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+The Project Gutenberg eBook of Poems Every Child Should Know
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
+most other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you
+will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before
+using this eBook.
+
+Title: Poems Every Child Should Know
+
+Editor: Mary E. Burt
+
+Release Date: August 4, 2005 [eBook #16436]
+Last Updated: August 25, 2023
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+Produced by: Juliet Sutherland, Laura Wisewell and the
+Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW ***
+
+
+
+
+ [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 Cæsar” 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 Cæsar, 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 crownèd 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 Græmes 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 armèd 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 Platæa’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 stainèd 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 savèd 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 returnèd 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-wingèd 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 blessèd 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 libertà, 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 libertà_ 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 agèd 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 agèd snow,
+ Stood sunset-flush’d: and, dew’d with showery drops,
+ Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse.
+
+ The charmèd 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, blessèd 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 blessèd 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 blessèd 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 drownèd 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 æon 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 Cæsar” (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 Cæsar;
+ 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 Cæsar”).
+
+
+ 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 agèd 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 pæan 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 Grève 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 Grève,
+ 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 Grève.
+ 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 cowlèd 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 cowlèd 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
+
+
+
+
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