter the debate: + "Here's the English at our heels; would you have them take in tow + All that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow, + For a prize to Plymouth Sound?-- + Better run the ships aground!" + (Ended Damfreville his speech.) + "Not a minute more to wait! + Let the captains all and each + Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach! + France must undergo her fate. + + "Give the word!"--But no such word + Was ever spoke or heard; + For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these-- + A captain? A lieutenant? A mate--first, second, third? + No such man of mark, and meet + With his betters to compete! + But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet-- + A poor coasting pilot he, Herve Riel, the Croisiekese. + + And "What mockery or malice have we here?" cries Herve Riel: + "Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues? + Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell + On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell, + 'Twixt the offing here and Greve where the river disembogues? + Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's for? + Morn and eve, night and day. + Have I piloted your bay, + Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor. + Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fifty Hogues! + Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me there's a way! + Only let me lead the line, + Have the biggest ship to steer, + Get this _Formidable_ clear, + Make the others follow mine, + And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well, + Right to Solidor past Greve, + And there lay them safe and sound; + And if one ship misbehave, + --Keel so much as grate the ground, + Why, I've nothing but my life,--here's my head!" cries Herve Riel. + + Not a minute more to wait + "Steer us in, then, small and great! + Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!" cried its chief. + Captains, give the sailor place! + He is Admiral, in brief. + Still the north wind, by God's grace! + See the noble fellow's face + As the big ship, with a bound, + Clears the entry like a hound, + Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea's profound! + See, safe through shoal and rock, + How they follow in a flock, + Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground, + Not a spar that comes to grief! + The peril, see, is past, + All are harboured to the last, + And just as Herve Riel hollas "Anchor!"--sure as fate, + Up the English come--too late! + + So, the storm subsides to calm: + They see the green trees wave + On the heights o'erlooking Greve. + Hearts that bled are stanched with balm, + "Just our rapture to enhance, + Let the English rake the bay, + Gnash their teeth and glare askance + As they cannonade away! + 'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!" + How hope succeeds despair on each Captain's countenance! + Out burst all with one accord, + "This is Paradise for Hell! + Let France, let France's King + Thank the man that did the thing!" + What a shout, and all one word, + "Herve Riel!" + As he stepped in front once more, + Not a symptom of surprise + In the frank blue Breton eyes, + Just the same man as before. + + Then said Damfreville, "My friend, + I must speak out at the end, + Though I find the speaking hard. + Praise is deeper than the lips: + You have saved the King his ships, + You must name your own reward. + 'Faith, our sun was near eclipse! + Demand whate'er you will, + France remains your debtor still. + Ask to heart's content and have! or my name's not Damfreville." + + Then a beam of fun outbroke + On the bearded mouth that spoke, + As the honest heart laughed through + Those frank eyes of Breton blue: + "Since I needs must say my say, + Since on board the duty's done, + And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run?-- + Since 'tis ask and have, I may-- + Since the others go ashore-- + Come! A good whole holiday! + Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!" + That he asked and that he got,--nothing more. + + Name and deed alike are lost: + Not a pillar nor a post + In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell; + Not a head in white and black + On a single fishing smack, + In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack + All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell. + Go to Paris: rank on rank + Search the heroes flung pell-mell + On the Louvre, face and flank! + You shall look long enough ere you come to Herve Riel. + So, for better and for worse, + Herve Riel, accept my verse! + In my verse, Herve Riel, do thou once more + Save the squadron, honour France, love thy wife the Belle Aurore! + + ROBERT BROWNING. + + + THE PROBLEM. + +"The Problem" (by Ralph Waldo Emerson, 1803-80) is quoted from one end + of the world to the other. Emerson teaches one lesson above all others, + that each soul must work out for itself its latent force, its own + individual expression, and that with a "sad sincerity." "The bishop of + the soul" can do no more. + + I like a church; I like a cowl; + I love a prophet of the soul; + And on my heart monastic aisles + Fall like sweet strains, or pensive smiles: + Yet not for all his faith can see + Would I that cowled churchman be. + Why should the vest on him allure, + Which I could not on me endure? + + Not from a vain or shallow thought + His awful Jove young Phidias brought; + Never from lips of cunning fell + The thrilling Delphic oracle; + Out from the heart of nature rolled + The burdens of the Bible old; + The litanies of nations came, + Like the volcano's tongue of flame, + Up from the burning core below,-- + The canticles of love and woe: + The hand that rounded Peter's dome + And groined the aisles of Christian Rome + Wrought in a sad sincerity; + Himself from God he could not free; + He builded better than he knew; + The conscious stone to beauty grew. + + Knowst thou what wove yon woodbird's nest + Of leaves and feathers from her breast? + Or how the fish outbuilt her shell, + Painting with morn each annual cell? + Or how the sacred pine-tree adds + To her old leaves new myriads? + Such and so grew these holy piles, + While love and terror laid the tiles. + Earth proudly wears the Parthenon, + As the best gem upon her zone, + And Morning opes with haste her lids + To gaze upon the Pyramids; + O'er England's abbeys bends the sky, + As on its friends, with kindred eye; + For out of Thought's interior sphere + These wonders rose to upper air; + And Nature gladly gave them place, + Adopted them into her race, + And granted them an equal date + With Andes and with Ararat. + + These temples grew as grows the grass; + Art might obey, but not surpass. + The passive Master lent his hand + To the vast soul that o'er him planned; + And the same power that reared the shrine + Bestrode the tribes that knelt within. + Ever the fiery Pentecost + Girds with one flame the countless host, + Trances the heart through chanting choirs, + And through the priest the mind inspires. + The word unto the prophet spoken + Was writ on tables yet unbroken; + The word by seers or sibyls told, + In groves of oak, or fanes of gold. + Still floats upon the morning wind, + Still whispers to the willing mind. + One accent of the Holy Ghost + The heedless world hath never lost. + I know what say the fathers wise,-- + The Book itself before me lies, + Old Chrysostom, best Augustine, + And he who blent both in his line, + The younger Golden Lips or mines, + Taylor, the Shakespeare of divines. + His words are music in my ear, + I see his cowled portrait dear; + And yet, for all his faith could see, + I would not the good bishop be. + + RALPH WALDO EMERSON. + + + TO AMERICA. + +"To America," included by permission of the Poet Laureate, is a good + poem and a great poem. It is a keen thrust at the common practice of + teaching American children to hate the English of these days on account + of the actions of a silly old king dead a hundred years. Alfred Austin + deserves great credit for this poem. + + What is the voice I hear + On the winds of the western sea? + Sentinel, listen from out Cape Clear + And say what the voice may be. + 'Tis a proud free people calling loud to a people proud and free. + + And it says to them: "Kinsmen, hail! + We severed have been too long. + Now let us have done with a worn-out tale-- + The tale of an ancient wrong-- + And our friendship last long as our love doth and be stronger + than death is strong." + + Answer them, sons of the self-same race, + And blood of the self-same clan; + Let us speak with each other face to face + And answer as man to man, + And loyally love and trust each other as none but free men can. + + Now fling them out to the breeze, + Shamrock, Thistle, and Rose, + And the Star-spangled Banner unfurl with these-- + A message to friends and foes + Wherever the sails of peace are seen and wherever the war-wind blows-- + + A message to bond and thrall to wake, + For wherever we come, we twain, + The throne of the tyrant shall rock and quake, + And his menace be void and vain; + For you are lords of a strong land and we are lords of the main. + + Yes, this is the voice of the bluff March gale; + We severed have been too long, + But now we have done with a worn-out tale-- + The tale of an ancient wrong-- + And our friendship last long as love doth last and stronger + than death is strong. + + ALFRED AUSTIN. + + + THE ENGLISH FLAG. + + It is quite true that the English flag stands for freedom the world + over. Wherever it floats almost any one is safe, whether English or + not. + + [Above the portico the Union Jack remained fluttering in the flames for + some time, but ultimately when it fell the crowds rent the air with + shouts, and seemed to see significance in the incident.--_Daily + Papers_.] + + Winds of the World, give answer? They are whimpering to and fro-- + And what should they know of England who only England know?-- + The poor little street-bred people that vapour and fume and brag, + They are lifting their heads in the stillness to yelp at + the English Flag! + + Must we borrow a clout from the Boer--to plaster anew with dirt? + An Irish liar's bandage, or an English coward's shirt? + We may not speak of England; her Flag's to sell or share. + What is the Flag of England? Winds of the World, declare! + + The North Wind blew:--"From Bergen my steel-shod van-guards go; + I chase your lazy whalers home from the Disko floe; + By the great North Lights above me I work the will of God, + That the liner splits on the ice-field or the Dogger fills with cod. + + "I barred my gates with iron, I shuttered my doors with flame, + Because to force my ramparts your nutshell navies came; + I took the sun from their presence, I cut them down with my blast, + And they died, but the Flag of England blew free ere the spirit passed. + + "The lean white bear hath seen it in the long, long Arctic night, + The musk-ox knows the standard that flouts the Northern Light: + What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my bergs to dare, + Ye have but my drifts to conquer. Go forth, for it is there!" + + The South Wind sighed:--"From The Virgins my mid-sea course was ta'en + Over a thousand islands lost in an idle main, + Where the sea-egg flames on the coral and the long-backed + breakers croon + Their endless ocean legends to the lazy, locked lagoon. + + "Strayed amid lonely islets, mazed amid outer keys, + I waked the palms to laughter--I tossed the scud in the breeze-- + Never was isle so little, never was sea so lone, + But over the scud and the palm-trees an English flag was flown. + + "I have wrenched it free from the halliard to hang for a wisp + on the Horn; + I have chased it north to the Lizard--ribboned and rolled and torn; + I have spread its fold o'er the dying, adrift in a hopeless sea; + I have hurled it swift on the slaver, and seen the slave set free. + + "My basking sunfish know it, and wheeling albatross, + Where the lone wave fills with fire beneath the Southern Cross. + What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my reefs to dare, + Ye have but my seas to furrow. Go forth, for it is there!" + + The East Wind roared:--"From the Kuriles, the Bitter Seas, I come, + And me men call the Home-Wind, for I bring the English home. + Look--look well to your shipping! By the breath of my mad typhoon + I swept your close-packed Praya and beached your best at Kowloon! + + "The reeling junks behind me and the racing seas before, + I raped your richest roadstead--I plundered Singapore! + I set my hand on the Hoogli; as a hooded snake she rose, + And I flung your stoutest steamers to roost with the startled crows. + + "Never the lotos closes, never the wild-fowl wake, + But a soul goes out on the East Wind that died for England's sake-- + Man or woman or suckling, mother or bride or maid-- + Because on the bones of the English the English Flag is stayed. + + "The desert-dust hath dimmed it, the flying wild-ass knows. + The scared white leopard winds it across the taintless snows. + What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my sun to dare, + Ye have but my sands to travel. Go forth, for it is there!" + + The West Wind called:--"In squadrons the thoughtless galleons fly + That bear the wheat and cattle lest street-bred people die. + They make my might their porter, they make my house their path, + Till I loose my neck from their rudder and whelm them all in my wrath. + + "I draw the gliding fog-bank as a snake is drawn from the hole; + They bellow one to the other, the frightened ship-bells toll, + For day is a drifting terror till I raise the shroud with my breath, + And they see strange bows above them and the two go locked to death. + + "But whether in calm or wrack-wreath, whether by dark or day, + I heave them whole to the conger or rip their plates away, + First of the scattered legions, under a shrieking sky, + Dipping between the rollers, the English Flag goes by. + + "The dead dumb fog hath wrapped it--the frozen dews have kissed-- + The naked stars have seen it, a fellow-star in the mist. + What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my breath to dare, + Ye have but my waves to conquer. Go forth, for it is there!" + + RUDYARD KIPLING. + + + THE MAN WITH THE HOE. + +"The Man With the Hoe" is purely an American product, and every + American ought to be proud of it, for we want no such type allowed to + be developed in this country as the low-browed peasant of France. This + poem is a stroke of genius. The story goes that it so offended a modern + plutocrat that he offered a reward of $10,000 to any one who could + write an equally good poem in rebuttal. "The Man With the Hoe" has won + for Edwin Markham the title of "Poet Laureate of the Labouring + Classes." + + WRITTEN AFTER SEEING THE PAINTING BY MILLET. + + God made man in His own image, in the image of God made He + him.--GENESIS. + + Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans + Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground, + The emptiness of ages in his face, + And on his back the burden of the world. + Who made him dead to rapture and despair, + A thing that grieves not and that never hopes, + Stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox? + Who loosened and let down this brutal jaw? + Whose was the hand that slanted back this brow? + Whose breath blew out the light within this brain? + + Is this the Thing the Lord God made and gave + To have dominion over sea and land; + To trace the stars and search the heavens for power; + To feel the passion of Eternity? + Is this the Dream He dreamed who shaped the suns + And marked their ways upon the ancient deep? + Down all the stretch of Hell to its last gulf + There is no shape more terrible than this-- + More tongued with censure of the world's blind greed-- + More filled with signs and portents for the soul-- + More fraught with menace to the universe. + + What gulfs between him and the seraphim! + Slave of the wheel of labour, what to him + Are Plato and the swing of Pleiades? + What the long reaches of the peaks of song, + The rift of dawn, the reddening of the rose? + Through this dread shape the suffering ages look; + Time's tragedy is in that aching stoop; + Through this dread shape humanity betrayed, + Plundered, profaned, and disinherited, + Cries protest to the Judges of the World, + A protest that is also prophecy. + + O masters, lords, and rulers in all lands, + Is this the handiwork you give to God, + This monstrous thing distorted and soul-quenched? + How will you ever straighten up this shape; + Touch it again with immortality; + Give back the upward looking and the light; + Rebuild in it the music and the dream; + Make right the immemorial infamies, + Perfidious wrongs, immedicable woes? + + O masters, lords, and rulers in all lands, + How will the future reckon with this Man? + How answer his brute question in that hour + When whirlwinds of rebellion shake the world? + How will it be with kingdoms and with kings-- + With those who shaped him to the thing he is-- + When this dumb Terror shall reply to God, + After the silence of the centuries? + + EDWIN MARKHAM. + + + SONG OF MYSELF. + +"The Song of Myself" is one of Walt Whitman's (1819-92) most + characteristic poems. I love the swing and the stride of his great long + lines. I love his rough-shod way of trampling down and kicking out of + the way the conventionalities that spring up like poisonous mushrooms + to make the world a vast labyrinth of petty "proprieties" until + everything is nasty. I love the oxygen he pours on the world. I love + his genius for brotherliness, his picture of the Negro with rolling + eyes and the firelock in the corner. These excerpts are some of his + best lines. + + I celebrate myself, and sing myself, + And what I assume you shall assume, + For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. + I loafe and invite my soul, + I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass. + My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air, + Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their + parents the same, + I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin, + Hoping to cease not till death. + + I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard, + Nature without check with original energy. + + Have you reckoned a thousand acres much? have you reckon'd the + earth much? + Have you practised so long to learn to read? + Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems? + + Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin + of all poems, + You shall possess the good of the earth and sun (there are + millions of suns left), + You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look + through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the specters in books, + You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me, + You shall listen to all sides and filter them from yourself. + + A child said, "_What is the grass?_" fetching it to me with full hands; + How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more + than he. + I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green + stuff woven. + Or, I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord, + A scented gift and remembrance designedly dropt, + Bearing the owner's name some way in the corners, + that we may see and remark, and say, + "_Whose?_" + + Alone far in the wilds and mountains I hunt, + Wandering amazed at my own lightness and glee, + In the late afternoon choosing a safe spot to pass the night, + Kindling a fire and broiling the fresh-kill'd game, + Falling asleep on the gathered leaves with my dog and gun by my side. + The Yankee clipper is under her sky-sails, she cuts the sparkle + and scud, + My eyes settle the land, I bend at her prow or shout joyously from + the deck. + The boatman and clam-diggers arose early and stopt for me, + I tucked my trouser-ends in my boots and went and had a good time; + You should have been with us that day round the chowder-kettle. + + The runaway slave came to my house and stopt outside, + I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the woodpile, + Through the swung half-door of the kitchen I saw him limpsy and weak, + And went where he sat on a log and led him in and assured him, + And brought water and fill'd a tub for his sweated body and + bruis'd feet, + And gave him a room that entered from my own, and gave him some + coarse clean clothes, + And remember perfectly well his revolving eyes and his awkwardness, + And remember putting plasters on the galls of his neck and ankles; + He staid with me a week before he was recuperated and passed north, + I had him sit next me at table, my firelock lean'd in the corner. + + I am the poet of the woman the same as the man, + And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man, + And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men. + + I understand the large hearts of heroes, + The courage of present times and all times, + How the skipper saw the crowded and rudderless wreck of the steamship, + and Death chasing it up and down the storm, + How he knuckled tight and gave not back an inch and was faithful of + days and faithful of nights, + And chalked in large letters on a board, "_Be of good cheer, we will + not desert you_"; + How he followed with them and tack'd with them three days and would + not give it up, + How he saved the drifting company at last, + How the lank loose-gown'd women looked when boated from the side + of their prepared graves, + How the silent old-faced infants and the lifted sick, and the + sharp-lipp'd unshaved men; + All this I swallow, it tastes good, I like it well, it becomes mine, + I am the man, I suffered, I was there. + The disdain and calmness of martyrs, + The mother of old, condemned for a witch, burned with dry wood, her + children gazing on, + The hounded slave that flags in the race, leans by the fence blowing, + covered with sweat. + I am the hounded slave, I wince at the bite of the dogs, + Hell and despair are upon me, crack and again crack the marksmen, + I clutch the rails of the fence, my gore dribs, thinn'd with the + ooze of my skin, + I fall on the weeds and stones, + The riders spur their unwilling horses, haul close, + Taunt my dizzy ears and beat me violently over the head with + whip-stocks. + + Old age superbly rising! O welcome, ineffable grace of dying days! + + See ever so far, there is limitless space outside of that, + Count ever so much, there is limitless time around that. + My rendezvous is appointed, it is certain, + The Lord will be there and wait till I come on perfect terms. + The great Camerado, the lover true for whom I pine will be there. + + And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own + funeral drest in his shroud. + + And to glance with an eye or show a bean in its pod confounds + the learning of all times, + And there is no trade or employment but the young man following + it may become a hero, + And there is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the wheel'd + universe. + And I say to any man or woman, "Let your soul stand cool and composed + before a million universes." + + I see something of God each hour of the twenty-four, and each + moment then, + In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in + the glass, + I find letters from God dropt in the street, and every one is + sign'd by God's name, + And I leave them where they are, for I know that wheresoe'er I go, + Others will punctually come forever and ever. + + Listener up there! What have you to confide in me? + Look in my face while I snuff the sidle of evening. + (Talk honestly, no one else hears you, and I stay only a minute + longer.) + Who has done his day's work? Who will soonest be through with + his supper? + Who wishes to walk with me? + + I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable, + I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world. + + + + + INDEX + + + A barking sound the shepherd hears, 120 + + Abide with me! fast falls the eventide, 223 + + Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase), 89 + + A chieftain to the Highlands bound, 105 + + Across the lonely beach, 71 + + A life on the ocean wave, 85 + + Alone I walked the ocean strand, 256 + + A nightingale that all day long, 34 + + A supercilious nabob of the East, 165 + + At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay, 246 + + At midnight in his guarded tent, 128 + + A traveller on the dusty road, 48 + + A well there is in the west country, 180 + + Ay, tear her tattered ensign down, 53 + + + Behind him lay the gray Azores, 169 + + Beneath the low-hung night cloud, 67 + + Bird of the wilderness, 302 + + Blow, blow, thou winter wind, 58 + + Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans, 342 + + Bright shone the lists, blue bent the skies, 110 + + Buttercups and daisies, 51 + + By the shores of Gitche Gumee, 79 + + + Come, let us plant the apple-tree, 211 + + Come, dear children, let us away, 260 + +"Courage!" he said, and pointed toward the land, 231 + + Cupid and my Campasbe played, 235 + + Cupid once upon a bed, 234 + + + Down in a green and shady bed, 27 + + + Farewell! Farewell! But this I tell, 5 + + Fear death?--to feel the fog in my throat, 320 + + +"Give us a song!" the soldiers cried, 64 + + God of our fathers, known of old, 321 + + Goe, soule, the bodie's guest, 283 + + Grow old along with me, 312 + + + Hail to thee, blithe spirit, 268 + + Half a league, half a league, 107 + + Happy the man whose wish and care, 273 + + Hats off! 133 + + Heaven is not reached at a single bound, 117 + + How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, 288 + +"How I should like a birthday!" said the child, 164 + + How happy is he born and taught, 220 + + How sleep the brave, who sing to rest, 133 + + + I am monarch of all I survey, 190 + + I celebrate myself, and sing myself, 344 + + I chatter, chatter, as I flow, 153 + + I come, I come! ye have called me long, 259 + + If I had but two little wings, 21 + + I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me, 9 + + I heard last night a little child go singing, 222 + + I like a church: I like a cowl, 333 + +"I'll tell you how the leaves came down," 12 + + I met a traveller from an antique land, 322 + + In her ear he whispers gaily, 75 + + In the name of the Empress of India, make way, 125 + + I remember, I remember, 159 + + I shot an arrow into the air, 3 + +"Isn't this Joseph's son?"--ay, it is He, 114 + + I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he, 173 + + Is there, for honest poverty, 151 + + It is not growing like a tree, 60 + + It was a summer's evening, 117 + + It was our war-ship _Clampherdown_, 154 + + It was the schooner _Hesperus_, 138 + + It was the time when lilies blow, 72 + + I wandered lonely as a cloud, 82 + + + John Anderson, my jo, John, 274 + + + King Francis was a hearty king and loved a royal sport, 184 + + Krinken was a little child, 162 + + + Lars Porsena of Clusium, 193 + + Lead kindly light, amid th' encircling gloom, 224 + + Let dogs delight to bark and bite, 4 + + Life! I know not what thou art, 299 + + Little drops of water, 5 + + Little orphant Annie's come to our house to stay, 54 + + Little white lily, 10 + + +"Make way for liberty!" he cried, 296 + + Maxwelton braes are bonnie, 226 + + Merrily swinging on brier and weed, 44 + + Methought I heard a butterfly, 42 + + 'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, 220 + + Mine be a cot beside the hill, 272 + + My country 'tis of thee, 228 + + My fairest child, I have no song to give you, 21 + + My good blade carves the casques of men, 253 + + My heart leaps up when I behold, 28 + + My little Maedchen found one day, 149 + + My mind to me a kingdom is, 286 + + My soul is sailing through the sea, 219 + + Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold, 326 + + + Nae shoon to hide her tiny taes, 4 + + No stir in the air, no stir in the sea, 145 + + Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 176 + + Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are, 179 + + + O, a dainty plant is the ivy green, 59 + + O Captain! my Captain, our fearful trip is done, 57 + + Of all the woodland creatures, 60 + + Oft in the stilly night, 266 + + Oh where! and oh where! is your Highland laddie gone, 20 + + Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the West, 103 + + Old Grimes is dead; that good old man, 47 + +"O Mary, go and call the cattle home, 271 + + O, may I join the choir invisible, 303 + + Once a dream did wave a shade, 116 + + Once there was a little boy, 19 + + Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, 289 + + On Linden, when the sun was low, 134 + + On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two, 326 + + Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass, 160 + + Over the hill the farm-boy goes, 90 + + O! say can you see, by the dawn's early light, 31 + + O why should the spirit of mortal be proud, 323 + + + Pussy can sit by the fire and sing, 8 + + Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 126 + + + Said the wind to the moon, "I will blow you out," 111 + + Sail on, sail on, O Ship of State, 227 + + Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 142 + + See thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue, 301 + + Serene I fold my hands and wait, 267 + + Shed no tear! O shed no tear, 50 + + She dwelt among the untrodden ways, 272 + + She was a phantom of delight, 305 + + Speak! speak! thou fearful guest, 240 + + Stand! the ground's your own, my braves!, 63 + + Sunset and evening star, 124 + + Sweet and low, sweet and low, 27 + + + Tell me not in mournful numbers, 218 + + The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold, 158 + + The boy stood on the burning deck, 22 + + The breaking waves dashed high, 229 + + The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 306 + + The Frost looked forth, one still, clear night, 39 + + The gingham dog and the calico cat, 18 + + The God of Music dwelleth out of doors, 275 + + The harp that once through Tara's halls, 287 + + The nautilus and the ammonite, 188 + + The old mayor climb'd the belfry tower, 277 + + The Owl and the Pussy Cat went to sea, 15 + + The quality of mercy is not strained, 300 + + There came a youth upon the earth, 171 + + There came to port last Sunday night, 152 + + There lay upon the ocean's shore, 148 + + There was a sound of revelry by night, 177 + + There was never a Queen like Balkis, 7 + + There were three kings into the East, 83 + + There were three sailors of Bristol City, 41 + + The splendour falls on castle walls, 66 + + The stately homes of England, 192 + + The summer and autumn had been so wet, 166 + + The sun shines bright in the old Kentucky home, 136 + + The world is too much with us; late and soon, 304 + + The year's at the spring, 6 + + Thirty days hath September, 7 + + This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, 122 + + This was the noblest Roman of them all, 301 + + 'Tis the last rose of summer, 225 + + T'other day as I was twining, 234 + + Traveller, pluck a stem of moly, 233 + + Triumphal arch that fills the sky, 53 + + 'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house, 29 + + Twinkle, twinkle little star, 6 + + + Under a spreading chestnut tree, 25 + + Up from the meadows rich with corn, 96 + + Up from the South at break of day, 68 + + + Way down upon de Swanee ribber, 137 + + Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower, 94 + + Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie, 92 + + Wee Willie Winkie rins through the town, 13 + + We were crowded in the cabin, 23 + + Whatever brawls disturb the street, 20 + + What is so rare as a day in June, 217 + + What is the voice I hear, 335 + + What was he doing, the great god Pan, 275 + + When cats run home and light is come, 40 + + When earth's last picture is painted, 285 + + When George the Third was reigning, a hundred years ago, 236 + + When I consider how my light is spent, 304 + + When Letty had scarce pass'd her third glad year, 115 + + Where the pools are bright and deep, 50 + + Wild was the night, yet a wilder night, 131 + + Winds of the world, give answer, 337 + + Woodman, spare that tree, 222 + + Wynken, Blynken and Nod one night, 16 + + + Ye banks and braes of bonnie Doon, 265 + +"You are old, Father William," the young man said, 33 + + You know, we French storm'd Ratisbon, 43 + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Poems Every Child Should Know, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW *** + +***** This file should be named 16436.txt or 16436.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/6/4/3/16436/ + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Laura Wisewell and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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