The following sections of this BookRags Literature Study Guide is offprint from Gale's For Students Series: Presenting Analysis, Context, and Criticism on Commonly Studied Works: Introduction, Author Biography, Plot Summary, Characters, Themes, Style, Historical Context, Critical Overview, Criticism and Critical Essays, Media Adaptations, Topics for Further Study, Compare & Contrast, What Do I Read Next?, For Further Study, and Sources.
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The following sections, if they exist, are offprint from Beacham's Encyclopedia of Popular Fiction: "Social Concerns", "Thematic Overview", "Techniques", "Literary Precedents", "Key Questions", "Related Titles", "Adaptations", "Related Web Sites". (c)1994-2005, by Walton Beacham.
The following sections, if they exist, are offprint from Beacham's Guide to Literature for Young Adults: "About the Author", "Overview", "Setting", "Literary Qualities", "Social Sensitivity", "Topics for Discussion", "Ideas for Reports and Papers". (c)1994-2005, by Walton Beacham.
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Table of Contents | |
Section | Page |
Start of eBook | 1 |
PART II | 1 |
PART III | 2 |
PART IV | 2 |
PART V | 3 |
PART VI | 4 |
INDEX OF AUTHORS | 6 |
PART I. | 8 |
PART II. | 21 |
PART III. | 46 |
PART IV. | 63 |
FOOTNOTES: | 66 |
PART V. | 91 |
PART VI. | 107 |
INDEX | 145 |
“Give us a song!” the soldiers cried, 64 | 146 |
“Make way for liberty!” he cried, 296 | 147 |
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
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
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
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
145. The Voice of Spring
259
Felicia Hemans
146. The Forsaken Merman
260
Matthew Arnold
147. The Banks o’ Doon
265
Robert burns
148. The Light of Other Days
266
Thomas Moore
149. My Own Shall Come to Me
267
John Burroughs
150. Ode to a Skylark
268
Percy Bysshe Shelley
151. The Sands of Dee
271
Charles Kingsley
152. A Wish
272
Samuel Rogers
153. Lucy
272
William Wordsworth
154. Solitude
273
Alexander Pope
155. John Anderson
274
Robert burns
156. The God of Music
275
Edith M. Thomas
157. A Musical Instrument
275
Elizabeth Barrett
Browning
158. The Brides of Enderby
277
Jean Ingelow
159. The Lye
283
sir Walter Raleigh
160. L’Envoi
285
Rudyard Kipling
161. Contentment
286
Edward Dyer
162. The Harp That Once Through Tara’s
Halls 287
Thomas Moore
163. The Old Oaken Bucket
288
Samuel Woodworth
164. The Raven
289
Edgar Allan Poe
165. Arnold von Winkleried
296
James Montgomery
166. Life, I Know Not What Thou Art
299
A.L. BARBAULD
167. Mercy
300
William Shakespeare
168. Polonius’ Advice
301
William Shakespeare
169. A Fragment from “Julius Caesar”
301
William Shakespeare
170. The Skylark
302
Thomas Hogg
171. The Choir Invisible
303
George Eliot
172. The World Is Too Much With Us
304
William Wordsworth
173. On His Blindness
304
John Milton
174. She Was a Phantom of Delight
305
William Wordsworth
175. Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard
306
Thomas gray
176. Rabbi Ben Ezra
312
Robert Browning
177. Prospice
320
Robert Browning
178. Recessional
321
Rudyard Kipling
179. Ozymandias of Egypt
322
Percy Bysshe Shelley
180. Mortality
323
William Knox
181. On First Looking Into Chapman’s
Homer 326
John Keats
182. Herve Riel
326
Robert Browning
183. The Problem
333
Ralph Waldo Emerson
184. To America
335
Alfred Austin
185. The English Flag
337
Rudyard Kipling
186. The Man With the Hoe
342
Edwin Markham
187. Song of Myself
344
Walt Whitman
Index 350
Anonymous
Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, 6
The Days of the Month, 7
The Boy who Never Told a Lie, 19
The Bluebell of Scotland, 20
The Nautilus and the Ammonite, 188
A Ballad for a Boy, 236
Arnold, Matthew
The Forsaken Merman, 260
Austin, Alfred
To America, 335
BARBAULD, A.L.
Life, I Know Not What Thou Art,
299
Bennett, Henry Holcomb
The Flag Goes By, 133
Blake, William
A Dream, 116
Bowles, William Lisle
The Butterfly and the Bee, 42
Bradley, Mary Emily
A Chrysalis, 149
Brewer, Ebenezer Cobham
Little Things, 5
Browning, Elizabeth Barrett
From Casa Guidi Windows, 222
A Musical Instrument, 275
Browning, Robert
Pippa, 6
An Incident of the French Camp,
43
How They Brought the Good News from
Ghent to Aix, 173
Rabbi Ben Ezra, 312
Prospice, 320
Herve Riel, 326
Bryant, William Cullen
Robert of Lincoln, 44
The Planting of the Apple Tree,
211
burns, Robert
John Barleycorn, 83
To a Mouse, 92
To a Mountain Daisy, 94
Bannockburn, 142
For a’ That, 151
The Banks o’ Doon, 265
John Anderson, 274
Burroughs, John
My Own Shall Come to Me, 267
Burt, Mary E.
The Flying Squirrel, 60
Byron, lord
The Destruction of Sennacherib,
158
The Eve of Waterloo, 177
Cable, George W.
The New Arrival, 152
Campbell, Thomas
The Rainbow, 53
Lord Ullin’s Daughter, 105
Hohenlinden, 134
Carroll, Lewis
Father William, 33
Coleridge, Samuel T.
He Prayeth Best, 5
If I Had But Two Little Wings, 21
Collins, William
How Sleep the Brave, 133
Coolidge, Susan
How the Leaves Came Down, 12
Cowper, William
The Nightingale and the Glow-worm,
34
The Solitude of Alexander Selkirk,
190
Dickens, Charles
The Ivy Green, 59
Douglas, William
Annie Laurie, 226
Dyer, Edward
Contentment, 286
Eliot, George
The Choir Invisible, 303
Emerson, Ralph Waldo
The Problem, 333
Field, Eugene
Wynken, Blynken and Nod, 16
The Duel, 18
Krinken, 162
fields, James T.
The Captain’s Daughter, 23
Foster, Stephen Collins
My Old Kentucky Home, 136
Old Folks at Home, 137
Gould, Hannah Flagg
The Frost, 39
A Name in the Sand, 256
gray, Thomas
Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard,
306
greene, Albert Gorton
Old Grimes, 47
Halleck, Fitz-greene
Marco Bozzaris, 128
Hemans, Felicia
Casabianca, 22
The Homes of England, 192
The Landing of the Pilgrims, 229
The Voice of Spring, 259
Hood, Thomas
I Remember, I Remember, 159
Hogg, James
A Boy’s Song, 50
The Skylark, 302
Holland, J.G.
Heaven is Not Reached at a Single
Bound, 117
Holmes, Oliver Wendell
Old Ironsides, 53
The Chambered Nautilus, 122
Howitt, Mary
Buttercups and Daisies, 51
hunt, Leigh
Abou Ben Adhem, 89
The Glove and the Lions, 184
Cupid Drowned, 234
Ingelow, Jean
The Brides of Enderby, 277
Jonson. Ben
The Noble Nature, 60
Keats, John
Fairy Song, 50
On First Looking Into Chapman’s
Homer, 326
key, Francis Scott
The Star-Spangled Banner, 31
Kingsley, Charles
A Farewell, 21
The Sands of Dee, 271
Kipling, Rudyard
True Royalty, 7
Playing Robinson Crusoe, 8
The Overland Mail, 125
The Ballad of the Clampherdown,
154
L’Envoi, 285
Recessional, 321
The English Flag, 337
Knox, William
Mortality, 323
Lanier, Sidney
The Tournament, 110
Barnacles, 219
Lear, Edward
The Owl and the Pussy-Cat, 15
Liddell, Catherine C.
Jesus the Carpenter, 114
Longfellow, Henry W.
The Arrow and the Song, 3
The Village Blacksmith, 25
Hiawatha’s Childhood, 79
The Wreck of the Hesperus, 138
A Psalm of Life, 218
The Ship of State, 227
The Skeleton in Armour, 240
Lowell, James Russell
The Finding of the Lyre, 148
The Shepherd of King Admetus, 171
June, 217
lyly, John
Cupid and My Campasbe, 235
Lyte, Henry Francis
Abide With Me, 223
Macaulay, Thomas B.
Ivry, 179
Horatius at the Bridge, 193
Macdonald, George
Little White Lily, 10
The Wind and the Moon, 111
Mackay, Charles
Song of Life, 48
Markham, Edwin
The Man With the Hoe, 342
MCCLELLAN, Isaac
The Death of Napoleon, 131
miller, Joaquin
Columbus, 169
miller, Katherine
Stevenson’s Birthday, 164
miller, William
Willie Winkie, 13
Milton, John
On His Blindness, 304
Montgomery, James
Arnold von Winkleried, 296
Moore, Clement Clarke
A Visit from St. Nicholas, 29
Moore, Thomas
The Last Rose of Summer, 234
Cupid Stung, 234
The Light of Other Days, 266
The Harp That Once Through Tara’s
Halls, 287
Morris, George Pope
Woodman, Spare That Tree, 222
Newman, John Henry
Lead, Kindly Light, 224
Osborne, Selleck
A Modest Wit, 165
Osgood, Kate Putnam
Driving Home the Cows, 160
Payne, John Howard
Home, Sweet Home, 220
Pierpont, John
Warren’s Address, 63
Poe, Edgar Allan
The Raven, 289
Pope, Alexander
Solitude, 273
Raleigh, sir Walter
The Lye, 283
Rankin. Jeremiah Eames
The Babie, 4
read, Thomas Buchanan
Sheridan’s Ride, 68
Riley, James Whitcomb
Little Orphant Annie, 54
Rogers, Samuel
A Wish, 272
Sargent, Epes
A Life on the Ocean Wave, 85
Scott, sir Walter
Lochinvar, 103
The Gathering Song of Donald Dhu,
126
Shakespeare, William
Ingratitude, 58
Mercy, 300
Polonius’ Advice, 301
A Fragment from Julius Caesar, 301
Shelley, Percy Bysshe
Ode to a Skylark, 268
Ozymandias in the Desert, 322
smith, Samuel Francis
America, 228
Southey, Robert
The Battle of Blenheim, 117
The Inchcape Rock, 145
The Legend of Bishop Hatto, 166
The Well of St. Keyne, 186
Stevenson, Robert Louis
My Shadow, 9
Taylor, Bayard
The Song in Camp, 64
Taylor, Jane
The Violet, 27
Tennyson, Alfred
Sweet and Low, 27
The Owl, 40
The Bugle Song, 66
Lady Clare, 72
The Lord of Burleigh, 75
The Death of the Old Year, 86
The Charge of the Light Brigade,
107
Crossing the Bar, 124
The Brook, 153
The Lotos Eaters, 231
The Revenge, 246
Sir Galahad, 253
Thackeray, William Makepeace
Little Billee, 41
Thaxter, Celia
The Sandpiper, 71
Thomas, Edith
Moly, 233
The God of Music, 275
Trowbridge, J.T.
Farmyard Song, 90
Turner, Charles Tennyson
Letty’s Globe, 115
Watts, Isaac
Let Dogs Delight to Bark and Bite,
4
Love Between Brothers and Sisters,
20
Whitman, Walt
O Captain! My Captain! 57
Song of Myself, 344
Whittier, John G.
The Three Bells of Glasgow, 67
Barbara Frietchie, 96
Wolfe, C.
The Burial of Sir John Moore at
Corunna, 176
Woodworth, Samuel
The Old Oaken Bucket, 288
Wordsworth, William
The Rainbow (a fragment), 28
I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud, 82
Fidelity, 120
Lucy, 272
The World is Too Much With Us, 304
She Was a Phantom of Delight, 305
Wotton, sir Henry
A Happy Life, 220
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.
HenryW. 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.
JeremiahEames 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.
IsaacWatts.
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.
EbenezerCobham 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.
SamuelT. 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!
RobertBrowning.
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.
Oldsong.
True royalty.
“True Royalty” and “Playing Robinson
Crusoe” are pleasing stanzas from
“The Just So Stories” of Rudyard Kipling
(1865-).
There was never a Queen like
Balkis,
From here to the
wide world’s end;
But Balkis talked to a butterfly
As you would talk
to a friend.
There was never a King like
Solomon,
Not since the
world began;
But Solomon talked to a butterfly
As a man would
talk to a man.
She was Queen of Sabaea—
And he
was Asia’s Lord—
But they both of ’em
talked to butterflies
When they took
their walks abroad.
RUDYARD KIPLING.
(In “The Just So Stories.”)
PLAYING ROBINSON CRUSOE.
Pussy can sit by the fire
and sing,
Pussy can climb
a tree,
Or play with a silly old cork
and string
To ’muse
herself, not me.
But I like Binkie, my dog,
because
He knows how to
behave;
So, Binkie’s the same
as the First Friend was,
And I am the Man
in the Cave.
Pussy will play Man-Friday
till
It’s time
to wet her paw
And make her walk on the window-sill
(For the footprint
Crusoe saw);
Then she fluffles her tail
and mews,
And scratches
and won’t attend.
But Binkie will play whatever
I choose,
And he is my true
First Friend.
Pussy will rub my knees with
her head,
Pretending she
loves me hard;
But the very minute I go to
my bed
Pussy runs out
in the yard.
And there she stays till the
morning light;
So I know it is
only pretend;
But Binkie, he snores at my
feet all night,
And he is my Firstest
Friend!
RUDYARD KIPLING.
(In “The Just So Stories.”)
MY SHADOW.
“My Shadow,” by Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-94), is one of the most popular short poems extant. I have taught it to a great many very young boys, and not one has ever tried to evade learning it. Older pupils like it equally well.
I have a little shadow that
goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of
him is more than I can see.
He is very, very like me from
the heels up to the head;
And I see him jump before
me, when I jump into my bed.
The funniest thing about him
is the way he likes to grow—
Not at all like proper children,
which is always very slow;
For he sometimes shoots up
taller like an india-rubber ball,
And he sometimes gets so little
that there’s none of him at all.
He hasn’t got a notion
of how children ought to play,
And can only make a fool of
me in every sort of way.
He stays so close beside me,
he’s a coward, you can see;
I’d think shame to stick
to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!
One morning, very early, before
the sun was up,
I rose and found the shining
dew on every buttercup;
But my lazy little shadow,
like an arrant sleepy-head,
Had stayed at home behind
me and was fast asleep in bed.
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.
LITTLE WHITE LILY.
This poem (George Macdonald, 1828-) finds a place in this volume because, as a child, I loved it. It completely filled my heart, and has made every member of the lily family dear to me. George Macdonald’s charming book, “At the Back of the North Wind,” also was my wonder and delight.
Little White Lily
Sat by a stone,
Drooping and waiting
Till the sun shone.
Little White Lily
Sunshine has fed;
Little White Lily
Is lifting her head.
Little White Lily
Said: “It is good
Little White Lily’s
Clothing and food.”
Little White Lily
Dressed like a bride!
Shining with whiteness,
And crowned beside!
Little White Lily
Drooping with pain,
Waiting and waiting
For the wet rain.
Little White Lily
Holdeth her cup;
Rain is fast falling
And filling it up.
Little White Lily
Said: “Good again,
When I am thirsty
To have the nice rain.
Now I am stronger,
Now I am cool;
Heat cannot burn me,
My veins are so full.”
Little White Lily
Smells very sweet;
On her head sunshine,
Rain at her feet.
Thanks to the sunshine,
Thanks to the rain,
Little White Lily
Is happy again.
GEORGE MACDONALD.
HOW THE LEAVES CAME DOWN.
“How the Leaves Came Down,” by Susan Coolidge (1845-), appeals to children because it helps to reconcile them to going to bed. “I go to bed by day” is one of the crosses of childhood.
“I’ll tell you how the
leaves came down,”
The great Tree
to his children said:
“You’re getting sleepy,
Yellow and Brown,
Yes, very sleepy,
little Red.
It is quite time
to go to bed.”
“Ah!” begged each silly,
pouting leaf,
“Let us a little
longer stay;
Dear Father Tree, behold our
grief!
’Tis such a very
pleasant day,
We do not want
to go away.”
So, for just one more merry
day
To the great Tree
the leaflets clung,
Frolicked and danced, and
had their way,
Upon the autumn
breezes swung,
Whispering all
their sports among—
“Perhaps the great Tree will
forget,
And let us stay
until the spring,
If we all beg, and coax, and
fret.”
But the great
Tree did no such thing;
He smiled to hear
their whispering.
“Come, children, all to bed,”
he cried;
And ere the leaves
could urge their prayer,
He shook his head, and far
and wide,
Fluttering and
rustling everywhere,
Down sped the
leaflets through the air.
I saw them; on the ground
they lay,
Golden and red,
a huddled swarm,
Waiting till one from far
away,
White bedclothes
heaped upon her arm,
Should come to
wrap them safe and warm.
The great bare Tree looked
down and smiled.
“Good-night, dear
little leaves,” he said.
And from below each sleepy
child
Replied, “Good-night,”
and murmured,
“It is so
nice to go to bed!”
SUSAN COOLIDGE.
WILLIE WINKIE.
“Wee Willie Winkie,” by William Miller (1810-72), is included in this volume out of respect to an eight-year-old child who chose it from among hundreds. We had one poetry hour every week, and he studied and recited it with unabated interest to the end of the year.
Wee Willie Winkie rins through
the town,
Up-stairs and doon-stairs,
in his nicht-gown,
Tirlin’ at the window,
cryin’ at the lock,
“Are the weans in their bed?—for
it’s now ten o’clock.”
Hey, Willie Winkie! are ye
comin’ ben?
The cat’s singin’
gay thrums to the sleepin’ hen,
The doug’s speldered
on the floor, and disna gie a cheep;
But here’s a waukrife
laddie that winna fa’ asleep.
Onything but sleep, ye rogue!
glow’rin’ like the moon,
Rattlin’ in an airn
jug wi’ an airn spoon,
Rumblin’ tumblin’
roun’ about, crowin’ like a cock,
Skirlin’ like a kenna-what—wauknin’
sleepin’ folk.
Hey, Willie Winkie! the wean’s
in a creel!
Waumblin’ aff a body’s
knee like a vera eel,
Ruggin’ at the cat’s
lug, and ravellin’ a’ her thrums,—
Hey, Willie Winkie!—See,
there he comes!
Wearie is the mither that
has a storie wean,
A wee stumpie stoussie that
canna rin his lane,
That has a battle aye wi’
sleep before he’ll close an ee;
But a kiss frae aff his rosy
lips gies strength anew to me.
WILLIAM MILLER.
THE OWL AND THE PUSSY-CAT.
“The Owl and the Pussy-Cat,” by Edward Lear (1812-88), is placed here because I once found that a timid child was much strengthened and developed by learning it. It is a song that appeals to the imagination of children, and they like to sing it.
The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went
to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat;
They took some honey, and plenty of money
Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the moon above,
And sang to a small guitar,
“O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love!
What a beautiful Pussy you are,—
You are,
What a beautiful Pussy you are!”
Pussy said to the Owl, “You
elegant fowl!
How wonderful sweet you sing!
Oh, let us be married,—too long we
have tarried,—
But what shall we do for a ring?”
They sailed away for a year and a day
To the land where the Bong-tree grows,
And there in a wood a piggy-wig stood
With a ring in the end of his nose,—
His nose,
With a ring in the end of his nose.
“Dear Pig, are you willing
to sell for one shilling
Your ring?” Said the piggy, “I
will,”
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined upon mince and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon,
And hand in hand on the edge of the sand
They danced by the light of the moon,—
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.
EDWARD LEAR.
WYNKEN, BLYNKEN, AND NOD.
“Wynken, Blynken, and Nod,” by Eugene Field (1850-95), pleases children, who are all by nature sailors and adventurers.
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one
night
Sailed off in
a wooden shoe,—
Sailed on a river of crystal
light
Into a sea of
dew.
“Where are you going, and
what do you wish?”
The old moon asked
the three.
“We have come to fish for
the herring-fish
That live in this
beautiful sea;
Nets of silver
and gold have we,”
Said
Wynken,
Blynken,
And
Nod.
The old moon laughed and sang
a song,
As they rocked
in the wooden shoe;
And the wind that sped them
all night long
Ruffled the waves
of dew;
The little stars were the
herring-fish
That lived in
the beautiful sea.
“Now cast your nets wherever
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,
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.
The Little Child
[Illustration]
THE FROST.
“Jack Frost,” by Hannah Flagg Gould (1789-1865), is perhaps a hundred years old, but he is the same rollicking fellow to-day as of yore. The poem puts his merry pranks to the front and prepares the way for science to give him a true analysis.
The Frost looked forth, one
still, clear night,
And whispered, “Now
I shall be out of sight;
So through the valley and
over the height,
In silence I’ll
take my way:
I will not go on with that
blustering train,
The wind and the snow, the
hail and the rain,
Who make so much bustle and
noise in vain,
But I’ll
be as busy as they.”
Then he flew to the mountain
and powdered its crest;
He lit on the trees, and their
boughs he dressed
In diamond beads—and
over the breast
Of the quivering
lake he spread
A coat of mail, that it need
not fear
The downward point of many
a spear
That hung on its margin far
and near,
Where a rock could
rear its head.
He went to the windows of
those who slept,
And over each pane, like a
fairy, crept;
Wherever he breathed, wherever
he slept,
By the light of
the moon were seen
Most beautiful things—there
were flowers and trees;
There were bevies of birds
and swarms of bees;
There were cities with temples
and towers, and these
All pictured in
silver sheen!
But he did one thing that
was hardly fair;
He peeped in the cupboard,
and finding there
That all had forgotten for
him to prepare—
“Now just to set
them a-thinking,
I’ll bite this basket
of fruit,” said he,
“This costly pitcher I’ll
burst in three,
And the glass of water they’ve
left for me
Shall ‘tchich!’
to tell them I’m drinking.”
HANNAH FLAGG GOULD.
THE OWL.
When cats run home and light
is come,
And dew is cold
upon the ground,
And the far-off stream is
dumb,
And the whirring
sail goes round,
And the whirring
sail goes round;
Alone
and warming his five wits,
The
white owl in the belfry sits.
When merry milkmaids click
the latch,
And rarely smells
the new-mown hay,
And the cock hath sung beneath
the thatch
Twice or thrice
his roundelay,
Twice or thrice
his roundelay;
Alone
and warming his five wits,
The
white owl in the belfry sits.
ALFRED TENNYSON.
LITTLE BILLEE.
“Little Billee,” by William Makepeace Thackeray (1811-63), finds a place here because it carries a good lesson good-naturedly rendered. An accomplished teacher recommends it, and I recollect two young children in Chicago who sang it frequently for years without getting tired of it.
There were three sailors of
Bristol city
Who took a boat
and went to sea.
But first with beef and captain’s
biscuits
And pickled pork
they loaded she.
There was gorging Jack and
guzzling Jimmy,
And the youngest
he was little Billee.
Now when they got so far as
the Equator
They’d nothing
left but one split pea.
Says gorging Jack to guzzling
Jimmy,
“I am extremely
hungaree.”
To gorging Jack says guzzling
Jimmy,
“We’ve nothing
left, us must eat we.”
Says gorging Jack to guzzling
Jimmy,
“With one another,
we shouldn’t agree!
There’s little Bill,
he’s young and tender,
We’re old
and tough, so let’s eat he.”
“Oh! Billy, we’re
going to kill and eat you,
So undo the button
of your chemie.”
When Bill received this information
He used his pocket-handkerchie.
“First let me say my catechism,
Which my poor
mammy taught to me.”
“Make haste, make haste,”
says guzzling Jimmy
While Jack pulled
out his snickersnee.
So Billy went up to the main-topgallant
mast,
And down he fell
on his bended knee.
He scarce had come to the
Twelfth Commandment
When up he jumps,
“There’s land I see.
“Jerusalem and Madagascar,
And North and
South Amerikee:
There’s the British
flag a-riding at anchor,
With Admiral Napier,
K.C.B.”
So when they got aboard of
the Admiral’s
He hanged fat
Jack and flogged Jimmee;
But as for little Bill, he
made him
The Captain of
a Seventy-three.
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.
THE BUTTERFLY AND THE BEE.
“The Butterfly and the Bee,” by William Lisle Bowles (1762-1850), is recommended by some school-girls. It carries a lesson in favour of the worker.
Methought I heard a butterfly
Say to a labouring
bee:
“Thou hast no colours of the
sky
On painted wings
like me.”
“Poor child of vanity! those
dyes,
And colours bright
and rare,”
With mild reproof, the bee
replies,
“Are all beneath
my care.
“Content I toil from morn
to eve,
And scorning idleness,
To tribes of gaudy sloth I
leave
The vanity of
dress.”
WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES.
AN INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP.
“An Incident of the French Camp,” by Robert Browning (1812-89), is included in this volume out of regard to a boy of eight years who did not care for many poems, but this one stirred his heart to its depths.
You know, we French storm’d
Ratisbon:
A mile or so away
On a little mound, Napoleon
Stood on our storming-day;
With neck out-thrust, you
fancy how,
Legs wide, arms
lock’d behind,
As if to balance the prone
brow
Oppressive with
its mind.
Just as perhaps he mus’d
“My plans
That soar, to
earth may fall,
Let once my army leader Lannes
Waver at yonder
wall,”—
Out ’twixt the battery
smokes there flew
A rider, bound
on bound
Full-galloping; nor bridle
drew
Until he reach’d
the mound.
Then off there flung in smiling
joy,
And held himself
erect
By just his horse’s
mane, a boy:
You hardly could
suspect—
(So tight he kept his lips
compress’d,
Scarce any blood
came through)
You look’d twice ere
you saw his breast
Was all but shot
in two.
“Well,” cried he, “Emperor,
by God’s grace
We’ve got
you Ratisbon!
The Marshal’s in the
market-place,
And you’ll
be there anon
To see your flag-bird flap
his vans
Where I, to heart’s
desire,
Perched him!” The chief’s
eye flashed; his plans
Soared up again
like fire.
The chief’s eye flashed;
but presently
Softened itself,
as sheathes
A film the mother-eagle’s
eye
When her bruised
eaglet breathes;
“You’re wounded!”
“Nay,” the soldier’s pride
Touched to the
quick, he said:
“I’m killed, Sire!”
And his chief beside,
Smiling the boy
fell dead.
ROBERT BROWNING.
ROBERT OF LINCOLN.
“Robert of Lincoln,” by William Cullen
Bryant (1794-1878), is one of the finest bird poems
ever written. It finds a place here because I
have seen it used effectively as a memory gem in the
Cook County Normal
School (Colonel Parker’s school), year
after year, and because my own pupils invariably
like to commit it to memory. With the child of
six to the student of twenty years it stands a source
of delight.
Merrily swinging on brier
and weed,
Near to the nest
of his little dame,
Over the mountain-side or
mead,
Robert of Lincoln
is telling his name.
Bob-o’-link,
bob-o’-link,
Spink,
spank, spink,
Snug and safe is this nest
of ours,
Hidden among the summer flowers.
Chee,
chee, chee.
Robert of Lincoln is gayly
dressed,
Wearing a bright,
black wedding-coat;
White are his shoulders, and
white his crest,
Hear him call
in his merry note,
Bob-o’-link,
bob-o’-link,
Spink,
spank, spink,
Look what a nice, new coat
is mine;
Sure there was never a bird
so fine.
Chee,
chee, chee.
Robert of Lincoln’s
Quaker wife,
Pretty and quiet,
with plain brown wings,
Passing at home a patient
life,
Broods in the
grass while her husband sings,
Bob-o’-link,
bob-o’-link,
Spink,
spank, spink,
Brood, kind creature, you
need not fear
Thieves and robbers while
I am here.
Chee,
chee, chee.
Modest and shy as a nun is
she;
One weak chirp
is her only note;
Braggart, and prince of braggarts
is he,
Pouring boasts
from his little throat,
Bob-o’-link,
bob-o’-link,
Spink,
spank, spink,
Never was I afraid of man,
Catch me, cowardly knaves,
if you can.
Chee,
chee, chee.
Six white eggs on a bed of
hay,
Flecked with purple,
a pretty sight:
There as the mother sits all
day,
Robert is singing
with all his might,
Bob-o’-link,
bob-o’-link,
Spink,
spank, spink,
Nice good wife that never
goes out,
Keeping house while I frolic
about.
Chee,
chee, chee.
Soon as the little ones chip
the shell,
Six wide mouths
are open for food;
Robert of Lincoln bestirs
him well,
Gathering seeds
for the hungry brood:
Bob-o’-link,
bob-o’-link,
Spink,
spank, spink,
This new life is likely to
be
Hard for a gay young fellow
like me.
Chee,
chee, chee.
Robert of Lincoln at length
is made
Sober with work,
and silent with care,
Off is his holiday garment
laid,
Half forgotten
that merry air,
Bob-o’-link,
bob-o’-link,
Spink,
spank, spink,
Nobody knows but my mate and
I,
Where our nest and our nestlings
lie.
Chee,
chee, chee.
Summer wanes; the children
are grown;
Fun and frolic
no more he knows;
Robert of Lincoln’s
a hum-drum drone;
Off he flies,
and we sing as he goes,
Bob-o’-link,
bob-o’-link,
Spink,
spank, spink,
When you can pipe that merry
old strain,
Robert of Lincoln, come back
again.
Chee,
chee, chee.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
OLD GRIMES.
“Old Grimes” is an heirloom, an antique gem. We learn it as a matter of course for its sparkle and glow.
Old Grimes is dead; that good
old man,
We ne’er
shall see him more;
He used to wear a long, black
coat,
All buttoned down
before.
His heart was open as the
day,
His feelings all
were true;
His hair was some inclined
to gray,
He wore it in
a queue.
He lived at peace with all
mankind,
In friendship
he was true;
His coat had pocket-holes
behind,
His pantaloons
were blue.
He modest merit sought to
find,
And pay it its
desert;
He had no malice in his mind,
No ruffles on
his shirt.
His neighbours he did not
abuse,
Was sociable and
gay;
He wore large buckles on his
shoes,
And changed them
every day.
His knowledge, hid from public
gaze,
He did not bring
to view,
Nor make a noise town-meeting
days,
As many people
do.
His worldly goods he never
threw
In trust to fortune’s
chances,
But lived (as all his brothers
do)
In easy circumstances.
Thus undisturbed by anxious
cares
His peaceful moments
ran;
And everybody said he was
A fine old gentleman.
ALBERT GORTON GREENE.
SONG OF LIFE.
A traveller on a dusty road
Strewed acorns
on the lea;
And one took root and sprouted
up,
And grew into
a tree.
Love sought its shade at evening-time,
To breathe its
early vows;
And Age was pleased, in heights
of noon,
To bask beneath
its boughs.
The dormouse loved its dangling
twigs,
The birds sweet
music bore—
It stood a glory in its place,
A blessing evermore.
A little spring had lost its
way
Amid the grass
and fern;
A passing stranger scooped
a well
Where weary men
might turn.
He walled it in, and hung
with care
A ladle on the
brink;
He thought not of the deed
he did,
But judged that
Toil might drink.
He passed again; and lo! the
well,
By summer never
dried,
Had cooled ten thousand parched
tongues,
And saved a life
beside.
A nameless man, amid the crowd
That thronged
the daily mart,
Let fall a word of hope and
love,
Unstudied from
the heart,
A whisper on the tumult thrown,
A transitory breath,
It raised a brother from the
dust,
It saved a soul
from death.
O germ! O fount!
O word of love!
O thought at random
cast!
Ye were but little at the
first,
But mighty at
the last.
CHARLES MACKAY.
FAIRY SONG.
Shed no tear! O shed no tear!
The flower will bloom another year.
Weep no more! O, weep no more!
Young buds sleep in the root’s white core.
Dry your eyes! Oh! dry your eyes!
For I was taught in Paradise
To ease my breast of melodies—
Shed no tear.
Overhead! look overhead!
’Mong the blossoms white and red—
Look up, look up. I flutter now
On this flush pomegranate bough.
See me! ’tis this silvery bell
Ever cures the good man’s ill.
Shed no tear! O, shed no tear!
The flowers will bloom another year.
Adieu, adieu—I fly, adieu,
I vanish in the heaven’s blue—
Adieu, adieu!
JOHN KEATS.
A BOY’S SONG
“A Boy’s Song,” by James Hogg (1770-1835), is a sparkling poem, very attractive to children.
Where the pools are bright and deep,
Where the gray trout lies asleep,
Up the river and o’er the lea,
That’s the way for Billy and me.
Where the blackbird sings
the latest,
Where the hawthorn blooms
the sweetest,
Where the nestlings chirp
and flee,
That’s the way for Billy
and me.
Where the mowers mow the cleanest,
Where the hay lies thick and
greenest,
There to trace the homeward
bee,
That’s the way for Billy
and me.
Where the hazel bank is steepest,
Where the shadow falls the
deepest,
Where the clustering nuts
fall free.
That’s the way for Billy
and me.
Why the boys should drive
away,
Little sweet maidens from
the play,
Or love to banter and fight
so well,
That’s the thing I never
could tell.
But this I know, I love to
play,
Through the meadow, among
the hay;
Up the water and o’er
the lea,
That’s the way for Billy
and me.
JAMES HOGG.
BUTTERCUPS AND DAISIES.
Buttercups and daisies,
Oh, the pretty
flowers,
Coming ere the spring time,
To tell of sunny
hours.
While the tree are leafless,
While the fields
are bare,
Buttercups and daisies
Spring up here
and there.
Ere the snowdrop peepeth,
Ere the crocus
bold,
Ere the early primrose
Opes its paly
gold,
Somewhere on the sunny bank
Buttercups are
bright;
Somewhere ’mong the
frozen grass
Peeps the daisy
white.
Little hardy flowers,
Like to children
poor,
Playing in their sturdy health
By their mother’s
door,
Purple with the north wind,
Yet alert and
bold;
Fearing not, and caring not,
Though they be
a-cold!
What to them is winter!
What are stormy
showers!
Buttercups and daisies
Are these human
flowers!
He who gave them hardships
And a life of
care,
Gave them likewise hardy strength
And patient hearts
to bear.
MARY HOWITT.
THE RAINBOW.
Triumphal arch, that fills
the sky
When storms prepare
to part,
I ask not proud Philosophy
To teach me what
thou art.
Still seem, as to my childhood’s
sight,
A midway station
given,
For happy spirits to alight,
Betwixt the earth
and heaven.
THOMAS CAMPBELL.
OLD IRONSIDES.
“Old Ironsides,” by Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809-94), is learned readily. Children are untouched by the commercial spirit which is the reproach of this age. “Ingratitude is the vice of republics,” and this poem puts to shame the love of money and the spirit of ingratitude that could let a national servant become a wreck.
Ay, tear her tattered ensign
down!
Long has it waved
on high,
And many an eye has danced
to see
That banner in
the sky;
Beneath it rung the battle
shout,
And burst the
cannon’s roar;—
The meteor of the ocean air
Shall sweep the
clouds no more.
Her deck, once red with heroes’
blood,
Where knelt the
vanquished foe,
When winds were hurrying o’er
the flood
And waves were
white below.
No more shall feel the victor’s
tread,
Or know the conquered
knee;
The harpies of the shore shall
pluck
The eagle of the
sea!
O, better that her shattered
hulk
Should sink beneath
the wave;
Her thunders shook the mighty
deep,
And there should
be her grave;
Nail to the mast her holy
flag,
Set every threadbare
sail,
And give her to the god of
storms,
The lightning
and the gale!
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
LITTLE ORPHANT ANNIE.
“Little Orphant Annie” certainly earns her “board and keep” when she has “washed the dishes,” “swept up the crumbs,” “driven the chickens from the porch,” and done all the other odds and ends of work on a farm. The poet, James Whitcomb Riley (1853-), has shown how truly a little child may be overtaxed and yet preserve a brave spirit and keen imagination. Children invariably love to learn this poem.
Little Orphant Annie’s
come to our house to stay,
An’ wash the cups and
saucers up, an’ brush the crumbs away,
An’ shoo the chickens
off the porch, an’ dust the hearth, an’
sweep,
An’ make the fire, an’
bake the bread, an’ earn her board-an’-keep;
An’ all us other children,
when the supper things is done,
We set around the kitchen
fire an’ has the mostest fun
A-list’nin’ to
the witch-tales ’at Annie tells about,
An’ the Gobble-uns ’at
gits you
Ef
you
Don’t
Watch
Out!
Onc’t they was a little boy
wouldn’t say his pray’rs—
An’ when he went to bed at night, away up-stairs,
His mammy heerd him holler, an’ his daddy
heerd him bawl,
An’ when they turn’t the kivvers down,
he wasn’t there at all!
An’ they seeked him in the rafter-room,
an’ cubby hole, an’ press,
An’ seeked him up the chimbly flue, an’
ever’-wheres, I guess;
But all they ever found was thist his pants an’
roundabout!
An’ the Gobble-uns’ll git you
Ef you
Don’t
Watch
Out!
An’ one time a little girl
‘ud allus laugh an’ grin,
An’ make fun of ever’ one, an’
all her blood-an’-kin;
An’ onc’t when they was “company,”
an’ ole folks was there,
She mocked ’em an’ shocked ’em,
an’ said she didn’t care!
An’ thist as she kicked her heels, an’
turn’t to run an’ hide,
They was two great big Black Things a-standin’
by her side,
An’ they snatched her through the ceilin’
’fore she
knowed what she’s about!
An’ the Gobble-uns’ll git you
Ef you
Don’t
Watch
Out!
An’ little Orphant Annie
says, when the blaze is blue,
An’ the lampwick sputters, an’ the
wind goes woo-oo!
An’ you hear the crickets quit, an’
the moon is gray,
An’ the lightnin’-bugs in dew is all
squenched away,—
You better mind yer parents, an’ yer teachers
fond an’ dear,
An’ churish them ‘at loves you, an’
dry the orphant’s tear,
An’ he’p the pore an’ needy
ones ’at clusters all about,
Er the Gobble-uns’ll git you
Ef you
Don’t
Watch
Out!
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.
O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!
“O Captain! My Captain!” by Walt Whitman (1819-92), is placed here out of compliment to a little boy aged ten who wanted to recite it once a week for a year. This song and Edwin Markham’s poem on Lincoln are two of the greatest tributes ever paid to that hero.
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful
trip is done,
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we
sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people
all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel
grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up
and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for
you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths—for
you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager
faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck
You’ve fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his
lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse
nor will.
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage
closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with
object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
WALT WHITMAN.
INGRATITUDE.
“Ingratitude,” by William Shakespeare (1564-1616), is an incisive thrust at a refined vice. It is a part of education to learn to be grateful.
Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou are not so unkind
As man’s
ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen
Because thou are not seen,
Although thy breath
be rude.
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter
sky,
Thou dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot;
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remembered
not.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.
THE IVY GREEN.
“The Ivy Green,” by Charles Dickens (1812-70), is a hardy poem in honour of a hardy plant. There is a wonderful ivy growing at Rhudlan, in northern Wales. Its roots are so large and strong that they form a comfortable seat for many persons, and no one can remember when they were smaller. This ivy envelops a great castle in ruins. Every child in that locality loves the old ivy. It is typical of the ivy as seen all through Wales and England.
O, a dainty plant is the ivy green,
That creepeth o’er ruins old!
Of right choice food are his meals, I ween,
In his cell so lone and cold.
The walls must be crumbled, the stones decayed.
To pleasure his dainty whim;
And the mouldering dust that years have made
Is a merry meal for him.
Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the ivy green.
Fast he stealeth on, though he
wears no wings,
And a staunch old heart has he!
How closely he twineth, how tight he clings
To his friend, the huge oak tree!
And slyly he traileth along the ground,
And his leaves he gently waves,
And he joyously twines and hugs around
The rich mould of dead men’s graves.
Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the ivy green.
Whole ages have fled, and their
works decayed,
And nations have scattered been;
But the stout old ivy shall never fade
From its hale and hearty green.
The brave old plant in its lonely days
Shall fatten upon the past;
For the stateliest building man can raise
Is the ivy’s food at last.
Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the ivy green.
CHARLES DICKENS.
THE NOBLE NATURE.
“The Noble Nature,” by Ben Jonson (1574-1637), needs no plea. A small virtue well polished is better than none.
It is not growing like a tree
In bulk doth make man better be;
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear
A lily of a day
Is fairer far in May,
Although it fall and die that night,—
It was the plant and flower of light.
In small proportions we just beauties see;
And in short measures life may perfect be.
BEN JONSON.
THE FLYING SQUIRREL.
“The Flying Squirrel” is an honest account
of a live creature that won his way into scores of
hearts by his mad pranks and affectionate ways.
It is enough that John Burroughs has commended
the poem.
Of all the woodland creatures,
The quaintest
little sprite
Is the dainty flying squirrel
In vest of shining
white,
In coat of silver gray,
And vest of shining
white.
His furry Quaker jacket
Is trimmed with
stripe of black;
A furry plume to match it
Is curling o’er
his back;
New curved with every motion,
His plume curls
o’er his back.
No little new-born baby
Has pinker feet
than he;
Each tiny toe is cushioned
With velvet cushions
three;
Three wee, pink, velvet cushions
Almost too small
to see.
Who said, “The foot
of baby
Might tempt an
angel’s kiss”?
I know a score of school-boys
Who put their
lips to this,—
This wee foot of the squirrel,
And left a loving
kiss.
The tiny thief has hidden
My candy and my
plum;
Ah, there he comes unbidden
To gently nip
my thumb,—
Down in his home (my pocket)
He gently nips
my thumb.
How strange the food he covets,
The restless,
restless wight;—
Fred’s old stuffed armadillo
He found a tempting
bite,
Fred’s old stuffed armadillo,
With ears a perfect
fright.
The Lady Ruth’s great
bureau,
Each foot a dragon’s
paw!
The midget ate the nails from
His famous antique
claw.
Oh, what a cruel beastie
To hurt a dragon’s
claw!
To autographic copies
Upon my choicest
shelf,—
To every dainty volume
The rogue has
helped himself.
My books! Oh dear!
No matter!
The rogue has
helped himself.
And yet, my little squirrel,
Your taste is
not so bad;
You’ve swallowed Caird
completely
And psychologic
Ladd.
Rosmini you’ve digested,
And Kant in rags
you’ve clad.
Gnaw on, my elfish rodent!
Lay all the sages
low!
My pretty lace and ribbons,
They’re
yours for weal or woe!
My pocket-book’s in
tatters
Because you like
it so.
MARY E. BURT.
WARREN’S ADDRESS TO THE AMERICAN SOLDIERS.
There is never a boy who objects to learning “Warren’s Address,” by John Pierpont (1785-1866). To stand by one’s own rights is inherent in every true American. This poem is doubtless developed from Robert Burns’s “Bannockburn.” (1785-1866.)
Stand! the ground’s
your own, my braves!
Will ye give it up to slaves?
Will ye look for greener graves?
Hope ye mercy
still?
What’s the mercy despots
feel?
Hear it in that battle-peal!
Read it on yon bristling steel!
Ask it,—ye
who will.
Fear ye foes who kill for
hire?
Will ye to your homes retire?
Look behind you! they’re
afire!
And, before you,
see
Who have done it!—From
the vale
On they come!—And
will ye quail?—
Leaden rain and iron hail
Let their welcome
be!
In the God of battles trust!
Die we may,—and
die we must;
But, O, where can dust to
dust
Be consigned so
well,
As where Heaven its dews shall
shed
On the martyred patriot’s
bed,
And the rocks shall raise
their head,
Of his deeds to
tell!
JOHN PIERPONT.
THE SONG IN CAMP.
“The Song in Camp” is Bayard Taylor’s
best effort as far as young boys and girls are concerned.
It is a most valuable poem. I once heard a clergyman
in Chicago use it as a text for his sermon. Since
then “Annie
Laurie” has become the song of the Labour
party. “The Song in Camp” voices
a universal feeling. (1825-78.)
“Give us a song!” the
soldiers cried,
The outer trenches
guarding,
When the heated guns of the
camps allied
Grew weary of
bombarding.
The dark Redan, in silent
scoff,
Lay, grim and
threatening, under;
And the tawny mound of the
Malakoff
No longer belched
its thunder.
There was a pause. A
guardsman said,
“We storm the
forts to-morrow;
Sing while we may, another
day
Will bring enough
of sorrow.”
They lay along the battery’s
side,
Below the smoking
cannon:
Brave hearts, from Severn
and from Clyde,
And from the banks
of Shannon.
They sang of love, and not
of fame;
Forgot was Britain’s
glory:
Each heart recalled a different
name,
But all sang “Annie
Laurie.”
Voice after voice caught up
the song,
Until its tender
passion
Rose like an anthem, rich
and strong,—
Their battle-eve
confession.
Dear girl, her name he dared
not speak,
But, as the song
grew louder,
Something upon the soldier’s
cheek
Washed off the
stains of powder.
Beyond the darkening ocean
burned
The bloody sunset’s
embers,
While the Crimean valleys
learned
How English love
remembers.
And once again a fire of hell
Rained on the
Russian quarters,
With scream of shot, and burst
of shell,
And bellowing
of the mortars!
And Irish Nora’s eyes
are dim
For a singer,
dumb and gory;
And English Mary mourns for
him
Who sang of “Annie
Laurie.”
Sleep, soldiers! still in
honoured rest
Your truth and
valour wearing:
The bravest are the tenderest,—
The loving are
the daring.
BAYARD TAYLOR.
THE BUGLE SONG.
“The Bugle Song” (by Alfred Tennyson, 1809-90), says Heydrick, “has for its central theme the undying power of human love. The music is notable for sweetness and delicacy.”
The splendour falls on castle
walls
And snowy summits
old in story:
The long light shakes across
the lakes
And the wild cataract
leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the
wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes,
dying, dying, dying.
O hark, O hear! how thin and
clear,
And thinner, clearer,
farther going!
O sweet and far from cliff
and scar
The horns of Elfland
faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple
glens replying:
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes,
dying, dying, dying.
O love, they die in yon rich
sky,
They faint on
hill or field or river:
Our echoes roll from soul
to soul,
And grow forever
and forever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the
wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer,
dying, dying, dying.
ALFRED TENNYSON.
THE “THREE BELLS” OF GLASGOW.
“The Three Bells of Glasgow,” by Whittier (1807-92), cannot be praised too highly for its ethical value. Children always love to learn it after hearing it read correctly and by one who understands and appreciates it. “Stand by” is the motto. My pupils teach it to me once a year and learn it themselves, too.
Beneath the low-hung night
cloud
That raked her
splintering mast
The good ship settled slowly,
The cruel leak
gained fast.
Over the awful ocean
Her signal guns
pealed out.
Dear God! was that Thy answer
From the horror
round about?
A voice came down the wild
wind,
“Ho! ship ahoy!”
its cry:
“Our stout Three Bells
of Glasgow
Shall stand till
daylight by!”
Hour after hour crept slowly,
Yet on the heaving
swells
Tossed up and down the ship-lights,
The lights of
the Three Bells!
And ship to ship made signals,
Man answered back
to man,
While oft, to cheer and hearten,
The Three Bells
nearer ran:
And the captain from her taffrail
Sent down his
hopeful cry.
“Take heart! Hold on!”
he shouted,
“The Three
Bells shall stand by!”
All night across the waters
The tossing lights
shone clear;
All night from reeling taffrail
The Three Bells
sent her cheer.
And when the dreary watches
Of storm and darkness
passed,
Just as the wreck lurched
under,
All souls were
saved at last.
Sail on, Three Bells,
forever,
In grateful memory
sail!
Ring on, Three Bells
of rescue,
Above the wave
and gale!
Type of the Love eternal,
Repeat the Master’s
cry,
As tossing through our darkness
The lights of
God draw nigh!
JOHN G. WHITTIER.
SHERIDAN’S RIDE.
There never was a boy who did not like “Sheridan’s Ride,” by T. Buchanan Read (1822-72). The swing and gallop in it take every boy off from his feet. The children never teach this poem to me, because they love to learn it at first sight. It is easily memorised.
Up from the South at break
of day,
Bringing to Winchester fresh
dismay,
The affrighted air with a
shudder bore,
Like a herald in haste, to
the chieftain’s door,
The terrible grumble, and
rumble, and roar,
Telling the battle was on
once more,
And Sheridan twenty miles
away.
And wider still those billows
of war
Thundered along the horizon’s
bar;
And louder yet into Winchester
rolled
The roar of that red sea uncontrolled,
Making the blood of the listener
cold
As he thought of the stake
in that fiery fray,
And Sheridan twenty miles
away.
But there is a road from Winchester
town,
A good, broad highway leading
down;
And there, through the flush
of the morning light,
A steed as black as the steeds
of night
Was seen to pass as with eagle
flight;
As if he knew the terrible
need,
He stretched away with his
utmost speed;
Hills rose and fell; but his
heart was gay,
With Sheridan fifteen miles
away.
Still sprung from those swift
hoofs, thundering South,
The dust, like smoke from
the cannon’s mouth;
Or the trail of a comet, sweeping
faster and faster,
Foreboding to traitors the
doom of disaster.
The heart of the steed and
the heart of the master
Were beating like prisoners
assaulting their walls,
Impatient to be where the
battle-field calls;
Every nerve of the charger
was strained to full play,
With Sheridan only ten miles
away.
Under his spurning feet the
road
Like an arrowy Alpine river
flowed,
And the landscape sped away
behind
Like an ocean flying before
the wind.
And the steed, like a bark
fed with furnace fire,
Swept on, with his wild eye
full of ire.
But lo! he is nearing his
heart’s desire;
He is snuffing the smoke of
the roaring fray,
With Sheridan only five miles
away.
The first that the General
saw were the groups
Of stragglers, and then the
retreating troops.
What was done—what
to do? A glance told him both,
Then striking his spurs, with
a terrible oath,
He dashed down the line, mid
a storm of huzzas,
And the wave of retreat checked
its course there, because
The sight of the master compelled
it to pause.
With foam and with dust the
black charger was gray;
By the flash of his eye, and
the red nostrils’ play,
He seemed to the whole great
army to say:
“I have brought you Sheridan
all the way
From Winchester down to save
the day!”
Hurrah! hurrah for Sheridan!
Hurrah! hurrah for horse and
man!
And when their statues are
placed on high,
Under the dome of the Union
sky,
The American soldiers’
Temple of Fame,
There with the glorious General’s
name
Be it said, in letters both
bold and bright:
“Here is the steed that saved
the day,
By carrying Sheridan into
the fight
From Winchester, twenty miles
away!”
THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.
THE SANDPIPER.
“The Sandpiper,” by Celia Thaxter (1836-94), is placed here because a goodly percentage of the children who read it want to learn it.
Across the lonely beach we
flit,
One little sandpiper
and I,
And fast I gather, bit by
bit,
The scattered
driftwood, bleached and dry.
The wild waves reach their
hands for it,
The wild wind
raves, the tide runs high,
As up and down the beach we
flit,
One little sandpiper
and I.
Above our heads the sullen
clouds
Scud, black and
swift, across the sky;
Like silent ghosts in misty
shrouds
Stand out the
white lighthouses high.
Almost as far as eye can reach
I see the close-reefed
vessels fly,
As fast we flit along the
beach,
One little sandpiper
and I.
I watch him as he skims along,
Uttering his sweet
and mournful cry;
He starts not at my fitful
song,
Nor flash of fluttering
drapery.
He has no thought of any wrong,
He scans me with
a fearless eye;
Stanch friends are we, well
tried and strong,
The little sandpiper
and I.
Comrade, where wilt thou be
to-night,
When the loosed
storm breaks furiously?
My driftwood fire will burn
so bright!
To what warm shelter
canst thou fly?
I do not fear for thee, though
wroth
The tempest rushes
through the sky;
For are we not God’s
children both,
Thou, little sandpiper,
and I?
CELIA THAXTER.
LADY CLARE.
Girls always love “Lady Clare” and “The Lord of Burleigh.” They like to think that it is enough to be a splendid woman without title or wealth. They want to be loved, if they are loved at all, for their good hearts and graces of mind. Tennyson (1809-92) makes this point repeatedly through his poems.
It was the time when lilies
blow
And clouds are
highest up in air;
Lord Ronald brought a lily-white
doe
To give his cousin,
Lady Clare.
I trow they did not part in
scorn:
Lovers long-betroth’d
were they:
They too will wed the morrow
morn:
God’s blessing
on the day!
“He does not love me for my
birth,
Nor for my lands
so broad and fair;
He loves me for my own true
worth,
And that is well,”
said Lady Clare.
In there came old Alice the
nurse;
Said: “Who
was this that went from thee?”
“It was my cousin,”
said Lady Clare;
“To-morrow he
weds with me.”
“O God be thank’d!”
said Alice the nurse,
“That all comes
round so just and fair:
Lord Ronald is heir of all
your lands,
And you are not
the Lady Clare.”
“Are ye out of your mind,
my nurse, my nurse,”
Said Lady Clare,
“that ye speak so wild?”
“As God’s above,”
said Alice the nurse,
“I speak the truth:
you are my child.
“The old Earl’s daughter
died at my breast;
I speak the truth,
as I live by bread!
I buried her like my own sweet
child,
And put my child
in her stead.”
“Falsely, falsely have ye
done,
O mother,”
she said, “if this be true,
To keep the best man under
the sun
So many years
from his due.”
“Nay now, my child,”
said Alice the nurse,
“But keep the
secret for your life,
And all you have will be Lord
Ronald’s
When you are man
and wife.”
“If I’m a beggar born,”
she said,
“I will speak
out, for I dare not lie.
Pull off, pull off the brooch
of gold,
And fling the
diamond necklace by.”
“Nay now, my child,”
said Alice the nurse,
“But keep the
secret all ye can.”
She said: “Not
so: but I will know
If there be any
faith in man.”
“Nay now, what faith?”
said Alice the nurse,
“The man will
cleave unto his right,”
“And he shall have it,”
the lady replied,
“Tho’ I
should die to-night.”
“Yet give one kiss to your
mother dear!
Alas! my child,
I sinn’d for thee.”
“O mother, mother, mother,”
she said,
“So strange it
seems to me.
“Yet here’s a kiss for
my mother dear,
My mother dear,
if this be so,
And lay your hand upon my
head,
And bless me,
mother, ere I go.”
She clad herself in a russet
gown,
She was no longer
Lady Clare:
She went by dale, and she
went by down,
With a single
rose in her hair.
The lily-white doe Lord Ronald
had brought
Leapt up from
where she lay,
Dropt her head in the maiden’s
hand,
And follow’d
her all the way.
Down stept Lord Ronald from
his tower:
“O Lady Clare,
you shame your worth!
Why come you drest like a
village maid,
That are the flower
of the earth?”
“If I come drest like a village
maid,
I am but as my
fortunes are:
I am a beggar born,”
she said,
“And not the Lady
Clare.”
“Play me no tricks,”
said Lord Ronald,
“For I am yours
in word and in deed.
Play me no tricks,”
said Lord Ronald,
“Your riddle is
hard to read.”
O and proudly stood she up!
Her heart within
her did not fail:
She look’d into Lord
Ronald’s eyes,
And told him all
her nurse’s tale.
He laugh’d a laugh of
merry scorn:
He turn’d
and kiss’d her where she stood:
“If you are not the heiress
born?
And I,”
said he, “the next in blood—
“If you are not the heiress
born,
And I,”
said he, “the lawful heir,
We two will wed to-morrow
morn,
And you shall
still be Lady Clare.”
ALFRED TENNYSON.
THE LORD OF BURLEIGH.
In her ear he whispers gaily,
“If my heart by
signs can tell,
Maiden, I have watched thee
daily,
And I think thou
lov’st me well.”
She replies, in accents fainter,
“There is none
I love like thee.”
He is but a landscape-painter,
And a village
maiden she.
He to lips, that fondly falter,
Presses his without
reproof;
Leads her to the village altar,
And they leave
her father’s roof.
“I can make no marriage present;
Little can I give
my wife.
Love will make our cottage
pleasant,
And I love thee
more than life.”
They by parks and lodges going
See the lordly
castles stand;
Summer woods, about them blowing,
Made a murmur
in the land.
From deep thought himself
he rouses,
Says to her that
loves him well,
“Let us see these handsome
houses
Where the wealthy
nobles dwell.”
So she goes by him attended,
Hears him lovingly
converse,
Sees whatever fair and splendid
Lay betwixt his
home and hers.
Parks with oak and chestnut
shady,
Parks and order’d
gardens great,
Ancient homes of lord and
lady,
Built for pleasure
and for state.
All he shows her makes him
dearer;
Evermore she seems
to gaze
On that cottage growing nearer,
Where they twain
will spend their days.
O but she will love him truly!
He shall have
a cheerful home;
She will order all things
duly
When beneath his
roof they come.
Thus her heart rejoices greatly
Till a gateway
she discerns
With armorial bearings stately,
And beneath the
gate she turns;
Sees a mansion more majestic
Than all those
she saw before;
Many a gallant gay domestic
Bows before him
at the door.
And they speak in gentle murmur
When they answer
to his call,
While he treads with footstep
firmer,
Leading on from
hall to hall.
And while now she wanders
blindly,
Nor the meaning
can divine,
Proudly turns he round and
kindly,
“All of this is
mine and thine.”
Here he lives in state and
bounty,
Lord of Burleigh,
fair and free.
Not a lord in all the county
Is so great a
lord as he.
All at once the colour flushes
Her sweet face
from brow to chin;
As it were with same she blushes,
And her spirit
changed within.
Then her countenance all over
Pale again as
death did prove:
But he clasp’d her like
a lover,
And he cheer’d
her soul with love.
So she strove against her
weakness,
Tho’ at
times her spirits sank;
Shaped her heart with woman’s
meekness
To all duties
of her rank;
And a gentle consort made
he,
And her gentle
mind was such
That she grew a noble lady,
And the people
loved her much.
But a trouble weigh’d
upon her
And perplex’d
her, night and morn,
With the burden of an honour
Unto which she
was not born.
Faint she grew and ever fainter.
As she murmur’d,
“Oh, that he
Were once more that landscape-painter
Which did win
my heart from me!”
So she droop’d and droop’d
before him,
Fading slowly
from his side;
Three fair children first
she bore him,
Then before her
time she died.
Weeping, weeping late and
early,
Walking up and
pacing down,
Deeply mourn’d the Lord
of Burleigh,
Burleigh-house
by Stamford-town.
And he came to look upon her,
And he look’d
at her and said,
“Bring the dress and put it
on her
That she wore
when she was wed.”
Then her people, softly treading,
Bore to earth
her body, drest
In the dress that she was
wed in,
That her spirit
might have rest.
ALFRED TENNYSON.
HIAWATHA’S CHILDHOOD.
“Hiawatha” needs no commendation.
Hundreds of thousands of children in our land know
snatches of it It is a child’s poem, every line
of it.
One summer in Boston more than 50,000 people
went to take a peep at the poet’s house. (1807-82.)
By the shores of Gitche Gumee,
By the shining Big-Sea-Water,
Stood the wigwam of Nokomis,
Daughter of the Moon, Nokomis.
Dark behind it rose the forest,
Rose the black and gloomy
pine-trees,
Rose the firs with cones upon
them;
Bright before it beat the
water,
Beat the clear and sunny water,
Beat the shining Big-Sea-Water.
There the wrinkled old Nokomis
Nursed the little Hiawatha,
Rocked him in his linden cradle,
Bedded soft in moss and rushes,
Safely bound with reindeer
sinews;
Stilled his fretful wail by
saying,
“Hush! the Naked Bear will
hear thee!”
Lulled him into slumber, singing,
“Ewa-yea! my little owlet!
Who is this that lights the
wigwam?
With his great eyes lights
the wigwam?
Ewa-yea! my little owlet!”
Many things Nokomis taught
him
Of the stars that shine in
heaven;
Showed him Ishkoodah, the
comet,
Ishkoodah, with fiery tresses;
Showed the Death-Dance of
the spirits,
Warriors with their plumes
and war-clubs,
Flaring far away to northward
In the frosty nights of winter;
Showed the broad, white road
in heaven,
Pathway of the ghosts, the
shadows,
Running straight across the
heavens,
Crowded with the ghosts, the
shadows.
At the door, on summer evenings,
Sat the little Hiawatha;
Heard the whispering of the
pine-trees,
Heard the lapping of the water,
Sounds of music, words of
wonder;
“Minnie-wawa!” said
the pine-trees,
“Mudway-aushka!” said
the water;
Saw the fire-fly, Wah-wah-taysee,
Flitting through the dusk
of evening,
With the twinkle of its candle
Lighting up the brakes and
bushes,
And he sang the song of children.
Sang the song Nokomis taught
him:
“Wah-wah-taysee, little fire-fly,
Little, flitting, white-fire
insect,
Little, dancing, white-fire
creature,
Light me with your little
candle,
Ere upon my bed I lay me,
Ere in sleep I close my eyelids!”
Saw the moon rise from the
water
Rippling, rounding from the
water,
Saw the flecks and shadows
on it,
Whispered, “What is
that, Nokomis?”
And the good Nokomis answered:
“Once a warrior, very angry,
Seized his grandmother, and
threw her
Up into the sky at midnight;
Right against the moon he
threw her;
’Tis her body that you see
there.”
Saw the rainbow in the heaven,
In the eastern sky, the rainbow,
Whispered, “What is
that, Nokomis?”
And the good Nokomis answered:
“Tis the heaven of flowers
you see there;
All the wild-flowers of the
forest,
All the lilies of the prairie,
When on earth they fade and
perish,
Blossom in that heaven above
us.”
When he heard the owls at
midnight,
Hooting, laughing in the forest,
“What is that?” he cried,
in terror;
“What is that,” he said,
“Nokomis?”
And the good Nokomis answered:
“That is but the owl and owlet,
Talking in their native language,
Talking, scolding at each
other.”
Then the little Hiawatha
Learned of every bird its
language,
Learned their names and all
their secrets,
How they built their nests
in summer,
Where they hid themselves
in winter,
Talked with them whene’er
he met them,
Called them “Hiawatha’s
Chickens.”
Of all beasts he learned the
language,
Learned their names and all
their secrets,
How the beavers built their
lodges,
Where the squirrels hid their
acorns,
How the reindeer ran so swiftly,
Why the rabbit was so timid,
Talked with them whene’er
he met them,
Called them “Hiawatha’s
Brothers.”
HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.
I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD.
“The Daffodil” is here out of compliment
to a splendid school and a splendid teacher at Poughkeepsie.
I found the pupils learning the poem, the teacher
having placed a bunch of daffodils in a vase before
them.
It was a charming lesson. (1770-96.)
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on
high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden
daffodils:
Beside the lake, beneath the
trees,
Fluttering and dancing in
the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that
shine
And twinkle on
the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending
line
Along the margin
of a bay;
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly
dance.
The waves beside them danced,
but they
Outdid the sparkling
waves in glee:—
A poet could not but be gay
In such a jocund
company;
I gazed—and gazed—but
little thought
What wealth the show to me
had brought.
For oft, when on my couch
I lie
In vacant or in
pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward
eye
Which is the bliss
of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure
fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
JOHN BARLEYCORN.
“John Barleycorn” is a favourite with boys because it pictures a successful struggle. One editor has made a temperance poem of it, mistaking its true intent. The poem is a strong expression of a plow-man’s love for a hardy, food-giving grain which has sprung to life through his efforts. (1759-96.)
There were three kings into
the East,
Three kings both
great and high;
And they ha’e sworn
a solemn oath
John Barleycorn
should die.
They took a plow and plowed
him down,
Put clods upon
his head;
And they ha’e sworn
a solemn oath
John Barleycorn
was dead.
But the cheerful spring came
kindly on,
And showers began
to fall;
John Barleycorn got up again,
And sore surprised
them all.
The sultry suns of summer
came,
And he grew thick
and strong;
His head well arm’d
wi’ pointed spears,
That no one should
him wrong.
The sober autumn entered mild,
And he grew wan
and pale;
His bending joints and drooping
head
Showed he began
to fail.
His colour sickened more and
more,
He faded into
age;
And then his enemies began
To show their
deadly rage.
They took a weapon long and
sharp,
And cut him by
the knee,
Then tied him fast upon a
cart,
Like a rogue for
forgery.
They laid him down upon his
back,
And cudgelled
him full sore;
They hung him up before the
storm,
And turn’d
him o’er and o’er.
They filled up then a darksome
pit
With water to
the brim,
And heaved in poor John Barleycorn,
To let him sink
or swim.
They laid him out upon the
floor,
To work him further
woe;
And still as signs of life
appeared,
They tossed him
to and fro.
They wasted o’er a scorching
flame
The marrow of
his bones;
But a miller used him worst
of all—
He crushed him
’tween two stones.
And they have taken his very
heart’s blood,
And drunk it round
and round;
And still the more and more
they drank,
Their joy did
more abound.
ROBERT BURNS.
A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE.
“A Life on the Ocean Wave,” by Epes Sargent (1813-80), gives the swing and motion of the water of the great ocean. Children remember it almost unconsciously after hearing it read several times.
A life on the ocean wave,
A home on the
rolling deep,
Where the scattered waters
rave,
And the winds
their revels keep!
Like an eagle caged, I pine
On this dull,
unchanging shore:
Oh! give me the flashing brine,
The spray and
the tempest’s roar!
Once more on the deck I stand
Of my own swift-gliding
craft:
Set sail! farewell to the
land!
The gale follows
fair abaft.
We shoot through the sparkling
foam
Like an ocean-bird
set free;—
Like the ocean-bird, our home
We’ll find
far out on the sea.
The land is no longer in view,
The clouds have
begun to frown;
But with a stout vessel and
crew,
We’ll say,
Let the storm come down!
And the song of our hearts
shall be,
While the winds
and the waters rave,
A home on the rolling sea!
A life on the
ocean wave!
EPES SARGENT.
THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR.
It is customary, every New Year’s eve in America, to ring bells, fire guns, send up rockets, and, in many other ways, to show joy and gratitude that the old year has been so kind, and that the new year is so auspicious. The emphasis in Tennyson’s poem is laid on gratitude for past benefits so easily forgotten rather than upon the possible advantages of the unknown and untried future.
Full knee-deep lies the winter
snow,
And the winter winds are wearily
sighing:
Toll ye the church-bell sad
and slow,
And tread softly and speak
low,
For the old year lies a-dying.
Old
year, you must not die;
You
came to us so readily,
You
lived with us so steadily,
Old
year, you shall not die.
He lieth still: he doth
not move:
He will not see the dawn of
day.
He hath no other life above.
He gave me a friend, and a
true true-love,
And the New-year will take
’em away.
Old
year, you must not go;
So
long as you have been with us,
Such
joy as you have seen with us,
Old
year, you shall not go.
He froth’d his bumpers
to the brim;
A jollier year we shall not
see.
But tho’ his eyes are
waxing dim,
And tho’ his foes speak
ill of him,
He was a friend to me.
Old
year, you shall not die;
We
did so laugh and cry with you,
I’ve
half a mind to die with you,
Old
year, if you must die.
He was full of joke and jest,
But all his merry quips are
o’er.
To see him die, across the
waste
His son and heir doth ride
post-haste,
But he’ll be dead before.
Every
one for his own.
The
night is starry and cold, my friend,
And
the New-year blithe and bold, my friend,
Comes
up to take his own.
How hard he breathes! over
the snow
I heard just now the crowing
cock.
The shadows flicker to and
fro:
The cricket chirps: the
light burns low:
’Tis nearly twelve o’clock.
Shake
hands, before you die.
Old
year, we’ll dearly rue for you:
What
is it we can do for you?
Speak
out before you die.
His face is growing sharp
and thin.
Alack! our friend is gone.
Close up his eyes: tie
up his chin:
Step from the corpse, and
let him in
That standeth there alone,
And
waiteth at the door.
There’s
a new foot on the floor, my friend,
And
a new face at the door, my friend,
A
new face at the door.
ALFRED TENNYSON.
ABOU BEN ADHEM.
“Abou Ben Adhem” has won its way to the
popular heart because the
“Brotherhood of Man” is the motto of this
age. (1784-1859.)
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe
increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep
dream of peace,
And saw within the moonlight
in his room,
Making it rich and like a
lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book
of gold.
Exceeding peace had made Ben
Adhem bold;
And to the presence in the
room he said,
“What writest thou?”
The vision raised its head,
And, with a look made of all
sweet accord,
Answered, “The names
of those who love the Lord.”
“And is mine one?” said
Abou. “Nay, not so,”
Replied the angel. Abou
spoke more low,
But cheerly still; and said,
“I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves
his fellow-men.”
The angel wrote, and vanished.
The next night
It came again, with a great
wakening light,
And showed the names whom
love of God had blessed;
And, lo! Ben Adhem’s
name led all the rest.
LEIGH HUNT.
FARM-YARD SONG.
“A Farm-Yard Song” was popular years ago with Burbank, the great reader. How the boys and girls loved it! The author, J.T. Trowbridge (1827-still living), “is a boy-hearted man,” says John Burroughs. The poem is just as popular as it ever was.
Over the hill the farm-boy
goes,
His shadow lengthens along
the land,
A giant staff in a giant hand;
In the poplar-tree, above
the spring,
The katydid begins to sing;
The
early dews are falling;—
Into the stone-heap darts
the mink;
The swallows skim the river’s
brink;
And home to the woodland fly
the crows,
When over the hill the farm-boy
goes,
Cheerily
calling,—
“Co’, boss!
co’, boss! co’! co’! co’!”
Farther, farther over the
hill,
Faintly calling, calling still,—
“Co’, boss!
co’, boss! co’! co’!”
Into the yard the farmer goes,
With grateful heart, at the
close of day;
Harness and chain are hung
away;
In the wagon-shed stand yoke
and plow;
The straw’s in the stack,
the hay in the mow;
The
cooling dews are falling;—
The friendly sheep his welcome
bleat,
The pigs come grunting to
his feet,
The whinnying mare her master
knows,
When into the yard the farmer
goes,
His
cattle calling,—
“Co’, boss!
co’, boss! co’! co’! co’!”
While still the cow-boy, far
away,
Goes seeking those that have
gone astray,—
“Co’, boss!
co’, boss! co’! co’!”
Now to her task the milkmaid
goes.
The cattle come crowding through
the gate,
Lowing, pushing, little and
great;
About the trough, by the farm-yard
pump,
The frolicsome yearlings frisk
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.
The Day’s at the Morn
LOCHINVAR.
“Lochinvar” and “Lord Ullin’s Daughter,” the first by Scott (1771-1832) and the second by Campbell (1777-1844), are companions in sentiment and equally popular with boys who love to win anything desirable by heroic effort.
Oh, young Lochinvar is come
out of the west.
Through all the wide Border
his steed was the best,
And save his good broadsword
he weapons had none;
He rode all unarmed, and he
rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so
dauntless in war,
There never was knight like
the young Lochinvar.
He stayed not for brake, and
he stopped not for stone,
He swam the Eske River where
ford there was none;
But ere he alighted at Netherby
gate
The bride had consented, the
gallant came late:
For a laggard in love, and
a dastard in war
Was to wed the fair Ellen
of brave Lochinvar.
So boldly he entered the Netherby
Hall,
Among bridesmen and kinsmen
and brothers and all:
Then spoke the bride’s
father, his hand on his sword
(For the poor craven bridegroom
said never a word),
“Oh, come ye in peace here,
or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal,
young Lord Lochinvar?”
“I long woo’d your daughter,
my suit you denied;—
Love swells like the Solway,
but ebbs like its tide—
And now am I come, with this
lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink
one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland
more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride
to the young Lochinvar.”
The bride kissed the goblet;
the knight took it up;
He quaffed of the wine, and
he threw down the cup.
She looked down to blush,
and she looked up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips and
a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand ere
her mother could bar,—
“Now tread we a measure!”
said young Lochinvar.
So stately his form, and so
lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard
did grace;
While her mother did fret,
and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling
his bonnet and plume,
And the bridemaidens whispered,
“’Twere better by far
To have matched our fair cousin
with young Lochinvar.”
One touch to her hand, and
one word in her ear,
When they reached the hall
door, and the charger stood near;
So light to the croupe the
fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before
her he sprung!
“She is won! we are gone,
over bank, bush, and scaur;
They’ll have fleet steeds
that follow,” quoth young Lochinvar.
There was mounting ’mong
Graemes of the Netherby clan;
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves,
they rode and they ran:
There was racing and chasing,
on Cannobie Lee,
But the lost bride of Netherby
ne’er did they see.
So daring in love, and so
dauntless in war,
Have ye e’er heard of
gallant like young Lochinvar?
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
LORD ULLIN’S DAUGHTER.
A chieftain, to the Highlands
bound,
Cries, “Boatman,
do not tarry!
And I’ll give thee a
silver pound,
To row us o’er
the ferry.”
“Now who be ye, would cross
Lochgyle,
This dark and
stormy water?”
“O, I’m the chief of
Ulva’s isle,
And this Lord
Ullin’s daughter.
“And fast before her father’s
men
Three days we’ve
fled together,
For should he find us in the
glen,
My blood would
stain the heather.
“His horsemen hard behind
us ride;
Should they our
steps discover,
Then who will cheer my bonny
bride
When they have
slain her lover?”
Outspoke the hardy Highland
wight,
“I’ll go,
my chief—I’m ready;
It is not for your silver
bright,
But for your winsome
lady:
“And by my word! the bonny
bird
In danger shall
not tarry;
So though the waves are raging
white,
I’ll row
you o’er the ferry.”
By this the storm grew loud
apace,
The water-wraith
was shrieking;
And in the scowl of heaven
each face
Grew dark as they
were speaking.
But still as wilder blew the
wind,
And as the night
grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armed
men,
Their trampling
sounded nearer.
“O haste thee, haste!”
the lady cries,
“Though tempests
round us gather;
I’ll meet the raging
of the skies,
But not an angry
father.”
The boat has left a stormy
land,
A stormy sea before
her,—
When, oh! too strong for human
hand,
The tempest gathered
o’er her.
And still they row’d
amid the roar
Of waters fast
prevailing:
Lord Ullin reach’d that
fatal shore,
His wrath was
changed to wailing.
For sore dismay’d through
storm and shade,
His child he did
discover:—
One lovely hand she stretch’d
for aid,
And one was round
her lover.
“Come back! come back!”
he cried in grief,
“Across this stormy
water:
And I’ll forgive your
Highland chief,
My daughter!—oh
my daughter!”
’Twas vain the loud waves
lashed the shore,
Return or aid
preventing;—
The waters wild went o’er
his child,—
And he was left
lamenting.
THOMAS CAMPBELL.
THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.
“The Charge of the Light Brigade” (1809-92) unlike “Casabianca” shows obedience under stern necessity. Obedience is the salvation of any army. John Burroughs says: “I never hear that poem but what it thrills me through and through.”
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league
onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
“Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!”
he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
“Forward, the Light Brigade!”
Was there a man dismay’d?
Not tho’ the soldier
knew
Some one had blunder’d:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why.
Theirs but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley’d
and thunder’d;
Storm’d at with shot
and shell
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.
Flash’d all their sabers
bare,
Flash’d as they turn’d
in air
Sab’ring the gunners
there,
Charging an army, while
All the world
wonder’d:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro’ the line
they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel’d from the saber-stroke
Shatter’d
and sunder’d.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volleyed and thundered:
Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came through the jaws of death
Back from the mouth of hell,
All that was left of them—
Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade?
Oh, the wild charge they made!
All the world
wondered.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade—
Noble six hundred!
ALFRED TENNYSON.
THE TOURNAMENT.
There are several of Sidney Lanier’s (1842-81)
poems that children love
to learn. “Tampa Robins,” “The
Tournament” (Joust 1.), “Barnacles,”
“The Song of the Chattahoochee,” and “The
First Steamboat Up the
Alabama” are among them. At our “poetry
contests” the children have
plainly demonstrated that this great poet has
reached his hand down to
the youngest. The time will doubtless come
when it will be a part of
education to be acquainted with Lanier, as it
is now to be acquainted
with Longfellow or Tennyson.
I.
Bright shone the lists, blue
bent the skies,
And the knights
still hurried amain
To the tournament under the
ladies’ eyes,
Where the jousters
were Heart and Brain.
II.
Flourished the trumpets, entered
Heart,
A youth in crimson
and gold;
Flourished again; Brain stood
apart,
Steel-armoured,
dark and cold.
III.
Heart’s palfrey caracoled
gaily round,
Heart tra-li-ra’d
merrily;
But Brain sat still, with
never a sound,
So cynical-calm
was he.
IV.
Heart’s helmet-crest
bore favours three
From his lady’s
white hand caught;
While Brain wore a plumeless
casque; not he
Or favour gave
or sought.
V.
The trumpet blew; Heart shot
a glance
To catch his lady’s
eye.
But Brain gazed straight ahead,
his lance
To aim more faithfully.
VI.
They charged, they struck;
both fell, both bled;
Brain rose again,
ungloved;
Heart, dying, smiled and faintly
said,
“My love to my
beloved.”
SIDNEY LANIER.
THE WIND AND THE MOON.
Little Laddie, do you remember learning “The Wind and the Moon”? You were eight or nine years old, and you shut your eyes and puffed out your cheeks when you came to the line “He blew and He blew.” The saucy wind made a great racket and the calm moon never noticed it. That gave you a great deal of pleasure, didn’t it? We did not care much for the noisy, conceited wind. (1824-.)
Said the Wind to the Moon,
“I will blow you out,
You
stare
In
the air
Like
a ghost in a chair,
Always looking what I am about—
I hate to be watched; I’ll
blow you out.”
The Wind blew hard, and out
went the Moon.
So,
deep
On
a heap
Of
clouds to sleep,
Down lay the Wind, and slumbered
soon,
Muttering low, “I’ve
done for that Moon.”
He turned in his bed; she
was there again!
On
high
In
the sky,
With
her one ghost eye,
The Moon shone white and alive
and plain.
Said the Wind, “I will
blow you out again.”
The Wind blew hard, and the
Moon grew dim.
“With
my sledge,
And
my wedge,
I
have knocked off her edge!
If only I blow right fierce
and grim,
The creature will soon be
dimmer than dim.”
He blew and he blew, and she
thinned to a thread.
“One
puff
More’s
enough
To
blow her to snuff!
One good puff more where the
last was bred,
And glimmer, glimmer, glum
will go the thread.”
He blew a great blast, and
the thread was gone
In
the air
Nowhere
Was
a moonbeam bare;
Far off and harmless the shy
stars shone—
Sure and certain the Moon
was gone!
The Wind he took to his revels
once more;
On
down,
In
town,
Like
a merry-mad clown,
He leaped and hallooed with
whistle and roar—
“What’s that?”
The glimmering thread once more!
He flew in a rage—he
danced and blew;
But
in vain
Was
the pain
Of
his bursting brain;
For still the broader the
Moon-scrap grew,
The broader he swelled his
big cheeks and blew.
Slowly she grew—till
she filled the night,
And
shone
On
her throne
In
the sky alone,
A matchless, wonderful silvery
light,
Radiant and lovely, the queen
of the night.
Said the Wind: “What
a marvel of power am I
With
my breath,
Good
faith!
I
blew her to death—
First blew her away right
out of the sky—
Then blew her in; what strength
have I!”
But the Moon she knew nothing
about the affair;
For
high
In
the sky,
With
her one white eye,
Motionless, miles above the
air,
She had never heard the great
Wind blare.
GEORGE MACDONALD.
JESUS THE CARPENTER.
“Jesus the Carpenter”—“same trade as me”—strikes a high note in favour of honest toil. (1848-.)
“Isn’t this Joseph’s
son?”—ay, it is He;
Joseph the carpenter—same
trade as me—
I thought as I’d find
it—I knew it was here—
But
my sight’s getting queer.
I don’t know right where
as His shed must ha’ stood—
But often, as I’ve been
a-planing my wood,
I’ve took off my hat,
just with thinking of He
At
the same work as me.
He warn’t that set up
that He couldn’t stoop down
And work in the country for
folks in the town;
And I’ll warrant He
felt a bit pride, like I’ve done,
At
a good job begun.
The parson he knows that I’ll
not make too free,
But on Sunday I feels as pleased
as can be,
When I wears my clean smock,
and sits in a pew,
And
has taught a few.
I think of as how not the
parson hissen,
As is teacher and father and
shepherd o’ men,
Not he knows as much of the
Lord in that shed,
Where
He earned His own bread.
And when I goes home to my
missus, says she,
“Are ye wanting your key?”
For she knows my queer ways,
and my love for the shed
(We’ve
been forty years wed).
So I comes right away by mysen,
with the book,
And I turns the old pages
and has a good look
For the text as I’ve
found, as tells me as He
Were
the same trade as me.
Why don’t I mark it?
Ah, many say so,
But I think I’d as lief,
with your leaves, let it go:
It do seem that nice when
I fall on it sudden—
Unexpected,
you know!
CATHERINE C. LIDDELL.
LETTY’S GLOBE.
“Letty’s Globe” gives us the picture of a little golden-haired girl who covers all Europe with her dainty hands and tresses while giving a kiss to England, her own dear native land. (1808-79.)
When Letty had scarce pass’d
her third glad year,
And her young, artless words
began to flow,
One day we gave the child
a colour’d sphere
Of the wide earth, that she
might mark and know,
By tint and outline, all its
sea and land.
She patted all the world;
old empires peep’d
Between her baby fingers;
her soft hand
Was welcome at all frontiers.
How she leap’d,
And laugh’d and prattled
in her world-wide bliss!
But when we turn’d her
sweet unlearned eye
On our own isle, she rais’d
a joyous cry,
“Oh! yes, I see it! Letty’s
home is there!”
And, while she hid all England
with a kiss,
Bright over Europe fell her
golden hair!
CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER.
A DREAM.
Once a dream did wave a shade
O’er my angel-guarded
bed,
That an emmet lost its way
When on grass methought I
lay.
Troubled, ’wildered,
and forlorn,
Dark, benighted, travel-worn,
Over many a tangled spray,
All heart-broke, I heard her
say:
“Oh, my children! do they
cry?
Do they hear their father
sigh?
Now they look abroad to see.
Now return and weep for me.”
Pitying, I dropped a tear;
But I saw a glow-worm near,
Who replied, “What wailing
wight
Calls the watchman of the
night?
“I am set to light the ground
While the beetle goes his
round.
Follow now the beetle’s
hum—
Little wanderer, hie thee
home!”
WILLIAM BLAKE.
HEAVEN IS NOT REACHED AT A SINGLE BOUND.
(A FRAGMENT.)
“We build the ladder by which we climb”
is a line worthy of any poet.
J.G. Holland (1819-81) has immortalised
himself in this line, at least.
Heaven is not reached at a
single bound,
But we build the
ladder by which we rise
From the lowly
earth to the vaulted skies,
And we mount to its summit
round by round.
I count this thing to be grandly
true:
That a noble deed
is a step toward God,—
Lifting the soul
from the common clod
To a purer air and a broader
view.
J.G. HOLLAND.
THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM.
Have you been to Woodstock, near Oxford, England? If so, you have seen the palace of the Duke of Marlborough, who won the battle of Blenheim. The main point of the poem is the doubtful honour in killing in our great wars. Southey, the poet, lived from 1774 to 1843.
It was a summer’s evening,
Old Kaspar’s
work was done,
And he before his cottage
door
Was sitting in
the sun;
And by him sported on the
green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.
She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something
large and round,
Which he, beside the rivulet,
In playing there,
had found.
He came to ask what he had
found,
That was so large, and smooth,
and round.
Old Kaspar took it from the
boy,
Who stood expectant
by;
And then the old man shook
his head,
And, with a natural
sigh,
“’Tis some poor fellow’s
skull,” said he,
“Who fell in the great victory!
“I find them in the garden,
For there’s
many hereabout;
And often when I go to plow,
The plowshare
turns them out;
For many thousand men,”
said he,
“Were slain in that great
victory!”
“Now tell us what ’twas
all about,”
Young Peterkin
he cries;
And little Wilhelmine looks
up
With wonder-waiting
eyes;
“Now tell us all about the
war,
And what they killed each
other for.”
“It was the English,”
Kaspar cried,
“Who put the French
to rout;
But what they killed each
other for
I could not well
make out.
But everybody said,”
quoth he,
“That ’twas a famous
victory!
“My father lived at Blenheim
then,
Yon little stream
hard by:
They burned his dwelling to
the ground
And he was forced
to fly;
So with his wife and child
he fled,
Nor had he where to rest his
head.
“With fire and sword the country
round
Was wasted far
and wide;
And many a childing mother
then
And new-born baby
died.
But things like that, you
know, must be
At every famous victory.
“They say it was a shocking
sight
After the field
was won;
For many thousand bodies here
Lay rotting in
the sun.
But things like that, you
know, must be
After a famous victory.
“Great praise the Duke of
Marlborough won,
And our good Prince
Eugene.”
“Why, ’twas a very wicked
thing!”
Said little Wilhelmine.
“Nay, nay, my little girl,”
quoth he,
“It was a famous victory!
“And everybody praised the
Duke
Who this great
fight did win.”
“But what good came of it
at last?”
Quoth little Peterkin.
“Why, that I cannot tell,”
said he,
“But ’twas a famous
victory.”
ROBERT SOUTHEY.
FIDELITY.
“Fidelity,” by William Wordsworth (1770-1850),
is placed here out of respect to a boy of eleven
years who liked the poem well enough to recite it
frequently. The scene is laid on Helvellyn, to
me the most impressive mountain of the Lake District
of England. Wordsworth is a part of this country.
I once heard John Burroughs say: “I went
to the
Lake District to see what kind of a country
it could be that would produce a Wordsworth.”
A barking sound the Shepherd
hears,
A cry as of a dog or fox;
He halts—and searches
with his eyes
Among the scattered rocks;
And now at distance can discern
A stirring in a brake of fern;
And instantly a Dog is seen,
Glancing through that covert
green.
The Dog is not of mountain
breed;
Its motions, too, are wild
and shy;
With something, as the Shepherd
thinks,
Unusual in its cry:
Nor is there any one in sight
All round, in hollow or on
height;
Nor shout, nor whistle strikes
his ear;
What is the Creature doing
here?
It was a cove, a huge recess,
That keeps, till June, December’s
snow.
A lofty precipice in front,
A silent tarn below!
Far in the bosom of Helvellyn,
Remote from public road or
dwelling,
Pathway, or cultivated land;
From trace of human foot or
hand.
There sometimes doth a leaping
fish
Send through the tarn a lonely
cheer;
The crags repeat the raven’s
croak,
In symphony austere;
Thither the rainbow comes—the
cloud—
And mists that spread the
flying shroud;
And sunbeams; and the sounding
blast,
That, if it could, would hurry
past,
But that enormous barrier
binds it fast.
Not free from boding thoughts,
a while
The Shepherd stood: then
makes his way
Toward the Dog, o’er
rocks and stones,
As quickly as he may;
Nor far had gone, before he
found
A human skeleton on the ground;
The appalled discoverer with
a sigh
Looks round, to learn the
history.
From those abrupt and perilous
rocks
The Man had fallen, that place
of fear!
At length upon the Shepherd’s
mind
It breaks, and all is clear:
He instantly recalled the
name,
And who he was, and whence
he came;
Remembered, too, the very
day
On which the traveller passed
this way.
But hear a wonder, for whose
sake
This lamentable tale I tell!
A lasting monument of words
This wonder merits well.
The Dog, which still was hovering
nigh,
Repeating the same timid cry,
This Dog had been through
three months space
A dweller in that savage place.
Yes, proof was plain that,
since the day
When this ill-fated traveller
died,
The Dog had watched about
the spot,
Or by his master’s side:
How nourished here through
such long time
He knows, who gave that love
sublime;
And gave that strength of
feeling, great
Above all human estimate.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS.
People are more and more coming to recognise the fact that each individual soul has a right to its own stages of development. “The Chambered Nautilus” is for that reason beloved of the masses. It is one of the grandest poems ever written. “Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul!” This line alone would make the poem immortal. (1809-94.)
This is the ship of pearl,
which, poets feign,
Sailed
the unshadowed main,—
The
venturous bark that flings
On the sweet summer wind its
purpled wings
In gulfs enchanted, where
the Siren sings,
And
coral reefs lie bare,
Where the cold sea-maids rise
to sun their streaming hair.
Its webs of living gauze no
more unfurl;
Wrecked
is the ship of pearl!
And
every chambered cell,
Where its dim dreaming life
was wont to dwell,
As the frail tenant shaped
his growing shell,
Before
thee lies revealed,—
Its irised ceiling rent, its
sunless crypt unsealed!
Year after year beheld the
silent toil
That
spread his lustrous coil;
Still,
as the spiral grew,
He left the past year’s
dwelling for the new,
Stole with soft step its shining
archway through,
Built
up its idle door,
Stretched in his last-found
home, and knew the old no more.
Thanks for the heavenly message
brought by thee,
Child
of the wandering sea,
Cast
from her lap, forlorn!
From thy dead lips a clearer
note is born
Than ever Triton blew from
wreathed horn!
While
on mine ear it rings,
Through the deep caves of
thought I hear a voice that sings:—
Build thee more stately mansions,
O my soul,
As
the swift seasons roll!
Leave
thy low-vaulted past!
Let each new temple, nobler
than the last,
Shut thee from heaven with
a dome more vast,
Till
thou at length art free,
Leaving thine outgrown shell
by life’s unresting sea!
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
CROSSING THE BAR
Tennyson’s (1809-92) “Crossing the Bar” is one of the noblest death-songs ever written. I include it in this volume out of respect to a young Philadelphia publisher who recited it one stormy night before the passengers of a ship when I was crossing the Atlantic, and also because so many young people have the good taste to love it. It has been said that next to Browning’sPage 55
“Prospice” it is the greatest death-song ever written.
Sunset and evening star,
And one clear
call for me!
And may there be no moaning
of the bar,
When I put out
to sea,
But such a tide as moving
seems asleep,
Too full for sound
and foam,
When that which drew from
out the boundless deep
Turns again home.
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that
the dark!
And may there be no sadness
of farewell,
When I embark;
For tho’ from out our
bourne of Time and Place
The flood may
bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face
to face
When I have cross’d
the bar.
ALFRED TENNYSON.
THE OVERLAND-MAIL.
“The Overland-Mail” is a most desirable
poem for children to learn.
When one boy learns it the others want to follow.
It takes as a hero the man who gives common service—the
one who does not lead or command, but follows the
line of duty. (1865-.)
In the name of the Empress
of India, make way,
O Lords of the Jungle wherever
you roam,
The woods are astir at the
close of the day—
We exiles are waiting for
letters from Home—
Let the robber retreat; let
the tiger turn tail,
In the name of the Empress
the Overland-Mail!
With a jingle of bells as
the dusk gathers in,
He turns to the foot-path
that leads up the hill—
The bags on his back, and
a cloth round his chin,
And, tucked in his belt, the
Post-Office bill;—
“Despatched on this date,
as received by the rail,
Per runner, two bags
of the Overland-Mail.”
Is the torrent in spate?
He must ford it or swim.
Has the rain wrecked the road?
He must climb by the cliff.
Does the tempest cry “Halt”?
What are tempests to him?
The service admits not a “but”
or an “if”;
While the breath’s in
his mouth, he must bear without fail,
In the name of the Empress
the Overland-Mail.
From aloe to rose-oak, from
rose-oak to fir,
From level to upland, from
upland to crest,
From rice-field to rock-ridge,
from rock-ridge to spur,
Fly the soft-sandalled feet,
strains the brawny brown chest.
From rail to ravine—to
the peak from the vale—
Up, up through the night goes
the Overland-Mail.
There’s a speck on the
hillside, a dot on the road—
A jingle of bells on the foot-path
below—
There’s a scuffle above
in the monkeys’ abode—
The world is awake, and the
clouds are aglow—
For the great Sun himself
must attend to the hail;—
In the name of the Empress
the Overland-Mail.
RUDYARD KIPLING.
GATHERING SONG OF DONALD DHU.
Jon, do you remember when you used to spout “Pibroch of Donald Dhu”? I think you were ten years old. Sir Walter Scott’s men all have a genius for standing up to their guns, and boys gather up the man’s genius when reciting his verse. (1771-1832.)
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu,
Pibroch of Donuil,
Wake thy wild voice anew,
Summon Clan Conuil.
Come away, come away,
Hark to the summons!
Come in your war-array,
Gentles and commons.
Come from deep glen, and
From mountain
so rocky,
The war-pipe and pennon
Are at Inverlochy.
Come every hill-plaid, and
True heart that
wears one,
Come every steel blade, and
Strong hand that
bears one.
Leave untended the herd,
The flock without
shelter;
Leave the corpse uninterr’d,
The bride at the
altar;
Leave the deer, leave the
steer,
Leave nets and
barges:
Come with your fighting gear,
Broadswords and
targes.
Come as the winds come, when
Forests are rended;
Come as the waves come, when
Navies are stranded:
Faster come, faster come,
Faster and faster,
Chief, vassal, page, and groom,
Tenant and master.
Fast they come, fast they
come;
See how they gather!
Wide waves the eagle plume
Blended with heather,
Cast your plaids, draw your
blades,
Forward each man
set!
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu
Knell for the
onset!
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
MARCO BOZZARIS.
“Marco Bozzaris,” by Fitz-Greene Halleck (1790-1867), was in my old school-reader. Boys and girls liked it then and they like it now. This is another of the poems that was not born to die.
At midnight, in his guarded
tent,
The Turk was dreaming
of the hour
When Greece, her knee in suppliance
bent,
Should tremble
at his power:
In dreams, through camp and
court, he bore
The trophies of a conqueror;
In dreams his
song of triumph heard;
Then wore his monarch’s
signet ring:
Then pressed that monarch’s
throne—a king;
As wild his thoughts, and
gay of wing,
As Eden’s
garden bird.
At midnight, in the forest
shades,
Bozzaris ranged
his Suliote band,
True as the steel of their
tried blades,
Heroes in heart
and hand.
There had the Persian’s
thousands stood,
There had the glad earth drunk
their blood
On old Plataea’s
day;
And now there breathed that
haunted air
The sons of sires who conquered
there,
With arm to strike and soul
to dare,
As quick, as far
as they.
An hour passed on—the
Turk awoke;
That bright dream
was his last;
He woke—to hear
his sentries shriek,
“To arms! they
come! the Greek! the Greek!”
He woke—to die
midst flame, and smoke,
And shout, and groan, and
sabre-stroke,
And death-shots
falling thick and fast
As lightnings from the mountain-cloud;
And heard, with voice as trumpet
loud,
Bozzaris cheer
his band:
“Strike—till the
last armed foe expires;
Strike—for your
altars and your fires;
Strike—for the
green graves of your sires;
God—and
your native land!”
They fought—like
brave men, long and well;
They piled that
ground with Moslem slain,
They conquered—but
Bozzaris fell,
Bleeding at every
vein.
His few surviving comrades
saw
His smile when rang their
proud hurrah,
And the red field
was won;
Then saw in death his eyelids
close
Calmly, as to a night’s
repose,
Like flowers at
set of sun.
Come to the bridal-chamber,
Death!
Come to the mother’s,
when she feels,
For the first time, her first-born’s
breath;
Come when the
blessed seals
That close the pestilence
are broke,
And crowded cities wail its
stroke;
Come in consumption’s
ghastly form,
The earthquake shock, the
ocean storm;
Come when the heart beats
high and warm
With banquet-song,
and dance, and wine;
And thou art terrible—the
tear,
The groan, the knell, the
pall, the bier,
And all we know, or dream,
or fear
Of agony, are
thine.
But to the hero, when his
sword
Has won the battle
for the free,
Thy voice sounds like a prophet’s
word;
And in its hollow tones are
heard
The thanks of
millions yet to be.
Come, when his task of fame
is wrought—
Come, with her laurel-leaf,
blood-bought—
Come in her crowning
hour—and then
Thy sunken eye’s unearthly
light
To him is welcome as the sight
Of sky and stars
to prisoned men;
Thy grasp is welcome as the
hand
Of brother in a foreign land;
Thy summons welcome as the
cry
That told the Indian isles
were nigh
To the world-seeking
Genoese,
When the land wind, from woods
of palm,
And orange-groves, and fields
of balm,
Blew o’er
the Haytian seas.
Bozzaris! with the storied
brave
Greece nurtured
in her glory’s time,
Rest thee—there
is no prouder grave,
Even in her own
proud clime.
She wore no funeral-weeds
for thee,
Nor bade the dark
hearse wave its plume
Like torn branch from death’s
leafless tree
In sorrow’s pomp and
pageantry,
The heartless
luxury of the tomb;
But she remembers thee as
one
FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.
THE DEATH OF NAPOLEON.
“The Death of Napoleon,” by Isaac McClellan (1806-99), was yet another of the good old reader songs taught us by a teacher of good taste. We love those teachers more the older we grow.
Wild was the night, yet a
wilder night
Hung round the
soldier’s pillow;
In his bosom there waged a
fiercer fight
Than the fight
on the wrathful billow.
A few fond mourners were kneeling
by,
The few that his
stern heart cherished;
They knew, by his glazed and
unearthly eye,
That life had
nearly perished.
They knew by his awful and
kingly look,
By the order hastily
spoken,
That he dreamed of days when
the nations shook,
And the nations’
hosts were broken.
He dreamed that the Frenchman’s
sword still slew,
And triumphed
the Frenchman’s eagle,
And the struggling Austrian
fled anew,
Like the hare
before the beagle.
The bearded Russian he scourged
again,
The Prussian’s
camp was routed,
And again on the hills of
haughty Spain
His mighty armies
shouted.
Over Egypt’s sands,
over Alpine snows,
At the pyramids,
at the mountain,
Where the wave of the lordly
Danube flows,
And by the Italian
fountain,
On the snowy cliffs where
mountain streams
Dash by the Switzer’s
dwelling,
He led again, in his dying
dreams,
His hosts, the
proud earth quelling.
Again Marengo’s field
was won,
And Jena’s
bloody battle;
Again the world was overrun,
Made pale at his
cannon’s rattle.
He died at the close of that
darksome day,
A day that shall
live in story;
In the rocky land they placed
his clay,
“And left him
alone with his glory.”
ISAAC MCCLELLAN.
HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE.
How sleep the brave, who sink
to rest
By all their country’s
wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers
cold,
Returns to deck their hallow’d
mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter
sod
Than Fancy’s feet have
ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell
is rung,
By forms unseen their dirge
is sung:
There Honour comes, a pilgrim
gray,
To bless the turf that wraps
their clay;
And Freedom shall a while
repair
To dwell a weeping hermit
there!
WILLIAM COLLINS.
THE FLAG GOES BY.
“The Flag Goes By” is included out of regard to a boy of eleven years who pleased me by his great appreciation of it. It teaches the lesson of reverence to our great national symbol. It is published by permission of the author, Henry Holcomb Bennett, of Ohio. (1863-.)
Hats
off!
Along the street there comes
A blare of bugles, a ruffle
of drums,
A flash of colour beneath
the sky:
Hats
off!
The flag is passing by!
Blue and crimson and white
it shines
Over the steel-tipped, ordered
lines.
Hats
off!
The colours before us fly;
But more than the flag is
passing by.
Sea-fights and land-fights,
grim and great,
Fought to make and to save
the State:
Weary marches and sinking
ships;
Cheers of victory on dying
lips;
Days of plenty and years of
peace;
March of a strong land’s
swift increase;
Equal justice, right, and
law,
Stately honour and reverend
awe;
Sign of a nation, great and
strong
Toward her people from foreign
wrong:
Pride and glory and honour,—all
Live in the colours to stand
or fall.
Hats
off!
Along the street there comes
A blare of bugles, a ruffle
of drums;
And loyal hearts are beating
high:
Hats
off!
The flag is passing by!
HENRY HOLCOMB BENNETT.
HOHENLINDEN.
On Linden, when the sun was
low,
All bloodless lay th’
untrodden snow;
And dark as winter was the
flow
Of
Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat, at dead
of night,
Commanding fires of death
to light
The
darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast
array’d
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger
neigh’d
To
join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with
thunder riven,
Then rush’d the steed
to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts
of Heaven,
Far
flashed the red artillery.
But redder yet that light
shall glow
On Linden’s hills or
stained snow;
And bloodier yet the torrent
flow
Of
Iser, rolling rapidly.
’Tis morn, but scarce yon
level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds,
rolling dun,
Where furious Frank, and fiery
Hun,
Shout
in their sulphurous canopy.
The combat deepens. On,
ye brave
Who rush to glory or the grave!
Wave, Munich! all thy banners
wave,
And
charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few shall part, where
many meet!
The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
And every turf beneath their
feet
Shall
be a soldier’s sepulcher.
THOMAS CAMPBELL.
MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME.
The sun shines bright in the
old Kentucky home;
’Tis summer, the darkeys
are gay;
The corn-top’s ripe,
and the meadow’s in the bloom,
While the birds
make music all the day.
The young folks roll on the
little cabin floor,
All merry, all
happy and bright;
By-’n’-by hard
times comes a-knocking at the door:—
Then my old Kentucky
home, good-night!
Weep no more,
my lady,
O, weep no more
to-day!
We will sing one song for
the old Kentucky home,
For the old Kentucky
home, far away.
They hunt no more for the
’possum and the coon,
On the meadow,
the hill, and the shore;
They sing no more by the glimmer
of the moon,
On the bench by
the old cabin door.
The day goes by like a shadow
o’er the heart,
With sorrow, where
all was delight;
The time has come when the
darkeys have to part:—
Then my old Kentucky
home, good-night!
The head must bow, and the
back will have to bend,
Wherever the darkey
may go;
A few more days, and the trouble
all will end,
In the field where
the sugar-canes grow.
A few more days for to tote
the weary load,—
No matter, ’twill
never be light;
A few more days till we totter
on the road:—
Then my old Kentucky
home, good-night!
Weep
no more, my lady,
O,
weep no more to-day!
We will sing one
song for the old Kentucky home,
For
the old Kentucky home, far away.
STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER.
OLD FOLKS AT HOME.
Way down upon de Swanee Ribber,
Far, far away,
Dere’s wha my heart
is turning ebber,
Dere’s wha
de old folks stay.
All up and down de whole creation
Sadly I roam,
Still longing for de old plantation,
And for de old
folks at home.
All
de world am sad and dreary,
Eberywhere
I roam;
Oh,
darkeys, how my heart grows weary,
Far
from de old folks at home!
All round de little farm I
wandered
When I was young,
Den many happy days I squandered,
Many de songs
I sung.
When I was playing wid my
brudder
Happy was I;
Oh, take me to my kind old
mudder!
Dere let me live
and die.
One little hut among de bushes,
One dat I love,
Still sadly to my memory rushes,
No matter where
I rove.
When will I see de bees a-humming
All round de comb?
When will I hear de banjo
tumming,
Down in my good
old home?
All
de world am sad and dreary,
Eberywhere
I roam;
Oh,
darkeys, how my heart grows weary,
Far
from de old folks at home!
STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER.
THE WRECK OF THE “HESPERUS.”
“The Wreck of the Hesperus,” by
Longfellow (1807-82), on “Norman’s
Woe,” off the coast near Cape Ann, is
a historic poem as well as an imaginative composition.
It was the schooner Hesperus,
That sailed the
wintry sea;
And the skipper had taken
his little daughter,
To bear him company.
Blue were her eyes as the
fairy-flax,
Her cheeks like
the dawn of day,
And her bosom white as the
hawthorn buds
That ope in the
month of May.
The skipper he stood beside
the helm,
His pipe was in
his mouth,
And he watched how the veering
flaw did blow
The smoke now
west, now south.
Then up and spake an old sailor,
Had sailed the
Spanish Main,
“I pray thee put into yonder
port,
For I fear a hurricane.
“Last night the moon had a
golden ring,
And to-night no
moon we see!”
The skipper he blew a whiff
from his pipe,
And a scornful
laugh laughed he.
Colder and louder blew the
wind,
A gale from the
northeast,
The snow fell hissing in the
brine,
And the billows
frothed like yeast.
Down came the storm, and smote
amain
The vessel in
its strength;
She shuddered and paused,
like a frighted steed,
Then leaped her
cable’s length.
“Come hither! come hither!
my little daughter,
And do not tremble
so;
For I can weather the roughest
gale
That ever wind
did blow.”
He wrapped her warm in his
seaman’s coat
Against the stinging
blast;
He cut a rope from a broken
spar,
And bound her
to the mast.
“O father! I hear the
church-bells ring,
O say, what may
it be?”
“Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound
coast!”—
And he steered
for the open sea.
“O father! I hear the
sound of guns,
O say, what may
it be?”
“Some ship in distress, that
cannot live
In such an angry
sea!”
“O father! I see a gleaming
light,
O say, what may
it be?”
But the father answered never
a word,
A frozen corpse
was he.
Lashed to the helm, all stiff
and stark,
With his face
turned to the skies,
The lantern gleamed through
the gleaming snow
On his fixed and
glassy eyes.
Then the maiden clasped her
hands and prayed
That saved she
might be;
And she thought of Christ,
who stilled the wave
On the Lake of
Galilee.
And fast through the midnight
dark and drear,
Through the whistling
sleet and snow,
Like a sheeted ghost the vessel
swept
Toward the reef
of Norman’s Woe.
And ever the fitful gusts
between
A sound came from
the land;
It was the sound of the trampling
surf
On the rocks and
the hard sea-sand.
The breakers were right beneath
her bows,
She drifted a
dreary wreck,
And a whooping billow swept
the crew
Like icicles from
her deck.
She struck where the white
and fleecy waves
Looked soft as
carded wool,
But the cruel rocks they gored
her side
Like the horns
of an angry bull.
Her rattling shrouds all sheathed
in ice,
With the masts
went by the board;
Like a vessel of glass she
stove and sank,—
Ho! ho! the breakers
roared!
At daybreak on the bleak sea-beach
A fisherman stood
aghast,
To see the form of a maiden
fair
Lashed close to
a drifting mast.
The salt sea was frozen on
her breast,
The salt tears
in her eyes;
And he saw her hair, like
the brown sea-weed,
On the billows
fall and rise.
Such was the wreck of the
Hesperus,
In the midnight
and the snow!
Christ save us all from a
death like this,
On the reef of
Norman’s Woe!
HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.
BANNOCKBURN.
ROBERT BRUCE’S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY.
You can look down on the battle-field of Bannockburn from Stirling Castle, Scotland, near which stands a magnificent statue of Robert, the Bruce. How often have I trodden over the old battle-field. The monument of William Wallace, too, looms up on the Ochil Hills, not far away. (1759-96.)
Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace
bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften
led;
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victorie.
Now’s the day, and now’s
the hour;
See the front o’ battle
lower;
See approach proud Edward’s
power—
Chains and slaverie!
Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha can fill a coward’s
grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Let him turn and
flee!
Wha for Scotland’s King
and law
Freedom’s sword will
strongly draw,
Freeman stand, or freeman
fa’?
Let him follow
me!
By oppression’s woes
and pains!
By your sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest
veins,
But they shall
be free!
Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty’s in every blow!
Let us do, or
die!
ROBERT BURNS.
Lad and Lassie
[Illustration]
THE INCHCAPE ROCK.
The man is wrecked and his ship is sunken before he ever steps on board or sees the water if his heart is hard and his estimate of human beings low. “The Inchcape Rock” is a thrust at hard-heartedness. “What is the use of life?” To bear one another’s burdens, to develop a genius for pulling people through hard places—that’s the use of life. It is the last resort of a mean mind to crack jokes that wreck innocent voyagers on life’s sea. (1774-1843.)
No stir in the air, no stir
in the sea,
The ship was still as she
could be;
Her sails from heaven received
no motion;
Her keel was steady in the
ocean.
Without either sign or sound
of their shock,
The waves flowed over the
Inchcape Rock;
So little they rose, so little
they fell,
They did not move the Inchcape
Bell.
The Abbot of Aberbrothok
Had placed that Bell on the
Inchcape Rock;
On a buoy in the storm it
floated and swung,
And over the waves its warning
rung.
When the Rock was hid by the
surge’s swell,
The mariners heard the warning
Bell;
And then they knew the perilous
Rock,
And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok.
The sun in heaven was shining
gay;
All things were joyful on
that day;
The sea-birds screamed as
they wheeled round,
And there was joyance in their
sound.
The buoy of the Inchcape Bell
was seen,
A dark spot on the ocean green;
Sir Ralph the Rover walked
his deck,
And he fixed his eye on the
darker speck.
He felt the cheering power
of spring;
It made him whistle, it made
him sing:
His heart was mirthful to
excess,
But the Rover’s mirth
was wickedness.
His eye was on the Inchcape
float.
Quoth he, “My men, put
out the boat
And row me to the Inchcape
Rock,
And I’ll plague the
Abbot of Aberbrothok.”
The boat is lowered, the boatmen
row,
And to the Inchcape Rock they
go;
Sir Ralph bent over from the
boat,
And he cut the Bell from the
Inchcape float.
Down sank the Bell with a
gurgling sound;
The bubbles rose and burst
around.
Quoth Sir Ralph, “The
next who comes to the Rock
Won’t bless the Abbot
of Aberbrothok.”
Sir Ralph the Rover sailed
away;
He scoured the sea for many
a day;
And now grown rich with plundered
store,
He steers his course for Scotland’s
shore.
So thick a haze o’erspread
the sky,
They cannot see the sun on
high:
The wind hath blown a gale
all day,
At evening it hath died away.
On the deck the Rover takes
his stand;
So dark it is they see no
land.
Quoth Sir Ralph, “It
will be brighter soon,
For there is the dawn of the
rising moon.”
“Canst hear,” said one,
“the broken roar?
For methinks we should be
near the shore.”
“Now where we are I cannot
tell,
But I wish I could hear the
Inchcape Bell.”
They hear no sound; the swell
is strong;
Though the wind hath fallen,
they drift along
Till the vessel strikes with
a shivering shock:
“O Christ! it is the Inchcape
Rock!”
Sir Ralph the Rover tore his
hair,
He curst himself in his despair:
The waves rush in on every
side,
The ship is sinking beneath
the tide.
But, even in his dying fear,
One dreadful sound could the
Rover hear,—
A sound as if with the Inchcape
Bell
The Devil below was ringing
his knell.
ROBERT SOUTHEY.
THE FINDING OF THE LYRE.
Once a year my pupils teach me “The Finding of the Lyre.” By the time I have learned it they know the meaning of every line and have caught the spirit of the verse. There is an ancient “lyre,” or violin, made in northern Africa, in the possession of a Boston lady, and I have found the mud-turtle rattle among the Indians on the Indian reservation at Syracuse, New York. They use it as a musical instrument in their Thanksgiving dances. The poem helps to build an interest in history and mythology while it develops a child’s reverence and insight. (1819-91.)
There lay upon the ocean’s
shore
What once a tortoise served
to cover;
A year and more, with rush
and roar,
The surf had rolled it over,
Had played with it, and flung
it by,
As wind and weather might
decide it,
Then tossed it high where
sand-drifts dry
Cheap burial might provide
it.
It rested there to bleach
or tan,
The rains had soaked, the
sun had burned it;
With many a ban the fisherman
Had stumbled o’er and
spurned it;
And there the fisher-girl
would stay,
Conjecturing with her brother
How in their play the poor
estray
Might serve some use or other.
So there it lay, through wet
and dry,
As empty as the last new sonnet,
Till by and by came Mercury,
And, having mused upon it,
“Why, here,” cried he,
“the thing of things
In shape, material, and dimension!
Give it but strings, and,
lo, it sings,
A wonderful invention!”
So said, so done; the chords
he strained,
And, as his fingers o’er
them hovered,
The shell disdained a soul
had gained,
The lyre had been discovered.
O empty world that round us
lies,
Dead shell, of soul and thought
forsaken,
Brought we but eyes like Mercury’s,
In thee what songs should
waken!
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
A CHRYSALIS.
“A Chrysalis” is a favourite poem with John Burroughs, and is found, too, in Stedman’s collection. We all come to a point in life where we need to burst the shell and fly away into the new realm. (1835-98.)
My little Maedchen found one
day
A curious something in her
play,
That was not fruit, nor flower,
nor seed;
It was not anything that grew,
Or crept, or climbed, or swam,
or flew;
Had neither legs nor wings,
indeed;
And yet she was not sure,
she said,
Whether it was alive or dead.
She brought it in her tiny
hand
To see if I would understand,
And wondered when I made reply,
“You’ve found a baby
butterfly.”
“A butterfly is not like this,”
With doubtful look she answered
me.
So then I told her what would
be
Some day within the chrysalis:
How, slowly, in the dull brown
thing
Now still as death, a spotted
wing,
And then another, would unfold,
Till from the empty shell
would fly
A pretty creature, by and
by,
All radiant in blue and gold.
“And will it, truly?”
questioned she—
Her laughing lips and eager
eyes
All in a sparkle of surprise—
“And shall your little Maedchen
see?”
“She shall!” I said.
How could I tell
That ere the worm within its
shell
Its gauzy, splendid wings
had spread,
My little Maedchen would be
dead?
To-day the butterfly has flown,—
She was not here to see it
fly,—
And sorrowing I wonder why
The empty shell is mine alone.
Perhaps the secret lies in
this:
I too had found a chrysalis,
And Death that robbed me of
delight
Was but the radiant creature’s
flight!
MARY EMILY BRADLEY.
FOR A’ THAT.
Robert Burns, the plowman and poet, “dinnered
wi’ a lord.” The story
goes that he was put at the second table.
That lord is dead, but Robert
Burns still lives. He is immortal.
It is “the survival of the fittest”
“For a’ That and a’ That”
is a poem that wipes out the superficial
value put on money and other externalities.
This poem is more valuable
in education than good penmanship or good spelling.
(1759-96.)
Is there, for honest poverty,
That hangs his
head, and a’ that?
The coward slave, we pass
him by,
We dare be poor
for a’ that;
For a’ that, and a’
that,
Our toils obscure,
and a’ that;
The rank is but the guinea’s
stamp,
The man’s
the gowd for a’ that!
What though on hamely fare
we dine,
Wear hoddin-gray,[1]
and a’ that;
Gie fools their silks, and
knaves their wine,
A man’s
a man for a’ that!
For a’ that, and a’
that,
Their tinsel show,
and a’ that;
The honest man, though e’er
sae poor,
Is king o’
men for a’ that!
Ye see yon birkie[2] ca’d
a lord,
Wha struts, and
stares, and a’ that;
Though hundreds worship at
his word,
He’s but
a coof[3] for a’ that;
For a’ that, and a’
that,
His riband, star,
and a’ that,
The man of independent mind,
He looks and laughs
at a’ that.
A prince can make a belted
knight,
A marquis, duke,
and a’ that;
But an honest man’s
aboon his might.
Guid faith he
maunna fa’ that!
For a’ that, and a’
that,
Their dignities,
and a’ that,
The pith o’ sense, and
pride o’ worth,
Are higher rank
than a’ that.
Then let us pray that come
it may—
As come it will
for a’ that—
That sense and worth, o’er
a’ the earth,
May bear the gree,
and a’ that;
For a’ that, and a’
that,
It’s coming
yet for a’ that,
That man to man, the warld
o’er,
Shall brothers
be for a’ that!
[1] Coarse woolen clothes.
[2] Impudent fellow.
[3] Fool: blockhead.
ROBERT BURNS.
A NEW ARRIVAL.
“The New Arrival” is a valuable poem because it expresses the joy of a young father over his new baby. If girls should be educated to be good mothers, so should boys be taught that fatherhood is the highest and holiest joy and right of man. The child is educator to the man. He teaches him how to take responsibility, how to give unbiased judgments, and how to be fatherly like “Our Father who is in Heaven.” (1844-.)
There came to port last Sunday
night
The queerest little
craft,
Without an inch of rigging
on;
I looked and looked
and laughed.
It seemed so curious that
she
Should cross the
Unknown water,
And moor herself right in
my room,
My daughter, O
my daughter!
Yet by these presents witness
all
She’s welcome
fifty times,
And comes consigned to Hope
and Love
And common-meter
rhymes.
She has no manifest but this,
No flag floats
o’er the water,
She’s too new for the
British Lloyds—
My daughter, O
my daughter!
Ring out, wild bells, and
tame ones too!
Ring out the lover’s
moon!
Ring in the little worsted
socks!
Ring in the bib
and spoon!
Ring out the muse! ring in
the nurse!
Ring in the milk
and water!
Away with paper, pen, and
ink—
My daughter, O
my daughter!
GEORGE W. CABLE.
THE BROOK.
Tennyson’s “The Brook” is included out of love to a dear old schoolmate in Colorado. The real brook, near Cambridge, England, is tame compared to your Colorado streams, O beloved comrade. This poem is well liked by the majority of pupils. (1809-92.)
I chatter, chatter, as I flow
To join the brimming
river;
For men may come and men may
go,
But I go on forever.
I wind about, and in and out,
With here a blossom
sailing,
And here and there a lusty
trout,
And here and there
a grayling.
I steal by lawns and grassy
plots,
I slide by hazel
covers;
I move the sweet forget-me-nots
That grow for
happy lovers.
I slip, I slide, I gloom,
I glance,
Among my skimming
swallows;
I make the netted sunbeams
dance
Against my sandy
shallows.
I murmur under moon and stars
In brambly wildernesses;
I linger by my shingly bars;
I loiter round
my cresses.
And out again I curve and
flow
To join the brimming
river;
For men may come and men may
go,
But I go on forever.
ALFRED TENNYSON.
THE BALLAD OF THE “CLAMPHERDOWN.”
“The Ballad of the Clampherdown,” by Rudyard Kipling, is included because my boys always like it. It needs a great deal of explanation, and few boys will hold out to the end in learning it. But “it pays.” (1865-.)
It was our war-ship Clampherdown
Would sweep the
Channel clean,
Wherefore she kept her hatches
close
When the merry Channel chops
arose,
To save the bleached
marine.
She had one bow-gun of a hundred
ton,
And a great stern-gun
beside;
They dipped their noses deep
in the sea,
They racked their stays and
stanchions free
In the wash of
the wind-whipped tide.
It was our war-ship Clampherdown,
Fell in with a
cruiser light
That carried the dainty Hotchkiss
gun
And a pair o’ heels
wherewith to run,
From the grip
of a close-fought fight.
She opened fire at seven miles—
As ye shoot at
a bobbing cork—
And once she fired and twice
she fired,
Till the bow-gun drooped like
a lily tired
That lolls upon
the stalk.
“Captain, the bow-gun melts
apace,
The deck-beams
break below,
’Twere well to rest for an
hour or twain,
And botch the shattered plates
again.”
And he answered,
“Make it so.”
She opened fire within the
mile—
As ye shoot at
the flying duck—
And the great stern-gun shot
fair and true,
With the heave of the ship,
to the stainless blue,
And the great
stern-turret stuck.
“Captain, the turret fills
with steam,
The feed-pipes
burst below—
You can hear the hiss of helpless
ram,
You can hear the twisted runners
jam.”
And he answered,
“Turn and go!”
It was our war-ship Clampherdown,
And grimly did
she roll;
Swung round to take the cruiser’s
fire
As the White Whale faces the
Thresher’s ire,
When they war
by the frozen Pole.
“Captain, the shells are falling
fast,
And faster still
fall we;
And it is not meet for English
stock,
To bide in the heart of an
eight-day clock,
The death they
cannot see.”
“Lie down, lie down, my bold
A.B.,
We drift upon
her beam;
We dare not ram, for she can
run;
And dare ye fire another gun,
And die in the
peeling steam?”
It was our war-ship Clampherdown
That carried an
armour-belt;
But fifty feet at stern and
bow,
Lay bare as the paunch of
the purser’s sow,
To the hail of
the Nordenfeldt.
“Captain, they lack us through
and through;
The chilled steel
bolts are swift!
We have emptied the bunkers
in open sea,
Their shrapnel bursts where
our coal should be.”
And he answered,
“Let her drift.”
It was our war-ship Clampherdown,
Swung round upon
the tide.
Her two dumb guns glared south
and north,
And the blood and the bubbling
steam ran forth,
And she ground
the cruiser’s side.
“Captain, they cry the fight
is done,
They bid you send
your sword.”
And he answered, “Grapple
her stern and bow.
They have asked for the steel.
They shall have it now;
Out cutlasses
and board!”
It was our war-ship Clampherdown,
Spewed up four
hundred men;
And the scalded stokers yelped
delight,
As they rolled in the waist
and heard the fight,
Stamp o’er
their steel-walled pen.
They cleared the cruiser end
to end,
From conning-tower
to hold.
They fought as they fought
in Nelson’s fleet;
They were stripped to the
waist, they were bare to the feet,
As it was in the
days of old.
It was the sinking Clampherdown
Heaved up her
battered side—
And carried a million pounds
in steel,
To the cod and the corpse-fed
conger-eel,
And the scour
of the Channel tide.
It was the crew of the Clampherdown
Stood out to sweep
the sea,
On a cruiser won from an ancient
foe,
As it was in the days of long-ago,
And as it still
shall be.
RUDYARD KIPLING.
THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.
“The Destruction of Sennacherib,” by Lord Byron, finds a place in this collection because Johnnie, a ten-year-old, and many of his friends say, “It’s great.” (1788-1824.)
The Assyrian came down like
a wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming
in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears
was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly
on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest
when the Summer is green,
That host with their banners
at sunset were seen:
Like the leaves of the forest
when Autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay
withered and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread
his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of
the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers
waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once
heaved, and forever grew still!
And there lay the steed with
his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled
not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping
lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the
rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider distorted
and pale,
With the dew on his brow,
and the rust on his mail,
And the tents were all silent,
the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet
unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are
loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in
the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile,
unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the
glance of the Lord!
LORD BYRON.
I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.
I remember, I remember
The house where I was born,
The little window where the
sun
Came peeping in at morn;
He never came a wink too soon
Nor brought too long a day;
But now, I often wish the
night
Had borne my breath away.
I remember, I remember
The roses, red and white,
The violets, and the lily-cups—
Those flowers made of light!
The lilacs where the robin
built,
And where my brother set
The laburnum on his birthday,—
The tree is living yet!
I remember, I remember
Where I was used to swing,
And thought the air must rush
as fresh
To swallows on the wing;
My spirit flew in feathers
then
That is so heavy now,
And summer pools could hardly
cool
The fever on my brow.
I remember, I remember
The fir trees dark and high;
I used to think their slender
tops
Were close against the sky:
It was a childish ignorance,
But now ’tis little
joy
To know I’m farther
off from Heaven
Than when I was a boy.
THOMAS HOOD.
DRIVING HOME THE COWS.
Out of the clover and blue-eyed
grass
He turned them
into the river lane;
One after another he let them
pass,
Then fastened
the meadow bars again.
Under the willows and over
the hill,
He patiently followed
their sober pace;
The merry whistle for once
was still,
And something
shadowed the sunny face.
Only a boy! and his father
had said
He never could
let his youngest go:
Two already were lying dead,
Under the feet
of the trampling foe.
But after the evening work
was done,
And the frogs
were loud in the meadow-swamp,
Over his shoulder he slung
his gun,
And stealthily
followed the footpath damp.
Across the clover, and through
the wheat,
With resolute
heart and purpose grim:
Though the dew was on his
hurrying feet,
And the blind
bat’s flitting startled him.
Thrice since then had the
lanes been white,
And the orchards
sweet with apple-bloom;
And now, when the cows came
back at night,
The feeble father
drove them home.
For news had come to the lonely
farm
That three were
lying where two had lain;
And the old man’s tremulous,
palsied arm
Could never lean
on a son’s again.
The summer day grew cool and
late:
He went for the
cows when the work was done;
But down the lane, as he opened
the gate,
He saw them coming
one by one:
Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and
Bess,
Shaking their
horns in the evening wind;
Cropping the buttercups out
of the grass,
But who was it
following close behind?
Loosely swung in the idle
air
The empty sleeve
of army blue;
And worn and pale, from the
crisping hair,
Looked out a face
that the father knew.
For close-barred prisons will
sometimes yawn,
And yield their
dead unto life again;
And the day that comes with
a cloudy dawn,
In golden glory
at last may wane.
The great tears sprang to
their meeting eyes;
For the heart
must speak when the lips are dumb,
And under the silent evening
skies
Together they
followed the cattle home.
KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD.
KRINKEN.
“Krinken” is the dearest of poems.
“Krinken was a little
child.
It was summer when he smiled!”
Eugene Field, above all other poets,
paid the finest tribute to
children. This poet only, could make the whole
ocean warm because a
child’s heart was there to warm it.
Krinken was a little child,—
It was summer when he smiled.
Oft the hoary sea and grim
Stretched its white arms out to him,
Calling, “Sun-child, come to me;
Let me warm my heart with thee!”
But the child heard not the sea
Calling, yearning evermore
For the summer on the shore.
Krinken on the beach one day
Saw a maiden Nis at play;
On the pebbly beach she played
In the summer Krinken made.
Fair, and very fair, was she,
Just a little child was he.
“Krinken,” said the
maiden Nis,
“Let me have a little kiss,—
Just a kiss, and go with me
To the summer-lands that be
Down within the silver sea.”
Krinken was a little child—
By the maiden Nis beguiled,
Hand in hand with her went
he
And ’twas summer in
the sea.
And the hoary sea and grim
To its bosom folded him—
Clasped and kissed the little
form,
And the ocean’s heart
was warm.
Now the sea calls out no more;
It is winter on the shore,—
Winter where that little child
Made sweet summer when he
smiled;
Though ’tis summer on
the sea
Where with maiden Nis went
he,—
It is winter on the shore,
Winter, winter evermore.
Of the summer on the deep Come sweet visions in my sleep; His fair face lifts from the sea, His dear voice calls out to me,— These my dreams of summer be.
Krinken was a little child,
By the maiden Nis beguiled;
Oft the hoary sea and grim
Reached its longing arms to
him,
Crying, “Sim-child,
come to me;
Let me warm my heart with
thee!”
But the sea calls out no more;
It is winter on the shore,—
Winter, cold and dark and
wild.
Krinken was a little child,—
It was summer when he smiled;
Down he went into the sea,
And the winter bides with
me,
Just a little child was he.
EUGENE FIELD.
STEVENSON’S BIRTHDAY.
“How I should like a birthday!”
said the child,
“I have so few,
and they so far apart.”
She spoke to Stevenson—the
Master smiled—
“Mine is to-day;
I would with all my heart
That it were yours; too many
years have I!
Too swift they come, and all
too swiftly fly”
So by a formal deed he there
conveyed
All right and
title in his natal day,
To have and hold,
to sell or give away,—
Then signed, and gave it to
the little maid.
Joyful, yet fearing to believe
too much,
She took the deed,
but scarcely dared unfold.
Ah, liberal Genius! at whose
potent touch
All common things
shine with transmuted gold!
A day of Stevenson’s
will prove to be
Not part of Time, but Immortality.
KATHERINE MILLER.
A MODEST WIT.
I learned “A Modest Wit” as a reading-lesson when I was a child. It has clung to me and so I cling to it. It is just as good as it ever was. It is a sharp thrust at power that depends on externalities. Selleck Osborne. (——.)
A supercilious nabob of the
East—
Haughty, being
great—purse-proud, being rich—
A governor, or general, at
the least,
I have forgotten
which—
Had in his family a humble
youth,
Who went from
England in his patron’s suit,
An unassuming boy, in truth
A lad of decent
parts, and good repute.
This youth had sense and spirit;
But yet with all
his sense,
Excessive diffidence
Obscured his merit.
One day, at table, flushed
with pride and wine,
His honour, proudly
free, severely merry,
Conceived it would be vastly
fine
To crack a joke
upon his secretary.
“Young man,” he said,
“by what art, craft, or trade,
Did your good
father gain a livelihood?”—
“He was a saddler, sir,”
Modestus said,
“And in his time
was reckon’d good.”
“A saddler, eh! and taught
you Greek,
Instead of teaching
you to sew!
Pray, why did not your father
make
A saddler, sir,
of you?”
Each parasite, then, as in
duty bound,
The joke applauded, and the
laugh went round.
At length Modestus,
bowing low,
Said (craving pardon, if too
free he made),
“Sir, by your
leave, I fain would know
Your father’s trade!”
“My father’s trade!
by heaven, that’s too bad!
My father’s trade?
Why, blockhead, are you mad?
My father, sir, did never
stoop so low—
He was a gentleman, I’d
have you know.”
“Excuse the liberty I take,”
Modestus said,
with archness on his brow,
“Pray, why did not your father
make
A gentleman of
you?”
SELLECK OSBORNE.
THE LEGEND OF BISHOP HATTO.
“The Legend of Bishop Hatto” is doubtless a myth (Robert Southey, 1774-1843). But “The Mouse-Tower on the Rhine” is an object of interest to travellers, and the story has a point
The summer and autumn had
been so wet,
That in winter the corn was
growing yet:
’Twas a piteous sight to see,
all around,
The grain lie rotting on the
ground.
Every day the starving poor
Crowded around Bishop Hatto’s
door;
For he had a plentiful last-year’s
store,
And all the neighbourhood
could tell
His granaries were furnished
well.
At last Bishop Hatto appointed
a day
To quiet the poor without
delay:
He bade them to his great
barn repair,
And they should have food
for winter there.
Rejoiced such tidings good
to hear,
The poor folk flocked from
far and near;
The great barn was full as
it could hold
Of women and children, and
young and old.
Then, when he saw it could
hold no more,
Bishop Hatto, he made fast
the door;
And while for mercy on Christ
they call,
He set fire to the barn and
burned them all.
“I’ faith, ’tis
an excellent bonfire!” quoth he;
“And the country is greatly
obliged to me
For ridding it in these times
forlorn
Of Rats that only consume
the corn.”
So then to his palace returned
he,
And he sat down to supper
merrily,
And he slept that night like
an innocent man;
But Bishop Hatto never slept
again.
In the morning as he entered
the hall,
Where his picture hung against
the wall,
A sweat-like death all over
him came;
For the Rats had eaten it
out of the frame.
As he looked, there came a
man from his farm;
He had a countenance white
with alarm:
“My Lord, I opened your granaries
this morn,
And the Rats had eaten all
your corn.”
Another came running presently,
And he was pale as pale could
be:
“Fly, my Lord Bishop, fly!”
quoth he,
“Ten thousand Rats are coming
this way;
The Lord forgive you yesterday!”
“I’ll go to my town
on the Rhine,” replied he;
“’Tis the safest place
in Germany;
The walls are high, and the
shores are steep,
And the stream is strong,
and the water deep.”
Bishop Hatto fearfully hastened
away,
And he crossed the Rhine without
delay,
And reached his tower, and
barred with care
All windows, doors, and loop-holes
there.
He laid him down, and closed
his eyes;
But soon a scream made him
arise:
He started and saw two eyes
of flame
On his pillow, from whence
the screaming came.
He listened and looked; it
was only the cat:
But the Bishop he grew more
fearful for that;
For she sat screaming, mad
with fear
At the army of Rats that was
drawing near.
For they have swum over the
river so deep,
And they have climbed the
shore so steep;
And up the tower their way
is bent,
To do the work for which they
were sent.
They are not to be told by
the dozen or score;
By thousands they come, and
by myriads and more;
Such numbers had never been
heard of before,
Such a judgment had never
been witnessed of yore.
Down on his knees the Bishop
fell,
And faster and faster his
beads did tell,
As, louder and louder drawing
near,
The gnawing of their teeth
he could hear.
And in at the windows and
in at the door,
And through the walls, helter-skelter
they pour,
And down from the ceiling
and up through the floor,
From the right and the left,
from behind and before,
And all at once to the Bishop
they go.
They have whetted their teeth
against the stones;
And now they pick the Bishop’s
bones:
They gnawed the flesh from
every limb;
For they were sent to do judgment
on him!
ROBERT SOUTHEY.
COLUMBUS.
We are greatly indebted to Joaquin Miller for his “Sail On! Sail On!” Endurance is the watchword of the poem and the watchword of our republic. Every man to his gun! Columbus discovered America in his own mind before he realised it or proved its existence. I have often drawn a chart of Columbus’s life and voyages to show what need he had of the motto “Sail On!” to accomplish his end. This is one of our greatest American poems. The writer still lives in California.
Behind him lay the gray Azores,
Behind the gates
of Hercules;
Before him not the ghost of
shores,
Before him only
shoreless seas.
The good mate said: “Now
must we pray,
For lo! the very
stars are gone;
Speak, Admiral, what shall
I say?”
“Why say, sail
on! and on!”
“My men grow mut’nous
day by day;
My men grow ghastly
wan and weak.”
The stout mate thought of
home; a spray
Of salt wave wash’d
his swarthy cheek.
“What shall I say, brave Admiral,
If we sight naught
but seas at dawn?”
“Why, you shall say, at break
of day:
‘Sail on! sail
on! and on!’”
They sailed and sailed, as
winds might blow,
Until at last
the blanch’d mate said;
“Why, now, not even God would
know
Should I and all
my men fall dead.
These very winds forget their
way,
For God from these
dread seas is gone.
Now speak, brave Admiral,
and say——”
He said:
“Sail on! and on!”
They sailed, they sailed,
then spoke his mate:
“This mad sea
shows his teeth to-night,
He curls his lip, he lies
in wait,
With lifted teeth
as if to bite!
Brave Admiral, say but one
word;
What shall we
do when hope is gone?”
The words leaped as a leaping
sword:
“Sail on! sail
on! and on!”
Then, pale and worn, he kept
his deck,
And thro’
the darkness peered that night.
Ah, darkest night! and then
a speck,—
A light! a light!
a light! a light!
It grew—a star-lit
flag unfurled!
It grew to be
Time’s burst of dawn;
He gained a world! he gave
that world
Its watch-word:
“On! and on!”
JOAQUIN MILLER.
THE SHEPHERD OF KING ADMETUS.
Once a year the children learn “The Shepherd of King Admetus,” which is one of the finest poems ever written as showing the possible growth of real history into mythology, the tendency of mankind to deify what is fine or sublime in human action. Not every child will learn this entire poem, because it is too long. But every child will learn the best lines in it while the children are teaching it to me and when I take my turn in teaching it to them. No child fails to catch the spirit and intent of the poem and to become entirely familiar with it. (1819-91.)
There came a youth upon the
earth,
Some thousand
years ago,
Whose slender hands were nothing
worth,
Whether to plow,
or reap, or sow.
Upon an empty tortoise-shell
He stretched some
chords, and drew
Music that made men’s
bosoms swell
Fearless, or brimmed
their eyes with dew.
Then King Admetus, one who
had
Pure taste by
right divine,
Decreed his singing not too
bad
To hear between
the cups of wine:
And so, well pleased with
being soothed
Into a sweet half-sleep,
Three times his kingly beard
he smoothed,
And made him viceroy
o’er his sheep.
His words were simple words
enough,
And yet he used
them so,
That what in other mouths
was rough
In his seemed
musical and low.
Men called him but a shiftless
youth,
In whom no good
they saw;
And yet, unwittingly, in truth,
They made his
careless words their law.
They knew not how he learned
at all,
For idly, hour
by hour,
He sat and watched the dead
leaves fall,
Or mused upon
a common flower.
It seemed the loveliness of
things
Did teach him
all their use,
For, in mere weeds, and stones,
and springs,
He found a healing
power profuse.
Men granted that his speech
was wise,
But, when a glance
they caught
Of his slim grace and woman’s
eyes,
They laughed,
and called him good-for-naught.
Yet after he was dead and
gone,
And e’en
his memory dim,
Earth seemed more sweet to
live upon,
More full of love,
because of him.
And day by day more holy grew
Each spot where
he had trod,
Till after-poets only knew
Their first-born
brother as a god.
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX.
I have an old essay written by a lad of fourteen years on “How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix.” I should judge from this essay that any boy at that age would like the poem, even if he had not himself been over the ground as this boy had. (1812-89.)
I sprang to the stirrup, and
Joris, and he;
I galloped, Dirck galloped,
we galloped all three;
“Good speed!” cried
the watch as the gate-bolts undrew;
“Speed!” echoed the
wall to us galloping through;
Behind shut the postern, the
lights sank to rest,
And into the midnight we galloped
abreast.
Not a word to each other;
we kept the great pace
Neck by neck, stride by stride,
never changing our place;
I turned in my saddle and
made its girth tight,
Then shortened each stirrup,
and set the pique right,
Rebuckled the cheek-strap,
chained slacker the bit,
Nor galloped less steadily
Roland a whit.
’Twas moonset at starting;
but while we drew near
Lokeren, the cocks crew and
twilight dawned clear;
At Boom, a great yellow star
came out to see;
At Dueffeld, ’twas morning
as plain as could be;
And from Mecheln church-steeple
we heard the half-chime,
So Joris broke silence with,
“Yet there is time!”
At Aershot, up leaped of a
sudden the sun,
And against him the cattle
stood black every one,
To stare through the mist
at us galloping past,
And I saw my stout galloper
Roland at last,
With resolute shoulders, each
butting away
The haze, as some bluff river
headland its spray:
And his low head and crest,
just one sharp ear bent back
For my voice, and the other
pricked out on his track;
And one eye’s black
intelligence,—ever that glance
O’er its white edge
at me, his own master, askance!
And the thick, heavy spume-flakes
which aye and anon
His fierce lips shook upward
in galloping on.
By Hasselt, Dirck groaned;
and cried Joris, “Stay spur!
Your Roos galloped bravely,
the fault’s not in her,
We’ll remember at Aix”—for
one heard the quick wheeze
Of her chest, saw the stretched
neck and staggering knees,
And sunk tail, and horrible
heave of the flank,
As down on her haunches she
shuddered and sank.
So, we were left galloping,
Joris and I,
Past Looz and past Tongres,
no cloud in the sky;
The broad sun above laughed
a pitiless laugh,
’Neath our feet broke the
brittle bright stubble like chaff;
Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire
sprang white,
And “Gallop,”
gasped Joris, “for Aix is in sight!”
“How they’ll greet us!”—and
all in a moment his roan
Rolled neck and croup over,
lay dead as a stone;
And there was my Roland to
bear the whole weight
Of the news which alone could
save Aix from her fate,
With his nostrils like pits
full of blood to the brim,
And with circles of red for
his eye-sockets’ rim.
Then I cast loose my buff-coat,
each holster let fall,
Shook off both my jack-boots,
let go belt and all,
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned,
patted his ear,
Called my Roland his pet-name,
my horse without peer;
Clapped my hands, laughed
and sang, any noise, bad or good,
Till at length into Aix Roland
galloped and stood.
And all I remember is—friends
flocking round
As I sat with his head ’twixt
my knees on the ground;
And no voice but was praising
this Roland of mine,
As I poured down his throat
our last measure of wine,
Which (the burgesses voting
by common consent)
Was no more than his due who
brought the good news from Ghent.
ROBERT BROWNING.
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA.
“The Burial of Sir John Moore” was one
of my reading-lessons when I was a child. A
distinguished teacher says: “It has become
a part of popular education,” as has also “The
Eve of Waterloo” and “The Death of
Napoleon.” They are all poems of
great rhythmical swing, intense and graphic. (1791-1823.)
Not a drum was heard, not
a funeral note,
As his corse to
the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his
farewell shot
O’er the
grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead
of night,
The sods with
our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeam’s
misty light,
And the lantern
dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed
his breast,
Not in sheet nor
in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior
taking his rest,
With his martial
cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers
we said,
And we spoke not
a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on
the face that was dead,
And we bitterly
thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollowed
his narrow bed,
And smoothed down
his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger
would tread o’er his head,
And we far away
on the billow!
Lightly they’ll talk
of the spirit that’s gone,
And o’er
his cold ashes upbraid him,—
But little he’ll reck,
if they let him sleep on
In the grave where
a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task
was done
When the clock
struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and
random gun
That the foe was
sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him
down,
From the field
of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, and
we raised not a stone—
But we left him
alone with his glory!
C. WOLFE.
THE EVE OF WATERLOO.
“The Eve of Waterloo,” by Lord Byron (1788-1824). Here is another old reading-book gem that will always be dear to every boy’s heart if he only reads it a few times.
There was a sound of revelry
by night,
And Belgium’s
capital had gathered then
Her beauty and her chivalry,
and bright
The lamps shone
o’er fair women and brave men.
A thousand hearts beat happily;
and when
Music arose with
its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes looked love to eyes
which spake again,
And all went merry
as a marriage-bell:
But hush! hark!
a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!
Did ye not hear it? No;
’twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling
o’er the stony street.
On with the dance! let joy
be unconfined!
No sleep till
morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing hours
with flying feet!
But hark!—that
heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo
would repeat;
And nearer, clearer,
deadlier, than before!
Arm! arm! it is—it
is the cannon’s opening roar!
Ah! then and there was hurrying
to and fro,
And gathering
tears, and tremblings of distress
And cheeks all pale, which,
but an hour ago,
Blushed at the
praise of their own loveliness;
And there were sudden partings,
such as press
The life from
out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne’er might be
repeated: who could guess
If ever more should
meet those mutual eyes,
Since upon night
so sweet such awful morn could rise?
And there was mounting in
hot haste: the steed,
The mustering
squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with
impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming
in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder peal
on peal afar;
And near, the
beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier ere
the morning star;
While thronged
the citizens with terror dumb,
Or whispering
with white lips, “The foe! They come!
They come!”
And Ardennes waves above them
her green leaves,
Dewy with Nature’s
tear-drops, as they pass,
Grieving, if aught inanimate
e’er grieves,
Over the unreturning
brave—alas!
Ere evening to be trodden
like the grass
Which, now beneath
them, but above shall grow
In its next verdure, when
this fiery mass
Of living valour,
rolling on the foe,
And burning with
high hope, shall moulder cold and low.
Last noon beheld them full
of lusty life,
Last eve in Beauty’s
circle proudly gay;
The midnight brought the signal-sound
of strife,
The morn the marshalling
in arms,—the day,
Battle’s magnificently
stern array!
The thunder-clouds
close o’er it, which, when rent,
The earth is covered thick
with other clay,
Which her own
clay shall cover, heaped and pent,
Rider, and horse—friend,
foe—in one red burial blent!
LORD BYRON.
IVRY.
A SONG OF THE HUGUENOTS.
Laddie, aged eleven, do you remember how you studied and recited “King Henry of Navarre” every poetry hour for a year? It was a long poem, but you stuck to it to the end. We did not know the meaning of a certain word, but I found it up in Switzerland. It is the name of a little town. (1800-59.)
Now glory to the Lord of Hosts,
from whom all glories are!
And glory to our Sovereign
Liege, King Henry of Navarre!
Now let there be the merry
sound of music and of dance,
Through thy corn-fields green,
and sunny vines, O pleasant
land
of France!
And thou, Rochelle, our own
Rochelle, proud city of the waters,
Again let rapture light the
eyes of all thy mourning daughters.
As thou wert constant in our
ills, be joyous in our joy,
For cold, and stiff, and still
are they who wrought thy walls annoy.
Hurrah! Hurrah! a single
field hath turned the chance of war,
Hurrah! Hurrah! for Ivry,
and Henry of Navarre.
Oh! how our hearts were beating,
when, at the dawn of day,
We saw the army of the League
drawn out in long array;
With all its priest-led citizens,
and all its rebel peers,
And Appenzel’s stout
infantry, and Egmont’s Flemish spears.
There rode the brood of false
Lorraine, the curses of our land;
And dark Mayenne was in the
midst, a truncheon in his hand;
And, as we looked on them,
we thought of Seine’s empurpled flood,
And good Coligni’s hoary
hair all dabbled with his blood;
And we cried unto the living
God, who rules the fate of war,
To fight for His own holy
name, and Henry of Navarre.
The King is come to marshal
us, in all his armour drest,
And he has bound a snow-white
plume upon his gallant crest.
He looked upon his people,
and a tear was in his eye;
He looked upon the traitors,
and his glance was stern and high.
Right graciously he smiled
on us, as rolled from wing to wing,
Down all our line, a deafening
shout, “God save our Lord the King!”
“And if my standard-bearer
fall, as fall full well he may,
For never saw I promise yet
of such a bloody fray,
Press where ye see my white
plume shine, amid the ranks of war,
And be your oriflamme to-day
the helmet of Navarre.”
Hurrah! the foes are moving.
Hark to the mingled din
Of fife, and steed, and trump,
and drum, and roaring culverin.
The fiery Duke is pricking
fast across St. Andre’s plain,
With all the hireling chivalry
of Guelders and Almayne.
Now by the lips of those ye
love, fair gentlemen of France,
Charge for the golden lilies,—upon
them with the lance.
A thousand spurs are striking
deep, a thousand spears in rest,
A thousand knights are pressing
close behind the snow-white crest;
And in they burst, and on
they rushed, while like a guiding star,
Amid the thickest carnage
blazed the helmet of Navarre.
Now, God be praised, the day
is ours. Mayenne hath turned his rein.
D’Aumale hath cried
for quarter. The Flemish count is slain.
Their ranks are breaking like
thin clouds before a Biscay gale;
The field is heaped with bleeding
steeds, and flags, and cloven mail.
And then we thought on vengeance,
and, all along our van,
“Remember St. Bartholomew!”
was passed from man to man.
But out spake gentle Henry,
“No Frenchman is my foe:
Down, down with every foreigner,
but let your brethren go.”
Oh! was there ever such a
knight, in friendship or in war,
As our Sovereign Lord, King
Henry, the soldier of Navarre?
Right well fought all the
Frenchmen who fought for France to-day;
And many a lordly banner God
gave them for a prey.
But we of the Religion have
borne us best in fight;
And the good lord of Rosny
has ta’en the cornet white.
Our own true Maximilian the
cornet white hath ta’en,
The cornet white with crosses
black, the flag of false Lorraine.
Up with it high; unfurl it
wide; that all the host may know
How God hath humbled the proud
house which wrought His church such woe.
Then on the ground, while
trumpets sound their loudest points of war,
Fling the red shreds, a footcloth
meet for Henry of Navarre.
Ho! maidens of Vienna; Ho!
matrons of Lucerne;
Weep, weep, and rend your
hair for those who never shall return.
Ho! Philip, send, for
charity, thy Mexican pistoles,
That Antwerp monks may sing
a mass for thy poor spearman’s souls.
Ho! gallant nobles of the
League, look that your arms be bright;
Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve,
keep watch and ward to-night.
For our God hath crushed the
tyrant, our God hath raised the slave,
And mocked the counsel of
the wise, the valour of the brave.
Then glory to His holy name,
from whom all glories are;
And glory to our Sovereign
Lord, King Henry of Navarre.
THOMAS B. MACAULAY.
THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS.
“The Glove and the Lions” was one of my early reading-lessons. It is an incisive thrust at the vanity of “fair” women. A woman be a “true knight” as well as a man. Leigh Hunt (1784-1859.)
King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport,
And one day as his lions fought, sat looking on the court;
The nobles filled the benches, with the ladies in their pride,
And ’mong them sat the Count de Lorge with one for whom he sighed:
And truly ’twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show,
Valour, and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.
Ramp’d and roar’d the
lions, with horrid laughing jaws;
They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams,
a wind
went with their paws;
With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled
on one another,
Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a thunderous
smother;
The bloody foam above the bars came whisking through
the air;
Said Francis then, “Faith, gentlemen, we’re
better here than there.”
De Lorge’s love o’erheard the King,—a beauteous lively dame
With smiling lips and sharp, bright eyes, which always seem’d the same:
She thought, “The Count, my lover, is brave as brave can be;
He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me;
King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine;
I’ll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be mine.”
She dropped her glove, to prove
his love, then look’d
at him and smiled;
He bowed, and in a moment leapt among the lions
wild:
His leap was quick, return was quick, he has regain’d
his place,
Then threw the glove, but not with love, right
in the lady’s face.
“Well done!” cried Francis, “bravely
done!” and he rose
from where he sat:
“No love,” quoth he, “but vanity,
sets love a task like that.”
LEIGH HUNT.
THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE.
I found the Well of St. Keyne in Cornwall,
England—not the poem, but
the real well. The poem is of the great body
of world-lore. Southey
(1774-1843).
A well there is in the west
country,
And a clearer
one never was seen;
There is not a wife in the
west-country
But has heard
of the Well of St. Keyne.
An oak and an elm tree stand
beside,
And behind does
an ash tree grow,
And a willow from the bank
above
Droops to the
water below.
A traveller came to the Well
of St. Keyne:
Pleasant it was
to his eye,
For from cock-crow he had
been travelling
And there was
not a cloud in the sky.
He drank of the water so cool
and clear,
For thirsty and
hot was he,
And he sat down upon the bank,
Under the willow
tree.
There came a man from the
neighbouring town
At the well to
fill his pail;
On the well-side he rested
it,
And bade the stranger
hail.
“Now, art thou a bachelor,
stranger?” quoth he,
“For an if thou
hast a wife,
The happiest draught thou
hast drunk this day
That ever thou
didst in thy life.
“Or has your good woman, if
one you have,
In Cornwall ever
been?
For an if she have, I’ll
venture my life
She has drunk
of the Well of St. Keyne.”
“I have left a good woman
who never was here,”
The stranger he
made reply;
“But that my draught should
be better for that,
I pray you answer
me why,”
“St. Keyne,” quoth the
countryman, “many a time
Drank of this
crystal well,
And before the angel summoned
her
She laid on the
water a spell.
“If the husband of this gifted
well
Shall drink before
his wife,
A happy man thenceforth is
he,
For he shall be
master for life.
“But if the wife should drink
of it first,
God help the husband
then!”
The stranger stoop’d
to the Well of St. Keyne,
And drank of the
waters again.
“You drank of the well, I
warrant, betimes?”
He to the countryman
said;
But the countryman smiled
as the stranger spake,
And sheepishly
shook his head.
“I hastened as soon as the
wedding was done,
And left my wife
in the porch,
But i’ faith she had
been wiser than me,
For she took a
bottle to church,”
ROBERT SOUTHEY.
THE NAUTILUS AND THE AMMONITE.
“The Nautilus and the Ammonite” finds a place here out of respect to a twelve-year-old girl who recited it at one of our poetry hours years ago. It made a profound impression on the fifty pupils assembled, I never read it without feeling that it stands test. Anonymous.
The nautilus and the ammonite
Were launched
in friendly strife,
Each sent to float in its
tiny boat
On the wide, wide
sea of life.
For each could swim on the
ocean’s brim,
And, when wearied,
its sail could furl,
And sink to sleep in the great
sea-deep,
In its palace
all of pearl.
And theirs was a bliss more
fair than this
Which we taste
in our colder clime;
For they were rife in a tropic
life—
A brighter and
better clime.
They swam ’mid isles
whose summer smiles
Were dimmed by
no alloy;
Whose groves were palm, whose
air was balm,
And life one only
joy.
They sailed all day through
creek and bay,
And traversed
the ocean deep;
And at night they sank on
a coral bank,
In its fairy bowers
to sleep.
And the monsters vast of ages
past
They beheld in
their ocean caves;
They saw them ride in their
power and pride,
And sink in their
deep-sea graves.
And hand in hand, from strand
to strand,
They sailed in
mirth and glee;
These fairy shells, with their
crystal cells,
Twin sisters of
the sea.
And they came at last to a
sea long past,
But as they reached
its shore,
The Almighty’s breath
spoke out in death,
And the ammonite
was no more.
So the nautilus now in its
shelly prow,
As over the deep
it strays,
Still seems to seek, in bay
and creek,
Its companion
of other days.
And alike do we, on life’s
stormy sea,
As we roam from
shore to shore,
Thus tempest-tossed, seek
the loved, the lost,
And find them
on earth no more.
Yet the hope how sweet, again
to meet,
As we look to
a distant strand,
Where heart meets heart, and
no more they part
Who meet in that
better land.
ANONYMOUS.
THE SOLITUDE OF ALEXANDER SELKIRK.
I am monarch of all I survey,
My right there
is none to dispute,
From the center all round
to the sea,
I am lord of the
fowl and the brute.
O Solitude! where are the
charms
That sages have
seen in thy face?
Better dwell in the midst
of alarms
Than reign in
this horrible place.
I am out of humanity’s
reach,
I must finish
my journey alone,
Never hear the sweet music
of speech,—
I start at the
sound of my own.
The beasts that roam over
the plain
My form with indifference
see;
They are so unacquainted with
man,
Their tameness
is shocking to me.
Society, Friendship, and Love,
Divinely bestow’d
upon man,
Oh, had I the wings of a dove,
How soon would
I taste you again!
My sorrows I then might assuage
In the ways of
religion and truth,
Might learn from the wisdom
of age,
And be cheer’d
by the sallies of youth.
Ye winds that have made me
your sport,
Convey to this
desolate shore
Some cordial endearing report
Of a land I shall
visit no more!
My friends—do they
now and then send
A wish or a thought
after me?
Oh, tell me I yet have a friend,
Though a friend
I am never to see.
How fleet is a glance of the
mind!
Compared with
the speed of its flight,
The tempest itself lags behind,
And the swift-winged
arrows of light.
When I think of my own native
land,
In a moment I
seem to be there;
But alas! recollection at
hand
Soon hurries me
back to despair.
But the seafowl is gone to
her nest,
The beast is laid
down in his lair,
Even here is a season of rest,
And I to my cabin
repair.
There’s mercy in every
place,
And mercy, encouraging
thought!
Gives even affliction a grace,
And reconciles
man to his lot.
WILLIAM COWPER.
THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.
I wonder if the English people appreciate “The Homes of England.” It is a stately poem worthy of a Goethe or a Shakespeare. England is distinctively a country of homes, pretty, little, humble homes as well as stately palaces and castles, homes well made of stone or brick for the most part, and clad with ivy and roses. Who would not be proud to have had such a home as Ann Hathaway’s humble cottage or one of the little huts in the Lake District? The homes of America are often more palatial, especially in small cities, but the use of wood in America makes them less substantial than the slate-and-brick houses of England. (1749-1835.)
The stately homes of England!
How beautiful
they stand,
Amidst their tall ancestral
trees,
O’er all
the pleasant land!
The deer across their greensward
bound
Through shade
and sunny gleam,
And the swan glides past them
with the sound
Of some rejoicing
stream.
The merry homes of England!
Around their hearths
by night
What gladsome looks of household
love
Meet in the ruddy
light!
There woman’s voice
flows forth in song,
Or childish tale
is told,
Or lips move tunefully along
Some glorious
page of old.
The blessed homes of England!
How softly on
their bowers
Is laid the holy quietness
That breathes
from Sabbath hours!
Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell’s
chime
Floats through
their woods at morn;
All other sounds, in that
still time,
Of breeze and
leaf are born.
The cottage homes of England!
By thousands on
her plains,
They are smiling o’er
the silvery brooks,
And round the
hamlets’ fanes.
Through glowing orchards forth
they peep,
Each from its
nook of leaves;
And fearless there the lowly
sleep,
As the bird beneath
their eaves.
The free, fair homes of England!
Long, long, in
hut and hall
May hearts of native proof
be reared
To guard each
hallowed wall!
And green forever be the groves,
And bright the
flowery sod,
Where first the child’s
glad spirit loves
Its country and
its God!
FELICIA HEMANS.
HORATIUS AT THE BRIDGE.
“Horatius at the Bridge” is too long a
poem for children to memorise.
But I never saw a boy who did not want some
stanzas of it. “Hold the bridge with me!”
Boys like that motto instinctively. T.B.
Macaulay (1800-59).
Lars Porsena of Clusium,
By the Nine Gods
he swore
That the great house of Tarquin
Should suffer
wrong no more.
By the Nine Gods he swore
it,
And named a trysting-day,
And bade his messengers ride
forth,
East and west and south and
north,
To summon his
array.
East and west and south and
north
The messengers
ride fast,
And tower and town and cottage
Have heard the
trumpet’s blast.
Shame on the false Etruscan
Who lingers in
his home
When Porsena of Clusium
Is on the march
for Rome!
The horsemen and the footmen
Are pouring in
amain,
From many a stately market-place,
From many a fruitful
plain;
From many a lonely hamlet,
Which, hid by
beech and pine,
Like an eagle’s nest,
hangs on the crest
Of purple Apennine.
The harvests of Arretium,
This year, old
men shall reap;
This year, young boys in Umbro
Shall plunge the
struggling sheep;
And in the vats of Luna,
This year, the
must shall foam
Round the white feet of laughing
girls
Whose sires have
marched to Rome.
There be thirty chosen prophets,
The wisest of
the land,
Who alway by Lars Porsena
Both morn and
evening stand:
Evening and morn the Thirty
Have turned the
verses o’er,
Traced from the right on linen
white
By mighty seers
of yore.
And with one voice the Thirty
Have their glad
answer given:
“Go forth, go forth, Lars
Porsena;
Go forth, beloved
of Heaven;
Go, and return in glory
To Clusium’s
royal dome;
And hang round Nurscia’s
altars
The golden shields
of Rome.”
And now hath every city
Sent up her tale
of men;
The foot are fourscore thousand,
The horse are
thousands ten.
Before the gates of Sutrium
Is met the great
array.
A proud man was Lars Porsena
Upon the trysting-day.
For all the Etruscan armies
Were ranged beneath
his eye,
And many a banished Roman,
And many a stout
ally;
And with a mighty following
To join the muster
came
The Tusculan Mamilius,
Prince of the
Latian name.
But by the yellow Tiber
Was tumult and
affright:
From all the spacious champaign
To Rome men took
their flight.
A mile around the city,
The throng stopped
up the ways;
A fearful sight it was to
see
Through two long
nights and days.
Now, from the rock Tarpeian,
Could the wan
burghers spy
The line of blazing villages
Red in the midnight
sky.
The Fathers of the City,
They sat all night
and day,
For every hour some horseman
came
With tidings of
dismay.
To eastward and to westward
Have spread the
Tuscan bands;
Nor house, nor fence, nor
dovecot,
In Crustumerium
stands.
Verbenna down to Ostia
Hath wasted all
the plain;
Astur hath stormed Janiculum,
And the stout
guards are slain.
I wis, in all the Senate,
There was no heart
so bold,
But sore it ached, and fast
it beat,
When that ill
news was told.
Forthwith up rose the Consul,
Up rose the Fathers
all;
In haste they girded up their
gowns,
And hied them
to the wall.
They held a council standing
Before the River
Gate;
Short time was there, ye well
may guess,
For musing or
debate.
Out spoke the Consul roundly:
“The bridge must
straight go down;
For, since Janiculum is lost,
Naught else can
save the town.”
Just then a scout came flying,
All wild with
haste and fear:
“To arms! to arms! Sir
Consul;
Lars Porsena is
here.”
On the low hills to westward
The Consul fixed
his eye,
And saw the swarthy storm
of dust
Rise fast along
the sky.
And nearer, fast, and nearer
Doth the red whirlwind
come;
And louder still, and still
more loud,
From underneath that rolling
cloud,
Is heard the trumpet’s
war-note proud,
The trampling
and the hum.
And plainly and more plainly
Now through the
gloom appears,
Far to left and far to right,
In broken gleams of dark-blue
light,
The long array of helmets
bright,
The long array
of spears.
And plainly and more plainly,
Above the glimmering
line,
Now might ye see the banners
Of twelve fair
cities shine;
But the banner of proud Clusium
Was the highest
of them all,
The terror of the Umbrian,
The terror of
the Gaul.
Fast by the royal standard,
O’erlooking
all the war,
Lars Porsena of Clusium
Sat in his ivory
car.
By the right wheel rode Mamilius,
Prince of the
Latian name,
And by the left false Sextus,
That wrought the
deed of shame.
But when the face of Sextus
Was seen among
the foes,
A yell that rent the firmament
From all the town
arose.
On the house-tops was no woman
But spat toward
him and hissed,
No child but screamed out
curses,
And shook its
little fist.
But the Consul’s brow
was sad,
And the Consul’s
speech was low,
And darkly looked he at the
wall,
And darkly at
the foe.
“Their van will be upon us
Before the bridge
goes down;
And if they once may win the
bridge,
What hope to save
the town?”
Then out spake brave Horatius,
The Captain of
the Gate:
“To every man upon this earth
Death cometh soon
or late;
And how can man die better
Than facing fearful
odds,
For the ashes of his fathers,
And the temples
of his gods.
“And for the tender mother
Who dandled him
to rest,
And for the wife who nurses
His baby at her
breast,
And for the holy maidens
Who feed the eternal
flame,
To save them from false Sextus
That wrought the
deed of shame?
“Hew down the bridge, Sir
Consul,
With all the speed
ye may;
I, with two more to help me,
Will hold the
foe in play.
In yon straight path a thousand
May well be stopped
by three.
Now who will stand on either
hand,
And keep the bridge
with me?”
Then out spake Spurius Lartius—
A Ramnian proud
was he—
I will stand at thy right
hand,
And keep the bridge
with thee.”
And out spake strong Herminius—
Of Titian blood
was he—
“I will abide on thy left
side,
And keep the bridge
with thee.”
“Horatius,” quoth the
Consul,
“As thou say’st,
so let it be,”
And straight against that
great array
Forth went the
dauntless Three.
For Romans in Rome’s
quarrel
Spared neither
land nor gold,
Nor son nor wife, nor limb
nor life,
In the brave days
of old.
Now while the Three were tightening
Their harness
on their backs,
The Consul was the foremost
man
To take in hand
an ax;
And Fathers mixed with Commons
Seized hatchet,
bar, and crow,
And smote upon the planks
above,
And loosed the
props below.
Meanwhile the Tuscan army,
Right glorious
to behold,
Came flashing back the noonday
light,
Rank behind rank, like surges
bright
Of a broad sea
of gold.
Four hundred trumpets sounded
A peal of warlike
glee,
As that great host, with measured
tread,
And spears advanced, and ensigns
spread,
Rolled slowly toward the bridge’s
head,
Where stood the
dauntless Three.
The Three stood calm and silent,
And looked upon
the foes,
And a great shout of laughter
From all the vanguard
rose:
And forth three chiefs came
spurring
Before that deep
array;
To earth they sprang, their
swords they drew,
And lifted high their shields,
and flew
To win the narrow
way;
Aunus from green Tifernum,
Lord of the Hill
of Vines;
And Seius, whose eight hundred
slaves
Sicken in Ilva’s
mines;
And Picus, long to Clusium
Vassal in peace
and war,
Who led to fight his Umbrian
powers
From that gray crag where,
girt with towers,
The fortress of Nequinum lowers
O’er the
pale waves of Nar.
Stout Lartius hurled down
Aunus
Into the stream
beneath;
Herminius struck at Seius,
And clove him
to the teeth;
At Picus brave Horatius
Darted one fiery
thrust;
And the proud Umbrian’s
gilded arms
Clashed in the
bloody dust.
Then Ocnus of Falerii
Rushed on the
Roman Three;
And Lausulus of Urgo,
The rover of the
sea;
And Aruns of Volsinium,
Who slew the great
wild boar,
The great wild boar that had
his den
Amid the reeds of Cosa’s
fen.
And wasted fields and slaughtered
men
Along Albinia’s
shore.
Herminius smote down Aruns;
Lartius laid Ocnus
low;
Right to the heart of Lausulus
Horatius sent
a blow.
“Lie there,” he cried,
“fell pirate!
No more, aghast
and pale,
From Ostia’s walls the
crowd shall mark
The tracks of thy destroying
bark,
No more Campania’s hinds
shall fly
To woods and caverns when
they spy
Thy thrice accursed
sail.”
But now no sound of laughter
Was heard among
the foes.
A wild and wrathful clamour
From all the vanguard
rose.
Six spears’ length from
the entrance
Halted that deep
array,
And for a space no man came
forth
To win the narrow
way.
But hark! the cry is Astur:
And lo! the ranks
divide;
And the great Lord of Luna
Comes with his
stately stride.
Upon his ample shoulders
Clangs loud the
fourfold shield,
And in his hand he shakes
the brand
Which none but
he can wield.
He smiled on those bold Romans,
A smile serene
and high;
He eyed the flinching Tuscans,
And scorn was
in his eye.
Quoth he: “The
she-wolf’s litter
Stand savagely
at bay;
But will ye dare to follow,
If Astur clears
the way?”
Then, whirling up his broadsword
With both hands
to the height,
He rushed against Horatius,
And smote with
all his might.
With shield and blade Horatius
Right deftly turned
the blow.
The blow, though turned, came
yet too nigh;
It missed his helm, but gashed
his thigh:
The Tuscans raised a joyful
cry
To see the red
blood flow.
He reeled, and on Herminius
He leaned one
breathing space;
Then, like a wildcat mad with
wounds,
Sprang right at
Astur’s face.
Through teeth, and skull,
and helmet,
So fierce a thrust
he sped,
The good sword stood a handbreadth
out
Behind the Tuscan’s
head.
And the great Lord of Luna
Fell at the deadly
stroke,
As falls on Mount Alvernus
A thunder-smitten
oak.
Far o’er the crashing
forest
The giant arms
lie spread;
And the pale augurs, muttering
low,
Gaze on the blasted
head.
On Astur’s throat Horatius
Right firmly pressed
his heel,
And thrice and four times
tugged amain
Ere he wrenched
out the steel.
“And see,” he cried,
“the welcome,
Fair guests, that
waits you here!
What noble Lucumo comes next
To taste our Roman
cheer?”
But at his haughty challenge
A sullen murmur
ran,
Mingled of wrath, and shame,
and dread,
Along that glittering
van.
There lacked not men of prowess,
Nor men of lordly
race;
For all Etruria’s noblest
Were round the
fatal place.
But all Etruria’s noblest
Felt their hearts
sink to see
On the earth the bloody corpses,
In the path the
dauntless Three:
And, from the ghastly entrance
Where those bold
Romans stood,
All shrank, like boys who
unaware,
Ranging the woods to start
a hare,
Come to the mouth of the dark
lair
Where, growling low, a fierce
old bear
Lies amid bones
and blood.
Was none who would be foremost
To lead such dire
attack?
But those behind cried “Forward!”
And those before
cried “Back!”
And backward now and forward
Wavers the deep
array;
And on the tossing sea of
steel
To and fro the standards reel;
And the victorious trumpet
peal
Dies fitfully
away.
Yet one man for one moment
Strode out before
the crowd;
Well known was he to all the
Three,
And they gave
him greeting loud:
“Now welcome, welcome, Sextus!
Now welcome to
thy home!
Why dost thou stay, and turn
away?
Here lies the
road to Rome.”
Thrice looked he at the city;
Thrice looked
he at the dead;
And thrice came on in fury,
And thrice turned
back in dread:
And, white with fear and hatred,
Scowled at the
narrow way
Where, wallowing in a pool
of blood,
The bravest Tuscans
lay.
But meanwhile ax and lever
Have manfully
been plied,
And now the bridge hangs tottering
Above the boiling
tide.
“Come back, come back, Horatius!”
Loud cried the
Fathers all.
“Back, Lartius! Back,
Herminius!
Back, ere the
ruin fall!”
Back darted Spurius Lartius;
Herminius darted
back:
And, as they passed, beneath
their feet
They felt the
timbers crack.
But when they turned their
faces,
And on the farther
shore
Saw brave Horatius stand alone,
They would have
crossed once more.
But with a crash like thunder
Fell every loosened
beam,
And, like a dam, the mighty
wreck
Lay right athwart
the stream;
And a long shout of triumph
Rose from the
walls of Rome,
As to the highest turret tops
Was splashed the
yellow foam.
And, like a horse unbroken
When first he
feels the rein,
The furious river struggled
hard,
And tossed his
tawny mane;
And burst the curb, and bounded,
Rejoicing to be
free,
And whirling down, in fierce
career,
Battlement, and plank, and
pier,
Rushed headlong
to the sea.
Alone stood brave Horatius,
But constant still
in mind;
Thrice thirty thousand foes
before,
And the broad
flood behind.
“Down with him!” cried
false Sextus,
With a smile on
his pale face.
“Now yield thee,” cried
Lars Porsena,
“Now yield thee
to our grace.”
Round turned he, as not deigning
Those craven ranks
to see;
Naught spake he to Lars Porsena,
To Sextus naught
spake he;
But he saw on Palatinus
The white porch
of his home;
And he spake to the noble
river
That rolls by
the towers of Rome:
“O Tiber! Father Tiber!
To whom the Romans
pray,
A Roman’s life, a Roman’s
arms,
Take thou in charge
this day!”
So he spake, and speaking
sheathed
The good sword
by his side,
And, with his harness on his
back,
Plunged headlong
in the tide.
No sound of joy or sorrow
Was heard from
either bank;
But friends and foes in dumb
surprise,
With parted lips and straining
eyes,
Stood gazing where
he sank;
And when above the surges
They saw his crest
appear,
All Rome sent forth a rapturous
cry,
And even the ranks of Tuscany
Could scarce forbear
to cheer.
And fiercely ran the current,
Swollen high by
months of rain;
And fast his blood was flowing,
And he was sore
in pain,
And heavy with his armour,
And spent with
changing blows:
And oft they thought him sinking,
But still again
he rose.
Never, I ween, did swimmer,
In such an evil
case,
Struggle through such a raging
flood
Safe to the landing
place;
But his limbs were borne up
bravely
By the brave heart
within,
And our good Father Tiber
Bore bravely up
his chin.
“Curse on him!” quoth
false Sextus;
“Will not the
villain drown?
But for this stay, ere close
of day
We should have
sacked the town!”
“Heaven help him!” quoth
Lars Porsena,
“And bring him
safe to shore;
For such a gallant feat of
arms
Was never seen
before.”
And now he feels the bottom;
Now on dry earth
he stands;
Now round him throng the Fathers
To press his gory
hands;
And now with shouts and clapping,
And noise of weeping
loud,
He enters through the River
Gate,
Borne by the joyous
crowd.
They gave him of the corn
land,
That was of public
right.
As much as two strong oxen
Could plow from
morn till night:
And they made a molten image,
And set it up
on high,
And there it stands unto this
day
To witness if
I lie.
It stands in the Comitium,
Plain for all
folk to see,—
Horatius in his harness,
Halting upon one
knee:
And underneath is written,
In letters all
of gold,
How valiantly he kept the
bridge
In the brave days
of old.
And still his name sounds
stirring
Unto the men of
Rome,
As the trumpet blast that
cries to them
To charge the
Volscian home;
And wives still pray to Juno
For boys with
hearts as bold
As his who kept the bridge
so well
In the brave days
of old.
And in the nights of winter,
When the cold
north winds blow,
And the long howling of the
wolves
Is heard amid
the snow;
When round the lonely cottage
Roars loud the
tempest’s din,
And the good logs of Algidus
Roar louder yet
within;
When the oldest cask is opened,
And the largest
lamp is lit;
When the chestnuts glow in
the embers,
And the kid turns
on the spit;
When young and old in circle
Around the firebrands
close;
When the girls are weaving
baskets,
And the lads are
shaping bows;
When the goodman mends his
armour,
And trims his
helmet’s plume;
When the goodwife’s
shuttle merrily
Goes flashing
through the loom,—
With weeping and with laughter
Still is the story
told,
How well Horatius kept the
bridge
In the brave days
of old.
THOMAS B. MACAULAY.
THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE-TREE.
“The Planting of the Apple-Tree” has become
a favourite for “Arbour
Day” exercises. The planting of trees
as against their destruction is a vital point in
our political and national welfare. William Cullen
Bryant (1794-1878).
Come, let us plant
the apple-tree.
Cleave the tough greensward
with the spade;
Wide let its hollow bed be
made;
There gently lay the roots,
and there
Sift the dark mould with kindly
care,
And press it o’er
them tenderly,
As round the sleeping infant’s
feet
We softly fold the cradle
sheet;
So plant we the
apple-tree.
What plant we
in this apple-tree?
Buds, which the breath of
summer days
Shall lengthen into leafy
sprays;
Boughs where the thrush, with
crimson breast,
Shall haunt, and sing, and
hide her nest;
We plant, upon
the sunny lea,
A shadow for the noontide
hour,
A shelter from the summer
shower,
When we plant
the apple-tree.
What plant we
in this apple-tree?
Sweets for a hundred flowery
springs,
To load the May wind’s
restless wings,
When, from the orchard row,
he pours
Its fragrance through our
open doors;
A world of blossoms
for the bee,
Flowers for the sick girl’s
silent room,
For the glad infant sprigs
of bloom,
We plant with
the apple-tree.
What plant we in this apple-tree?
Fruits that shall swell in
sunny June,
And redden in the August noon,
And drop, when gentle airs
come by,
That fan the blue September
sky,
While children
come, with cries of glee,
And seek them where the fragrant
grass
Betrays their bed to those
who pass,
At the foot of
the apple-tree.
And when, above
this apple-tree,
The winter stars are quivering
bright,
The winds go howling through
the night,
Girls, whose eyes o’erflow
with mirth,
Shall peel its fruit by cottage
hearth,
And guests in
prouder homes shall see,
Heaped with the grape of Cintra’s
vine,
And golden orange of the line,
The fruit of the
apple-tree.
The fruitage of
this apple-tree,
Winds and our flag of stripe
and star
Shall bear to coasts that
lie afar,
Where men shall wonder at
the view,
And ask in what fair groves
they grew;
And sojourners
beyond the sea
Shall think of childhood’s
careless day,
And long, long hours of summer
play,
In the shade of
the apple-tree.
Each year shall
give this apple-tree
A broader flush of roseate
bloom,
A deeper maze of verdurous
gloom,
And loosen, when the frost-clouds
lower,
The crisp brown leaves in
thicker shower.
The years shall
come and pass, but we
Shall hear no longer, where
we lie,
The summer’s songs,
the autumn’s sigh,
In the boughs
of the apple-tree.
And time shall
waste this apple-tree.
Oh, when its aged branches
throw
Thin shadows on the ground
below,
Shall fraud and force and
iron will
Oppress the weak and helpless
still!
What shall the
tasks of mercy be,
Amid the toils, the strifes,
the tears
Of those who live when length
of years
Is wasting this
apple-tree?
“Who planted this
old apple-tree?”
The children of that distant
day
Thus to some aged man shall
say;
And, gazing on its mossy stem,
The gray-haired man shall
answer them:
“A poet of the
land was he,
Born in the rude but good
old times;
’Tis said he made some quaint
old rhymes
On planting the
apple-tree.”
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
[Illustration]
On and On
JUNE.
“June” (by James Russell Lowell, 1819-91),
is a fragment from “The
Vision of Sir Launfal.” It finds
a place in this volume because it is the most perfect
description of a charming day ever written.
What is so rare as a day in
June?
Then, if ever, come perfect
days;
Then Heaven tries the earth
if it be in tune,
And over it softly
her warm ear lays:
Whether we look, or whether
we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see
it glisten;
Every clod feels a stir of
might,
An instinct within
it that reaches and towers,
And, groping blindly above
it for light,
Climbs to a soul
in grass and flowers;
The flush of life may well
be seen
Thrilling back
over hills and valleys;
The cowslip startles in meadows
green.
The buttercup
catches the sun in its chalice,
And there’s never a
leaf nor a blade too mean
To be some happy
creature’s palace;
The little bird sits at his
door in the sun,
Atilt like a blossom
among the leaves,
And lets his illumined being
o’errun
With the deluge
of summer it receives;
His mate feels the eggs beneath
her wings,
And the heart in her dumb
breast flutters and sings;
He sings to the wide world,
and she to her nest,—
In the nice ear of Nature
which song is the best?
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
A PSALM OF LIFE.
WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST.
“A Psalm of Life,” by Henry W. Longfellow (1807-82), is like a treasure laid up in heaven. It should be learned for its future value to the child, not necessarily because the child likes it. Its value will dawn on him.
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an
empty dream!—
For the soul is dead that
slumbers,
And things are
not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is
earnest!
And the grave
is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken
of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined
end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther
than to-day.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts,
though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums,
are beating
Funeral marches
to the grave.
In the world’s broad
field of battle,
In the bivouac
of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the
strife!
Trust no Future, howe’er
pleasant!
Let the dead Past
bury its dead!
Act,—act in the
living Present!
Heart within,
and God o’erhead!
Lives of great men all remind
us
We can make our
lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind
us
Footprints on
the sands of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o’er
life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked
brother,
Seeing, shall
take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for
any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labour
and to wait.
HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.
BARNACLES.
“Barnacles” (by Sidney Lanier, 1842-81),
is a poem that I teach in connection with my lessons
on natural history. We have a good specimen of
a barnacle, and the children see them on the shells
on the coast.
The ethical point is invaluable.
My soul is sailing through the
sea,
But the Past is heavy and hindereth me.
The Past hath crusted cumbrous shells
That hold the flesh of cold sea-mells
About my soul.
The huge waves wash, the high waves roll,
Each barnacle clingeth and worketh dole
And hindereth me from sailing!
Old Past, let go, and drop i’
the sea
Till fathomless waters cover thee!
For I am living, but thou art dead;
Thou drawest back, I strive ahead
The Day to find.
Thy shells unbind! Night comes behind;
I needs must hurry with the wind
And trim me best for sailing.
SIDNEY LANIER.
A HAPPY LIFE.
How happy is he born and taught
That serveth not another’s will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill!
Whose passions not his master’s
are,
Whose soul is
still prepared for death,
Not tied unto the world with
care
Of public fame,
or private breath.
SIR HENRY WOTTON.
HOME, SWEET HOME!
“Home, Sweet Home” (John Howard Payne,
1791-1852) is a poem that reaches into the heart.
What is home? A place where we experience independence,
safety, privacy, and where we can dispense hospitality.
“The family is the true unit.”
’Mid pleasures and palaces
though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there’s
no place like home;
A charm from the sky seems
to hallow us there,
Which, seek through the world,
is ne’er met with elsewhere.
Home!
Home! sweet, sweet Home!
There’s no place like
Home! there’s no place like Home!
An exile from Home, splendour
dazzles in vain;
O, give me my lowly thatched
cottage again!
The birds singing gaily, that
came at my call,—
Give me them,—and
the peace of mind, dearer than all!
Home!
Home! sweet, sweet Home!
There’s no place like
Home! there’s no place like Home!
How sweet ’tis to sit
’neath a fond father’s smile,
And the cares of a mother
to soothe and beguile!
Let others delight ’mid
new pleasures to roam,
But give me, oh, give me,
the pleasures of Home!
Home!
Home! sweet, sweet Home!
There’s no place like
Home! there’s no place like Home!
To thee I’ll return,
overburdened with care;
The heart’s dearest
solace will smile on me there;
No more from that cottage
again will I roam;
Be it ever so humble, there’s
no place like Home.
Home!
Home! sweet, sweet Home!
There’s no place like
Home! there’s no place like Home!
JOHN HOWARD PAYNE.
FROM CASA GUIDI WINDOWS.
JULIET OF NATIONS.
I heard last night a little
child go singing
’Neath Casa Guidi
windows, by the church,
O bella liberta, O bella!—stringing
The same words
still on notes he went in search
So high for, you concluded
the upspringing
Of such a nimble
bird to sky from perch
Must leave the whole bush
in a tremble green,
And that the heart
of Italy must beat,
While such a voice had leave
to rise serene
’Twixt church
and palace of a Florence street;
A little child, too, who not
long had been
By mother’s
finger steadied on his feet,
And still O bella liberta
he sang.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE!
“Woodman, Spare That Tree” (by George Pope Morris, 1802-64) is included in this collection because I have loved it all my life, and I never knew any one who could or would offer a criticism upon it. Its value lies in its recognition of childhood’s pleasures.
Woodman, spare that tree!
Touch not a single
bough!
In youth it sheltered me,
And I’ll
protect it now.
’Twas my forefather’s
hand
That placed it
near his cot;
There, woodman, let it stand,
Thy ax shall harm
it not.
That old familiar tree,
Whose glory and
renown
Are spread o’er land
and sea—
And wouldst thou
hew it down?
Woodman, forbear thy stroke!
Cut not its earth-bound
ties;
Oh, spare that aged oak
Now towering to
the skies!
When but an idle boy,
I sought its grateful
shade;
In all their gushing joy
Here, too, my
sisters played.
My mother kissed me here;
My father pressed
my hand—
Forgive this foolish tear,
But let that old
oak stand.
My heart-strings round thee
cling,
Close as thy bark,
old friend!
Here shall the wild-bird sing,
And still thy
branches bend.
Old tree! the storm still
brave!
And, woodman,
leave the spot;
While I’ve a hand to
save,
Thy ax shall harm
it not.
GEORGE POPE MORRIS.
ABIDE WITH ME.
“Abide With Me” (Henry Francis Lyte, 1793-1847) appeals to our natural longing for the unchanging and to our love of security.
Abide with me! fast falls
the eventide;
The darkness deepens; Lord,
with me abide!
When other helpers fail, and
comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, O abide
with me.
Swift to its close ebbs out
life’s little day;
Earth’s joys grow dim,
its glories pass away;
Change and decay in all around
I see:
O Thou who changest not, abide
with me!
HENRY FRANCIS LYTE.
LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT
“Lead, Kindly Light,” by John Henry Newman
(1801-90), was written when
Cardinal Newman was in the stress and strain
of perplexity and mental distress and bodily pain.
The poem has been a star in the darkness to thousands.
It was the favourite poem of President McKinley.
Lead, kindly Light, amid th’
encircling gloom,
Lead
Thou me on,
The night is dark, and I am
far from home,
Lead
Thou me on.
Keep Thou my feet; I do not
ask to see
The distant scene; one step
enough for me.
I was not ever thus, nor prayed
that Thou
Shouldst
lead me on;
I loved to choose and see
my path; but now
Lead
Thou me on.
I loved the garish day; and,
spite of fears,
Pride ruled my will:
remember not past years.
So long Thy power hath blest
me, sure it still
Will
lead me on
O’er moor and fen, o’er
crag and torrent, till
The
night is gone,
And with the morn those angel
faces smile,
Which I have loved long since,
and lost a while.
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN.
THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.
’Tis the last rose of summer
Left blooming
alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and
gone;
No flower of her kindred,
No rose-bud is
nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for
sigh.
I’ll not leave thee,
thou lone one!
To pine on the
stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go, sleep thou
with them.
Thus kindly I scatter
Thy leaves o’er
the bed
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless
and dead.
So soon may I follow,
When friendships
decay,
And from Love’s shining
circle
The gems drop
away.
When true hearts lie withered,
And fond ones
are flown,
O! who would inhabit
This bleak world
alone?
THOMAS MOORE.
ANNIE LAURIE.
“Annie Laurie” finds a place in this collection because it is the most popular song on earth. Written by William Douglas, (——).
Maxwelton braes are bonnie
Where early fa’s the
dew,
And it’s there that
Annie Laurie
Gie’d me her promise
true—
Gie’d me her promise
true,
Which ne’er forgot will
be;
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I’d lay me doune and
dee.
Her brow is like the snawdrift,
Her throat is like the swan,
Her face it is the fairest
That e’er the sun shone
on—
That e’er the sun shone
on;
And dark blue is her e’e;
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I’d lay me doune and
dee.
Like dew on the gowan lying
Is the fa’ o’
her fairy feet;
Like the winds in summer sighing,
Her voice is low and sweet—
Her voice is low and sweet;
And she’s a’ the
world to me;
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I’d lay me doune and
dee.
WILLIAM DOUGLAS.
THE SHIP OF STATE.
A president of a well-known college writes me
that “The Ship of State”
was his favourite poem when he was a boy, and
did more than any other
to shape his course in life. Longfellow
(1807-82).
Sail on, sail on, O Ship of
State!
Sail on, O Union, strong and
great!
Humanity, with all its fears,
With all the hopes of future
years,
Is hanging breathless on thy
fate!
We know what Master laid thy
keel,
What Workmen wrought thy ribs
of steel,
Who made each mast, and sail,
and rope;
What anvils rang, what hammers
beat,
In what a forge and what a
heat
Were forged the anchors of
thy hope!
Fear not each sudden sound
and shock—
’Tis of the wave, and not
the rock;
’Tis but the flapping of the
sail,
And not a rent made by the
gale!
In spite of rock, and tempest
roar,
In spite of false lights on
the shore,
Sail on, nor fear to breast
the sea!
Our hearts, our hopes, are
all with thee.
Our hearts, our hopes, our
prayers, our tears,
Our faith, triumphant o’er
our fears,
Are all with thee, are all
with thee!
HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.
The Constitution and Laws are here personified,
and addressed as “The
Ship of State.”
AMERICA.
“America” (Samuel Francis Smith, 1808-95) is a good poem to learn as a poem, regardless of the fact that every American who can sing it ought to know it, that he may join in the chorus when patriotic celebrations call for it. My boys love to repeat the entire poem, but I often find masses of people trying to sing it, knowing only one stanza. It is our national anthem, and a part of our education to know every word of it.
My country, ’tis of
thee,
Sweet land of liberty,
Of
thee I sing;
Land where my fathers died,
Land of the Pilgrims’
pride;
From every mountain side,
Let
freedom ring.
My native country, thee—
Land of the noble free—
Thy
name I love;
I love thy rocks and rills,
Thy woods and templed hills;
My heart with rapture thrills,
Like
that above.
Let music swell the breeze,
And ring from all the trees
Sweet
freedom’s song;
Let mortal tongues awake;
Let all that breathe partake;
Let rocks their silence break—
The
sound prolong.
Our fathers’ God, to
Thee,
Author of liberty,
To
Thee we sing:
Long may our land be bright
With freedom’s holy
light:
Protect us by Thy might,
Great
God, our King.
S.F. SMITH.
THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIMS.
“The Landing of the Pilgrims,” by Felicia Hemans (1749-1835), is a poem that children want when they study the early history of America.
The breaking waves dashed
high
On a stern and
rock-bound coast,
And the woods against a stormy
sky
Their giant branches
tossed.
And the heavy night hung dark
The hills and
waters o’er,
When a band of exiles moored
their bark
On the wild New
England shore.
Not as the conqueror comes,
They, the true-hearted,
came;
Not with the roll of the stirring
drums,
And the trumpet
that sings of fame.
Not as the flying come,
In silence and
in fear;
They shook the depths of the
desert gloom
With their hymns
of lofty cheer.
Amid the storm they sang,
And the stars
heard, and the sea,
And the sounding aisles of
the dim woods rang
To the anthem
of the free!
The ocean eagle soared
From his nest
by the white wave’s foam;
And the rocking pines of the
forest roared,—
This was their
welcome home!
There were men with hoary
hair,
Amid that pilgrim
band;
Why had they come to
wither there,
Away from their
childhood’s land?
There was woman’s fearless
eye,
Lit by her deep
love’s truth;
There was manhood’s
brow serenely high,
And the fiery
heart of youth.
What sought they thus afar?
Bright jewels
of the mine?
The wealth of seas, the spoils
of war?—
They sought a
faith’s pure shrine!
Ay! call it holy ground,
The soil where
first they trod:
They have left unstained what
there they found,
Freedom to worship
God.
FELICIA HEMANS.
THE LOTOS-EATERS.
The main idea in “The Lotos-Eaters”
is, are we justified in running
away from unpleasant duties? Or, is insensibility
justifiable?
Laddie, do you recollect learning this poem after we had read the story of “Odysseus”? “The struggle of the soul urged to action, but held back by the spirit of self-indulgence.” These were the points we discussed. Alfred Tennyson (1809-92).
“Courage!” he said,
and pointed toward the land,
“This mounting wave will roll
us shoreward soon.”
In the afternoon they came
unto a land
In which it seemed always
afternoon.
All round the coast the languid
air did swoon,
Breathing like one that hath
a weary dream.
Full-faced above the valley
stood the moon;
And like a downward smoke,
the slender stream
Along the cliff to fall and
pause and fall did seem.
A land of streams! some, like
a downward smoke,
Slow-dropping veils of thinnest
lawn, did go;
And some thro’ wavering
lights and shadows broke,
Rolling a slumbrous sheet
of foam below.
They saw the gleaming river
seaward flow
From the inner land:
far off, three mountain-tops,
Three silent pinnacles of
aged snow,
Stood sunset-flush’d:
and, dew’d with showery drops,
Up-clomb the shadowy pine
above the woven copse.
The charmed sunset linger’d
low adown
In the red West: thro’
mountain clefts the dale
Was seen far inland, and the
yellow down
Border’d with palm,
and many a winding vale
And meadow, set with slender
galingale;
A land where all things always
seem’d the same!
And round about the keel with
faces pale,
Dark faces pale against that
rosy flame,
The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters
came.
Branches they bore of that
enchanted stem,
Laden with flower and fruit,
whereof they gave
To each, but whoso did receive
of them,
And taste, to him the gushing
of the wave
Far, far away did seem to
mourn and rave
On alien shores; and if his
fellow spake,
His voice was thin, as voices
from the grave;
And deep-asleep he seem’d,
yet all awake,
And music in his ears his
beating heart did make.
They sat them down upon the
yellow sand,
Between the sun and moon upon
the shore;
And sweet it was to dream
of Fatherland,
Of child, and wife, and slave;
but evermore
Most weary seem’d the
sea, weary the oar,
Weary the wandering fields
of barren foam.
Then some one said, “We
will return no more;”
And all at once they sang,
“Our island home
Is far beyond the wave; we
will no longer roam.”
ALFRED TENNYSON.
MOLY.
“Moly” (mo’ly), by Edith M. Thomas
(1850-), in the best possible presentation of the
value of integrity. This poem ranks with “Sir
Galahad,” if not above it. It is
a stroke of genius, and every American ought to be
proud of it. Every time my boys read “Odysseus”
or the story of Ulysses with me we read or learn
“Moly.” The plant moly grows in
the United States as well as in Europe.
Traveller, pluck a stem of
moly,
If thou touch at Circe’s
isle,—
Hermes’ moly, growing
solely
To undo enchanter’s
wile!
When she proffers thee her
chalice,—
Wine and spices mixed with
malice,—
When she smites thee with
her staff
To transform thee, do thou
laugh!
Safe thou art if thou but
bear
The least leaf of moly rare.
Close it grows beside her
portal,
Springing from a stock immortal,
Yes! and often has the Witch
Sought to tear it from its
niche;
But to thwart her cruel will
The wise God renews it still.
Though it grows in soil perverse,
Heaven hath been its jealous
nurse,
And a flower of snowy mark
Springs from root and sheathing
dark;
Kingly safeguard, only herb
That can brutish passion curb!
Some do think its name should
be
Shield-Heart, White Integrity.
Traveller, pluck a stem of
moly,
If thou touch at Circe’s
isle,—
Hermes’ moly, growing
solely
To undo enchanter’s
wile!
EDITH M. THOMAS.
CUPID DROWNED.
“Cupid Drowned” (1784-1859), “Cupid
Stung” (1779-1852), and “Cupid and
My Campasbe” (1558-1606) are three dainty
poems recommended by Mrs.
Margaret Mooney, of the Albany Teachers’
College, in her “Foundation
Studies in Literature.” Children
are always delighted with them.
T’other day as I was
twining
Roses, for a crown to dine
in,
What, of all things, ’mid
the heap,
Should I light on, fast asleep,
But the little desperate elf,
The tiny traitor, Love, himself!
By the wings I picked him
up
Like a bee, and in a cup
Of my wine I plunged and sank
him,
Then what d’ye think
I did?—I drank him.
Faith, I thought him dead.
Not he!
There he lives with tenfold
glee;
And now this moment with his
wings
I feel him tickling my heart-strings.
LEIGH HUNT.
CUPID STUNG.
Cupid once upon a bed
Of roses laid his weary head;
Luckless urchin, not to see
Within the leaves a slumbering
bee.
The bee awak’d—with
anger wild
The bee awak’d, and
stung the child.
Loud and piteous are his cries;
To Venus quick he runs, he
flies;
“Oh, Mother! I am wounded
through—
I die with pain—in
sooth I do!
Stung by some little angry
thing,
Some serpent on a tiny wing—
A bee it was—for
once, I know,
I heard a rustic call it so.”
Thus he spoke, and she the
while
Heard him with a soothing
smile;
Then said, “My infant,
if so much
Thou feel the little wild
bee’s touch,
How must the heart, ah, Cupid!
be,
The hapless heart that’s
stung by thee!”
THOMAS MOORE.
CUPID AND MY CAMPASBE.
Cupid and my Campasbe played
At cards for kisses.
Cupid paid.
He stakes his quiver, bow
and arrows,
His mother’s doves and
team of sparrows.
Loses them, too; then down
he throws
The coral of his lips, the
rose
Growing on his cheek, but
none knows how;
With them the crystal of his
brow,
And then the dimple of his
chin.
All these did my Campasbe
win.
At last he set her both his
eyes;
She won and Cupid blind did
rise.
Oh, Love, hath she done this
to thee!
What shall, alas, become of
me!
JOHN LYLY.
A BALLAD FOR A BOY.
Violo Roseboro, one of our good authors, brought
to me “A Ballad for a
Boy,” saying: “I believe it
is one of the poems that every child ought
to know.” It is included in this
compilation out of respect to her
opinion and also because the boys to whom I
have read it said it was
“great,” The lesson in it is certainly
fine. Men who are true men want
to settle their own disputes by a hand-to-hand
fight, but they will
always help each other when a third party or
the elements interfere.
Humanity is greater than human interests.
When George the Third was
reigning, a hundred years ago,
He ordered Captain Farmer
to chase the foreign foe,
“You’re not afraid of
shot,” said he, “you’re not afraid
of wreck,
So cruise about the west of
France in the frigate called Quebec.
“Quebec was once a Frenchman’s
town, but twenty years ago
King George the Second sent
a man called General Wolfe, you know,
To clamber up a precipice
and look into Quebec,
As you’d look down a
hatchway when standing on the deck.
“If Wolfe could beat the Frenchmen
then, so you can beat them now.
Before he got inside the town
he died, I must allow.
But since the town was won
for us it is a lucky name,
And you’ll remember
Wolfe’s good work, and you shall do the same.”
Then Farmer said, “I’ll
try, sir,” and Farmer bowed so low
That George could see his
pigtail tied in a velvet bow.
George gave him his commission,
and that it might be safer,
Signed “King of Britain,
King of France,” and sealed it with a wafer.
Then proud was Captain Farmer
in a frigate of his own,
And grander on his quarter-deck
than George upon his throne.
He’d two guns in his
cabin, and on the spar-deck ten,
And twenty on the gun-deck,
and more than ten-score men.
And as a huntsman scours the
brakes with sixteen brace of dogs,
With two-and-thirty cannon
the ship explored the fogs.
From Cape la Hogue to Ushant,
from Rochefort to Belleisle,
She hunted game till reef
and mud were rubbing on her keel.
The fogs are dried, the frigate’s
side is bright with melting tar,
The lad up in the foretop
sees square white sails afar;
The east wind drives three
square-sailed masts from out the Breton bay,
And “Clear for action!”
Farmer shouts, and reefers yell “Hooray!”
The Frenchmen’s captain
had a name I wish I could pronounce;
A Breton gentleman was he,
and wholly free from bounce,
One like those famous fellows
who died by guillotine
For honour and the fleur-de-lys,
and Antoinette the Queen.
The Catholic for Louis, the
Protestant for George,
Each captain drew as bright
a sword as saintly smiths could forge;
And both were simple seamen,
but both could understand
How each was bound to win
or die for flag and native land.
The French ship was La
Surveillante, which means the watchful maid;
She folded up her head-dress
and began to cannonade.
Her hull was clean, and ours
was foul; we had to spread more sail.
On canvas, stays, and topsail
yards her bullets came like hail.
Sore smitten were both captains,
and many lads beside,
And still to cut our rigging
the foreign gunners tried.
A sail-clad spar came flapping
down athwart a blazing gun;
We could not quench the rushing
flames, and so the Frenchman won.
Our quarter-deck was crowded,
the waist was all aglow;
Men hung upon the taffrail
half scorched, but loth to go;
Our captain sat where once
he stood, and would not quit his chair.
He bade his comrades leap
for life, and leave him bleeding there.
The guns were hushed on either
side, the Frenchmen lowered boats,
They flung us planks and hen-coops,
and everything that floats.
They risked their lives, good
fellows! to bring their rivals aid.
Twas by the conflagration
the peace was strangely made.
La Surveillante was like a sieve; the victors had no rest; They had to dodge the east wind to reach the port of Brest. And where the waves leapt lower and the riddled ship went slower, In triumph, yet in funeral guise, came fisher-boats to tow her.
They dealt with us as brethren,
they mourned for Farmer dead;
And as the wounded captives
passed each Breton bowed the head.
Then spoke the French Lieutenant,
“Twas fire that won, not we.
You never struck your flag
to us; you’ll go to England free.”
Twas the sixth day of October, seventeen hundred seventy-nine, A year when nations ventured against us to combine, Quebec was burned and Farmer slain, by us remembered not; But thanks be to the French book wherein they’re not forgot.
Now you, if you’ve to
fight the French, my youngster, bear in mind
Those seamen of King Louis
so chivalrous and kind;
Think of the Breton gentlemen
who took our lads to Brest,
And treat some rescued Breton
as a comrade and a guest.
THE SKELETON IN ARMOUR.
“The Skeleton in Armour” (Longfellow, 1807-82) is a “boy’s poem.” It it pure literature and good history.
“Speak! speak! thou fearful
guest!
Who, with thy hollow breast
Still in rude armour drest,
Comest to daunt
me!
Wrapt not in Eastern balms,
But with thy fleshless palms
Stretched, as if asking alms,
Why dost thou
haunt me?”
Then from those cavernous
eyes
Pale flashes seemed to rise,
As when the Northern skies
Gleam in December;
And, like the water’s
flow
Under December’s snow,
Came a dull voice of woe
From the heart’s
chamber.
“I was a Viking old!
My deeds, though manifold,
No Skald in song has told,
No Saga taught
thee!
Take heed that in thy verse
Thou dost the tale rehearse,
Else dread a dead man’s
curse;
For this I sought
thee.
“Far in the Northern Land,
By the wild Baltic’s
strand,
I, with my childish hand,
Tamed the gerfalcon;
And, with my skates fast-bound,
Skimmed the half-frozen Sound,
That the poor whimpering hound
Trembled to walk
on.
“Oft to his frozen lair
Tracked I the grizzly bear,
While from my path the hare
Fled like a shadow;
Oft through the forest dark
Followed the were-wolf’s
bark,
Until the soaring lark
Sang from the
meadow.
“But when I older grew,
Joining a corsair’s
crew,
O’er the dark sea I
flew
With the marauders.
Wild was the life we led;
Many the souls that sped,
Many the hearts that bled,
By our stern orders.
“Many a wassail-bout
Wore the long Winter out;
Often our midnight shout
Set the cocks
crowing,
As we the Berserk’s
tale
Measured in cups of ale,
Draining the oaken pail
Filled to overflowing.
“Once as I told in glee
Tales of the stormy sea,
Soft eyes did gaze on me,
Burning yet tender;
And as the white stars shine
On the dark Norway pine,
On that dark heart of mine
Fell their soft
splendour.
“I wooed the blue-eyed maid,
Yielding, yet half afraid,
And in the forest’s
shade
Our vows were
plighted.
Under its loosened vest
Fluttered her little breast,
Like birds within their nest
By the hawk frighted.
“Bright in her father’s
hall
Shields gleamed upon the wall,
Loud sang the minstrels all,
Chanting his glory;
When of old Hildebrand
I asked his daughter’s
hand,
Mute did the minstrels stand
To hear my story.
“While the brown ale he quaffed,
Loud then the champion laughed,
And as the wind-gusts waft
The sea-foam brightly,
So the loud laugh of scorn,
Out of those lips unshorn,
From the deep drinking-horn
Blew the foam
lightly.
“She was a Prince’s
child,
I but a Viking wild,
And though she blushed and
smiled,
I was discarded!
Should not the dove so white
Follow the sea-mew’s
flight?
Why did they leave that night
Her nest unguarded?
“Scarce had I put to sea,
Bearing the maid with me,—
Fairest of all was she
Among the Norsemen!—
When on the white sea-strand,
Waving his armed hand,
Saw we old Hildebrand,
With twenty horsemen.
“Then launched they to the
blast,
Bent like a reed each mast,
Yet we were gaining fast,
When the wind
failed us;
And with a sudden flaw
Came round the gusty Skaw,
So that our foe we saw
Laugh as he hailed
us.
“And as to catch the gale
Round veered the flapping
sail,
‘Death!’ was the helmsman’s
hail,
‘Death without
quarter!’
Midships with iron keel
Struck we her ribs of steel;
Down her black hulk did reel
Through the black
water!
“As with his wings aslant,
Sails the fierce cormorant,
Seeking some rocky haunt,
With his prey
laden,
So toward the open main,
Beating to sea again,
Through the wild hurricane,
Bore I the maiden.
“Three weeks we westward bore,
And when the storm was o’er,
Cloud-like we saw the shore
Stretching to
leeward;
There for my lady’s
bower
Built I the lofty tower
Which to this very hour
Stands looking
seaward.
“There lived we many years;
Time dried the maiden’s
tears;
She had forgot her fears,
She was a mother;
Death closed her mild blue
eyes;
Under that tower she lies;
Ne’er shall the sun
arise
On such another.
“Still grew my bosom then,
Still as a stagnant fen!
Hateful to me were men,
The sunlight hateful!
In the vast forest here,
Clad in my warlike gear,
Fell I upon my spear,
Oh, death was
grateful!
“Thus, seamed with many scars,
Bursting these prison bars,
Up to its native stars
My soul ascended!
There from the flowing bowl
Deep drinks the warrior’s
soul,
Skoal! to the Northland!
skoal!”
Thus the tale
ended.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
THE REVENGE.
A BALLAD OF THE FLEET
Tennyson’s (1807-92) “The Revenge”
finds a welcome here because it is
a favourite with teachers of elocution and their
audiences. It teaches
us to hold life cheap when the nation’s
safety is at stake.
At Flores in the Azores Sir
Richard Grenville lay,
And a pinnace, like a fluttered
bird, came flying from away:
“Spanish ships of war at sea!
we have sighted fifty-three!”
Then sware Lord Thomas Howard:
“’Fore God, I am no coward;
But I cannot meet them here,
for my ships are out of gear,
And the half my men are sick.
I must fly, but follow quick.
We are six ships of the line;
can we fight with fifty-three?”
Then spake Sir Richard Grenville:
“I know you are no coward;
You fly them for a moment,
to fight with them again.
But I’ve ninety men
and more that are lying sick ashore.
I should count myself the
coward if I left them, my Lord Howard,
To these Inquisition dogs
and the devildoms of Spain.”
So Lord Howard passed away
with five ships of war that day,
Till he melted like a cloud
in the silent summer heaven;
But Sir Richard bore in hand
all his sick men from the land
Very carefully and slow,
Men of Bideford in Devon,
And we laid them on the ballast
down below;
For we brought them all aboard,
And they blest him in their
pain that they were not left to Spain,
To the thumbscrew and the
stake, for the glory of the Lord.
He had only a hundred seamen
to work the ship and to fight,
And he sail’d away from
Flores till the Spaniard came in sight,
With his huge sea-castles
heaving upon the weather bow.
“Shall we fight or shall we
fly?
Good Sir Richard, tell us
now,
For to fight is but to die!
“There’ll be little
of us left by the time this sun be set”
And Sir Richard said again:
“We be all good Englishmen.
Let us bang these dogs of
Seville, the children of the devil,
For I never turn’d my
back upon Don or devil yet.”
Sir Richard spoke and he laugh’d,
and we roar’d a hurrah, and so
The little Revenge
ran on sheer into the heart of the foe,
With her hundred fighters
on deck, and her ninety sick below;
For half of their fleet to
the right and half to the left were seen,
And the little Revenge
ran on thro’ the long sea-lane between.
Thousands of their soldiers
looked down from their decks and laugh’d,
Thousands of their seamen
made mock at the mad little craft
Running on and on, till delay’d
By their mountain-like San
Philip that, of fifteen hundred tons,
And up-shadowing high above
us with her yawning tiers of guns,
Took the breath from our sails,
and we stay’d.
And while now the great San
Philip hung above us like a cloud
Whence the thunderbolt will
fall
Long and loud.
Four galleons drew away
From the Spanish fleet that
day,
And two upon the larboard
and two upon the starboard lay,
And the battle-thunder broke
from them all.
But anon the great San
Philip, she bethought herself and went,
Having that within her womb
that had left her ill content;
And the rest they came aboard
us, and they fought us hand to hand,
For a dozen times they came
with their pikes and musqueteers,
And a dozen times we shook
’em off as a dog that shakes his ears
When he leaps from the water
to the land.
And the sun went down, and the
stars came out far over the summer sea,
But never a moment ceased the fight of the one
and the fifty-three;
Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built
galleons came,
Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her
battle-thunder
and flame;
Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back
with her dead
and her shame.
For some were sunk and many were shatter’d,
and so could
fight us no more—
God of battles, was ever a battle like this in
the world before?
For he said, “Fight on! fight on!”
Tho’ his vessel was all but a wreck;
And it chanced that, when half of the short summer night was gone,
With a grisly wound to be drest he had left the deck,
But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead,
And himself he was wounded again in the side and the head,
And he said, “Fight on! Fight on!”
And the night went down, and the
sun smiled out far
over the summer sea,
And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round
us all in a ring;
But they dared not touch us again, for they fear’d
that
we still could sting,
So they watched what the end would be.
And we had not fought them in vain,
But in perilous plight were we,
Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain,
And half of the rest of us maim’d for life
In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate
strife;
And the sick men down in the hold were most of
them stark and cold,
And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the
powder was
all of it spent;
And the masts and the rigging were lying over
the side;
But Sir Richard cried in his English pride:
“We have fought such a fight for a day and
a night
As may never be fought again!
We have won great glory, my men!
And a day less or more
At sea or ashore,
We die—does it matter when?
Sink me the ship, Master Gunner—sink
her, split her in twain!
Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands
of Spain!”
And the gunner said.
“Ay, ay,” but the seamen made reply:
“We have children, we have
wives,
And the Lord hath spared our
lives.
We will make the Spaniard
promise, if we yield, to let us go;
We shall live to fight again,
and to strike another blow.”
And the lion there lay dying,
and they yielded to the foe.
And the stately Spanish men
to their flagship bore him then,
Where they laid him by the
mast, old Sir Richard caught at last,
And they praised him to his
face with their courtly foreign grace;
But he rose upon their decks,
and he cried:
“I have fought for Queen and
Faith like a valiant man and true;
I have only done my duty as
a man is bound to do.
With a joyful spirit I, Sir
Richard Grenville, die!”
And he fell upon their decks,
and he died.
And they stared at the dead
that had been so valiant and true,
And had holden the power and
glory of Spain so cheap
That he dared her with one
little ship and his English few.
Was he devil or man?
He was devil for aught they knew,
But they sank his body with
honour down into the deep,
And they mann’d the
Revenge with a swarthier alien crew,
And away she sail’d
with her loss and long’d for her own;
When a wind from the lands
they had ruin’d awoke from sleep,
And the water began to heave
and the weather to moan,
And or ever that evening ended
a great gale blew,
And a wave like the wave that
is raised by an earthquake grew,
Till it smote on their hulls,
and their sails, and their masts,
and
their flags,
And the whole sea plunged
and fell on the shot-shatter’d navy of Spain,
And the little Revenge
herself went down by the island crags,
To be lost evermore in the
main.
ALFRED TENNYSON.
SIR GALAHAD.
Sir Galahad is the most moral and
upright of all the Knights of the
Round Table. The strong lines of the poem (Tennyson,
1809-92) are the
strong lines of human destiny—
“My strength is as
the strength of ten
Because my heart is pure.”
My good blade carves the casques
of men,
My tough lance thrusteth sure,
My strength is as the strength of ten,
Because my heart is pure.
The shattering trumpet shrilleth high,
The hard brands shiver on the steel,
The splintered spear-shafts crack and fly,
The horse and rider reel:
They reel, they roll in clanging lists,
And when the tide of combat stands,
Perfume and flowers fall in showers,
That lightly rain from ladies’ hands.
How sweet are looks that ladies
bend
On whom their
favours fall!
For them I battle till the
end,
To save from shame
and thrall:
But all my heart is drawn
above,
My knees are bow’d
in crypt and shrine:
I never felt the kiss of love,
Nor maiden’s
hand in mine.
More bounteous aspects on
me beam,
Me mightier transports
move and thrill;
So keep I fair thro’
faith and prayer
A virgin heart
in work and will.
When down the stormy crescent
goes,
A light before
me swims,
Between dark stems the forest
glows,
I hear a noise
of hymns:
Then by some secret shrine
I ride;
I hear a voice,
but none are there;
The stalls are void, the doors
are wide,
The tapers burning
fair.
Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth,
The silver vessels
sparkle clean,
The shrill bell rings, the
censer swings,
And solemn chaunts
resound between.
Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres
I find a magic
bark;
I leap on board: no helmsman
steers,
I float till all
is dark.
A gentle sound, an awful light!
Three angels bear
the holy Grail:
With folded feet, in stoles
of white,
On sleeping wings
they sail.
Ah, blessed vision! blood
of God!
My spirit beats
her mortal bars,
As down dark tides the glory
slides,
And star-like
mingles with the stars.
When on my goodly charger
borne
Thro’ dreaming
towns I go,
The cock crows ere the Christmas
morn,
The streets are
dumb with snow.
The tempest crackles on the
leads,
And, ringing,
springs from brand and mail;
But o’er the dark a
glory spreads,
And gilds the
driving hail.
I leave the plain, I climb
the height;
No branchy thicket
shelter yields;
But blessed forms in whistling
storms
Fly o’er
waste fens and windy fields.
A maiden knight—to
me is given
Such hope, I know
not fear;
I yearn to breathe the airs
of heaven
That often meet
me here.
I muse on joy that will not
cease,
Pure spaces cloth’d
in living beams,
Pure lilies of eternal peace,
Whose odours haunt
my dreams;
And, stricken by an angel’s
hand,
This mortal armour
that I wear,
This weight and size, this
heart and eyes,
Are touch’d,
are turn’d to finest air.
The clouds are broken in the
sky,
And thro’
the mountain-walls
A rolling organ-harmony
Swells up, and
shakes and falls.
Then move the trees, the copses
nod,
Wings flutter,
voices hover clear:
“O just and faithful knight
of God!
Ride on! the prize
is near.”
So pass I hostel, hall, and
grange;
By bridge and
ford, by park and pale,
All-arm’d I ride, whate’er
betide,
Until I find the
holy Grail.
ALFRED TENNYSON.
A NAME IN THE SAND.
“A Name in the Sand,” by Hannah Flagg Gould (1789-1865), is a poem to correct our ready overestimate of our own importance.
Alone I walked the ocean strand;
A pearly shell was in my hand:
I stooped and wrote upon the
sand
My name—the
year—the day.
As onward from the spot I
passed,
One lingering look behind
I cast;
A wave came rolling high and
fast,
And washed my
lines away.
And so, methought, ’twill
shortly be
With every mark on earth from
me:
A wave of dark oblivion’s
sea
Will sweep across
the place
Where I have trod the sandy
shore
Of time, and been, to be no
more,
Of me—my day—the
name I bore,
To leave nor track
nor trace.
And yet, with Him who counts
the sands
And holds the waters in His
hands,
I know a lasting record stands
Inscribed against
my name,
Of all this mortal part has
wrought,
Of all this thinking soul
has thought,
And from these fleeting moments
caught
For glory or for
shame.
HANNAH FLAGG GOULD.
[Illustration]
“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,
Down, down, down!
Down to the depths of the
sea!
She sits at her wheel in the
humming town,
Singing most joyfully.
Hark what she sings:
“O joy, O joy,
For the humming street, and
the child with its toy!
For the priest, and the bell,
and the holy well;
For the wheel where I spun,
And the blessed light of the
sun!”
And so she sings her fill,
Singing most joyfully,
Till the spindle drops from
her hand,
And the whizzing wheel stands
still.
She steals to the window,
and looks at the sand,
And over the sand at the sea;
And her eyes are set in a
stare;
And anon there breaks a sigh,
And anon there drops a tear,
From a sorrow-clouded eye,
And a heart sorrow-laden,
A long, long sigh;
For the cold strange eyes
of a little Mermaiden,
And the gleam of her golden
hair.
Come away, away, children;
Come, children, come down!
The hoarse wind blows colder;
Lights shine in the town.
She will start from her slumber
When gusts shake the door;
She will hear the winds howling,
Will hear the waves roar.
We shall see, while above
us
The waves roar and whirl,
A ceiling of amber,
A pavement of pearl.
Singing: “Here
came a mortal,
But faithless was she!
And alone dwell forever
The kings of the sea.”
But, children, at midnight,
When soft the winds blow,
When clear falls the moonlight,
When spring-tides are low;
When sweet airs come seaward
From heaths starr’d
with broom,
And high rocks throw mildly
On the blanch’d sands
a gloom;
Up the still, glistening beaches,
Up the creeks we will hie,
Over banks of bright seaweed
The ebb-tide leaves dry.
We will gaze, from the sand-hills,
At the white, sleeping town;
At the church on the hill-side—
And then come back down.
Singing: “There
dwells a lov’d one,
But cruel is she!
She left lonely forever
The kings of the sea.”
MATTHEW ARNOLD.
THE BANKS O’ DOON.
“The Banks o’ Doon,” by Robert Burns
(1759-96). Bonnie Doon is in the southwestern
part of Scotland. Robert Burns’s old home
it close to it.
The house has low walls, a thatched roof, and
only two rooms. Alloway
Kirk and the two bridges so famous in Robert
Burns’s verse are near by.
This is an enchanted land, and the Scotch people
for miles around Ayr speak of the poet with sincere
affection. Burns, more than any other poet,
has thrown the enchantment of poetry over his own locality.
Ye banks and braes o’
bonnie Doon,
How can ye blume
sae fair!
How can ye chant, ye little
birds,
And I sae fu’
o’ care.
Thou’lt break my heart,
thou bonnie bird
That sings upon
the bough;
Thou minds me o’ the
happy days
When my fause
luve was true.
Thou’lt break my heart,
thou bonnie bird
That sings beside
thy mate;
For sae I sat, and sae I sang,
And wist na o’
my fate.
Aft hae I rov’d by bonnie
Doon,
To see the woodbine
twine,
And ilka bird sang o’
its love,
And sae did I
o’ mine.
Wi’ lightsome heart
I pu’d a rose
Frae off its thorny
tree;
And my fause luver staw the
rose,
But left the thorn
wi’ me.
ROBERT BURNS.
THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS.
Oft in the stilly night
Ere slumber’s
chain has bound me,
Fond Memory brings the light
Of other days
around me:
The
smiles, the tears
Of
boyhood’s years,
The words of love
then spoken;
The
eyes that shone,
Now
dimmed and gone,
The cheerful hearts
now broken!
Thus in the stilly night
Ere slumber’s
chain has bound me,
Sad Memory brings the light
Of other days
around me.
When I remember all
The friends so
link’d together
I’ve seen around me
fall
Like leaves in
wintry weather,
I
feel like one
Who
treads alone
Some banquet-hall
deserted,
Whose
lights are fled,
Whose
garlands dead,
And all but he
departed!
Thus in the stilly night
Ere slumber’s
chain has bound me,
Sad Memory brings the light
Of other days
around me.
THOMAS MOORE.
MY OWN SHALL COME TO ME.
If John Burroughs (1837-) had never written any other poem than “My Own Shall Come to Me,” he would have stood to all ages as one of the greatest of American poets. The poem is most characteristic of the tall, majestic, slow-going poet and naturalist. There is no greater line in Greek or English literature than
“I stand amid the eternal ways.”
Serene I fold my hands and wait,
Nor care for wind, nor tide, nor sea.
I rave no more ’gainst time or fate,
For lo! my own shall come to me.
I stay my haste, I make delays,
For what avails this eager pace?
I stand amid the eternal ways,
And what is mine shall know my face.
Asleep, awake, by night or
day
The friends I
seek are seeking me;
No wind can drive my bark
astray,
Nor change the
tide of destiny.
What matter if I stand alone?
I wait with joy
the coming years;
My heart shall reap when it
has sown,
And gather up
its fruit of tears.
The stars come nightly to
the sky;
The tidal wave
comes to the sea;
Nor time, nor space, nor deep,
nor high,
Can keep my own
away from me.
The waters know their own
and draw
The brook that
springs in yonder heights;
So flows the good with equal
law
Unto the soul
of pure delights.
JOHN BURROUGHS.
ODE TO A SKYLARK.
“Ode to a Skylark,” by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822), is usually assigned to “grammar grades” of schools. It is included here out of respect to a boy of eleven years who was more impressed with these lines than with any other lines in any poem:
“Like a poet
hidden,
In the light of thought
Singing songs unbidden
Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded
not.”
Hail to thee, blithe spirit—
Bird thou never wert—
That from heaven or near it
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
Higher still and higher
From the earth thou springest,
Like a cloud of fire;
The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar and soaring ever singest.
In the golden
lightning
Of
the sunken sun,
O’er which
clouds are brightening,
Thou
dost float and run,
Like an unbodied joy whose
race is just begun.
The pale purple
even
Melts
around thy flight;
Like a star of
heaven,
In
the broad daylight
Thou art unseen, but yet I
hear thy shrill delight.
All the earth
and air
With
thy voice is loud,
As, when night
is bare,
From
one lonely cloud
The moon rains out her beams,
and heaven is overflowed.
What thou art
we know not;
What
is most like thee?
From rainbow-clouds
there flow not
Drops
so bright to see
As from thy presence showers
a rain of melody:—
Like a poet hidden
In
the light of thought;
Singing hymns unbidden,
Till
the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and
fears it heeded not.
Teach us, sprite
or bird,
What
sweet thoughts are thine:
I have never heard
Praise
of love or wine
That panted forth a flood
of rapture so divine.
Chorus hymeneal
Or
triumphal chaunt,
Matched with thine,
would be all
But
an empty vaunt—
A thing wherein we feel there
is some hidden want.
What objects are
the fountains
Of
thy happy strain?
What fields, or
waves, or mountains?
What
shapes of sky or plain?
What love of thine own kind?
what ignorance of pain?
Teach me half
the gladness
That
thy brain must know,
Such harmonious
madness
From
my lips would flow,
The world should listen then,
as I am listening now!
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
THE SANDS OF DEE.
I have often had the pleasure of riding across the coast from Chester, England, to Rhyl, on the north coast of Wales, where stretch “The Sands of Dee” (Charles Kingsley, 1819-75). These purple sands at low tide stretch off into the sea miles away, and are said to be full of quicksands.
“O Mary, go and call the cattle
home,
And
call the cattle home,
And
call the cattle home,
Across the sands
of Dee.”
The western wind was wild
and dark with foam
And all alone
went she.
The western tide crept up
along the sand,
And
o’er and o’er the sand,
And
round and round the sand,
As far as eye
could see.
The rolling mist came down
and hid the land;
And never home
came she.
Oh! is it weed, or fish, or
floating hair,—
A
tress of golden hair,
A
drowned maiden’s hair,
Above the nets
at sea?
Was never salmon yet that
shone so fair
Among the stakes
on Dee.
They rowed her in across the
rolling foam,
The
cruel crawling foam,
The
cruel hungry foam,
To her grave beside
the sea.
But still the boatmen hear
her call the cattle home
Across the sands
of Dee.
CHARLES KINGSLEY.
A WISH.
“A Wish” (by Samuel Rogers, 1763-1855) and “Lucy” (by Wordsworth, 1770-1850) are two gems that can be valued only for the spirit of quiet and modesty diffused by them.
Mine be a cot beside the hill;
A bee-hive’s
hum shall soothe my ear;
A willowy brook that turns
a mill
With many a fall
shall linger near.
The swallow, oft, beneath
my thatch
Shall twitter
from her clay-built nest;
Oft shall the pilgrim lift
the latch,
And share my meal,
a welcome guest.
Around my ivied porch shall
spring
Each fragrant
flower that drinks the dew;
And Lucy, at her wheel, shall
sing
In russet gown
and apron blue.
The village church among the
trees,
Where first our
marriage-vows were given,
With merry peals shall swell
the breeze
And point with
taper spire to Heaven.
S. ROGERS.
LUCY.
She dwelt among the untrodden
ways
Beside the springs
of Dove;
A maid whom there were none
to praise,
And very few to
love.
A violet by a mossy stone
Half-hidden from
the eye!
Fair as a star, when only
one
Is shining in
the sky.
She lived unknown, and few
could know
When Lucy ceased
to be;
But she is in her grave, and,
oh,
The difference
to me!
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
SOLITUDE.
Happy the man, whose wish
and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native
air
In
his own ground.
Whose herds with milk, whose
fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with
attire;
Whose trees in summer yield
him shade,
In
winter fire.
Blest, who can unconcern’dly
find
Hours, days, and years slide
soft away
In health of body, peace of
mind,
Quiet
by day,
Sound sleep by night; study
and ease
Together mixt, sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most
does please
With
meditation.
Thus let me live, unseen,
unknown;
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and
not a stone
Tell
where I lie.
ALEXANDER POPE.
JOHN ANDERSON
“John Anderson,” by Robert Burns (1759-96). This poem is included to please several teachers.
John Anderson, my jo, John,
When we were first acquent
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent;
But now your brow is bald,
John,
Your locks are like the snow;
But blessings on your frosty
pow,
John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither,
And mony a canty day, John,
We’ve had wi’
ane anither;
Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we’ll
go,
And sleep thegither at the
foot,
John Anderson, my jo.
ROBERT BURNS.
THE GOD OF MUSIC.
“The God of Music,” by Edith M. Thomas, an Ohio poetess now living. In this sonnet the poetess has touched the power of Wordsworth or Keats and placed herself among the immortals.
The God of Music dwelleth
out of doors.
All seasons through his minstrelsy
we meet,
Breathing by field and covert
haunting-sweet
From organ-lofts in forests
old he pours:
A solemn harmony: on
leafy floors
To smooth autumnal pipes he
moves his feet,
Or with the tingling plectrum
of the sleet
In winter keen beats out his
thrilling scores.
Leave me the reed unplucked
beside the stream.
And he will stoop and fill
it with the breeze;
Leave me the viol’s
frame in secret trees,
Unwrought, and it shall wake
a druid theme;
Leave me the whispering shell
on Nereid shores.
The God of Music dwelleth
out of doors.
EDITH M. THOMAS.
A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT.
“A Musical Instrument” by Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-61). This poem is the supreme masterpiece of Mrs. Browning. The prime thought in it is the sacrifice and pain that must go to make a poet of any genius.
“The great god sighed for the cost and the pain.”
What was he doing, the great god
Pan,
Down in the reeds by the river?
Spreading ruin and scattering ban,
Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat,
And breaking the golden lilies afloat
With the dragon-fly on the river.
He tore out a reed, the great god
Pan,
From the deep cool bed of the river:
The limpid water turbidly ran,
And the broken lilies a-dying lay,
And the dragon-fly had fled away,
Ere he brought it out of the river.
High on the shore sat the
great god Pan,
While turbidly
flow’d the river;
And hack’d and hew’d
as a great god can,
With his hard bleak steel
at the patient reed,
Till there was not a sign
of a leaf indeed
To prove it fresh
from the river.
He cut it short, did the great
god Pan
(How tall it stood
in the river!),
Then drew the pith, like the
heart of a man,
Steadily from the outside
ring,
And notched the poor dry empty
thing
In holes, as he
sat by the river.
“This is the way,” laugh’d
the great god Pan
(Laugh’d
while he sat by the river),
“The only way, since gods
began
To make sweet music, they
could succeed.”
Then, dropping his mouth to
a hole in the reed
He blew in power
by the river.
Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan!
Piercing sweet
by the river!
Blinding sweet, O great god
Pan!
The sun on the hill forgot
to die,
And the lilies reviv’d,
and the dragon-fly
Came back to dream
on the river.
Yet half a beast is the great
god Pan,
To laugh as he
sits by the river,
Making a poet out of a man:
The true gods sigh for the
cost and pain,—
For the reed which grows nevermore
again
As a reed with
the reeds in the river.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
THE BRIDES OF ENDERBY.
“The Brides of Enderby,” by Jean Ingelow (1830-97). This poem is very dramatic, and the music of the refrain has done much to make it popular. But the pathos is that which endears it.
The old mayor climb’d
the belfry tower,
The ringers ran
by two, by three;
“Pull, if ye never pull’d
before;
Good ringers,
pull your best,” quoth he.
“Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston
bells!
Ply all your changes, all
your swells,
Play uppe, ‘The
Brides of Enderby.’”
Men say it was a stolen tyde—
The Lord that
sent it, He knows all;
But in myne ears doth still
abide
The message that
the bells let fall:
And there was naught of strange,
beside
The flight of mews and peewits
pied
By millions crouch’d
on the old sea wall.
I sat and spun within the
doore,
My thread brake
off, I raised myne eyes;
The level sun, like ruddy
ore,
Lay sinking in
the barren skies;
And dark against day’s
golden death
She moved where Lindis wandereth,
My sonne’s faire wife,
Elizabeth.
“Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!”
calling,
Ere the early dews were falling,
Farre away I heard her song,
“Cusha! Cusha!”
all along;
Where the reedy Lindis floweth,
Floweth,
floweth,
From the meads where melick
groweth
Faintly came her milking song—
“Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!”
calling,
“For the dews will soone be
falling;
Leave your meadow grasses
mellow,
Mellow,
mellow;
Quit your cowslips, cowslips
yellow;
Come uppe, Whitefoot, come
uppe, Lightfoot;
Quit the stalks of parsley
hollow,
Hollow,
hollow;
Come uppe, Jetty, rise and
follow,
From the clovers lift your
head;
Come uppe, Whitefoot, come
uppe, Lightfoot,
Come uppe, Jetty, rise and
follow,
Jetty, to the milking shed.”
If it be long ay, long ago,
When I beginne
to think howe long,
Againe I hear the Lindis flow,
Swift as an arrowe,
sharpe and strong;
And all the aire, it seemeth
mee,
Bin full of floating bells
(sayth shee),
That ring the tune of Enderby.
Alle fresh the level pasture
lay,
And not a shadowe
mote be seene,
Save where full fyve good
miles away
The steeple tower’d
from out the greene;
And lo! the great bell farre
and wide
Was heard in all the country
side
That Saturday at eventide.
The swanherds where their
sedges are
Mov’d on
in sunset’s golden breath,
The shepherde lads I heard
afarre,
And my sonne’s
wife, Elizabeth;
Till floating o’er the
grassy sea
Came downe that kyndly message
free,
The “Brides of Mavis
Enderby.”
Then some look’d uppe
into the sky,
And all along
where Lindis flows
To where the goodly vessels
lie,
And where the
lordly steeple shows.
They sayde, “And why
should this thing be?
What danger lowers by land
or sea?
They ring the tune of Enderby!
“For evil news from Mablethorpe,
Of pyrate galleys
warping down;
For shippes ashore beyond
the scorpe,
They have not
spar’d to wake the towne:
But while the west bin red
to see,
And storms be none, and pyrates
flee,
Why ring ’The Brides
of Enderby’?”
I look’d without, and
lo! my sonne
Came riding downe
with might and main;
He rais’d a shout as
he drew on,
Till all the welkin
rang again,
“Elizabeth! Elizabeth!”
(A sweeter woman ne’er
drew breath
Than my sonne’s wife,
Elizabeth.)
“The olde sea wall,”
he cried, “is downe,
The rising tide
comes on apace,
And boats adrift in yonder
towne
Go sailing uppe
the market-place.”
He shook as one that looks
on death:
“God save you, mother!”
straight he saith
“Where is my wife, Elizabeth?”
“Good sonne, where Lindis
winds her way
With her two bairns
I marked her long;
And ere yon bells beganne
to play
Afar I heard her
milking song.”
He looked across the grassy
lea,
To right, to left, “Ho,
Enderby!”
They rang “The Brides
of Enderby!”
With that he cried and beat
his breast;
For, lo! along
the river’s bed
A mighty eygre rear’d
his crest,
And uppe the Lindis
raging sped.
It swept with thunderous noises
loud;
Shap’d like a curling
snow-white cloud,
Or like a demon in a shroud.
And rearing Lindis backward
press’d
Shook all her
trembling bankes amaine;
Then madly at the eygre’s
breast
Flung uppe her
weltering walls again.
Then bankes came downe with
ruin and rout—
Then beaten foam flew round
about—
Then all the mighty floods
were out.
So farre, so fast the eygre
drave,
The heart had
hardly time to beat
Before a shallow seething
wave
Sobb’d in
the grasses at oure feet:
The feet had hardly time to
flee
Before it brake against the
knee,
And all the world was in the
sea.
Upon the roofe we sate that
night,
The noise of bells
went sweeping by;
I mark’d the lofty beacon
light
Stream from the
church tower, red and high—
A lurid mark and dread to
see;
And awsome bells they were
to mee,
That in the dark rang “Enderby.”
They rang the sailor lads
to guide
From roofe to
roofe who fearless row’d;
And I—my sonne
was at my side,
And yet the ruddy
beacon glow’d:
And yet he moan’d beneath
his breath,
“O come in life, or come in
death!
O lost! my love, Elizabeth.”
And didst thou visit him no
more?
Thou didst, thou
didst, my daughter deare
The waters laid thee at his
doore,
Ere yet the early
dawn was clear.
Thy pretty bairns in fast
embrace,
The lifted sun shone on thy
face,
Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place.
That flow strew’d wrecks
about the grass,
That ebbe swept
out the flocks to sea;
A fatal ebbe and flow, alas!
To manye more
than myne and mee;
But each will mourn his own
(she saith);
And sweeter woman ne’er
drew breath
Than my sonne’s wife,
Elizabeth.
I shall never hear her more
By the reedy Lindis shore,
“Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!”
calling,
Ere the early dews be falling;
I shall never hear her song,
“Cusha! Cusha!”
all along
Where the sunny Lindis floweth,
Goeth,
floweth;
From the meads where melick
groweth,
When the water
winding down,
Onward floweth
to the town.
I shall never see her more
Where the reeds and rushes
quiver,
Shiver,
quiver;
Stand beside the sobbing river,
Sobbing, throbbing, in its
falling
To the sandy lonesome shore;
I shall never hear her calling,
“Leave your meadow grasses
mellow,
Mellow,
mellow;
Quit your cowslips, cowslips
yellow;
“Come uppe, Whitefoot, come
uppe, Lightfoot;
Quit your pipes of parsley
hollow,
Hollow,
hollow;
Come uppe, Lightfoot, rise
and follow;
Lightfoot,
Whitefoot,
From your clovers lift the
head;
Come uppe, Jetty, follow,
follow,
Jetty, to the milking shed.”
JEAN INGELOW.
THE LYE.
“The Lye,” by Sir Walter Raleigh (1552-1618),
is one of the strongest and most appealing poems
a teacher can read to her pupils when teaching early
American history. The poem is full of magnificent
lines, such as
“Go, soul, the body’s guest.”
The poem never lacks an attentive audience of young
people when correlated with the study of North
Carolina and Sir Walter Raleigh. The solitary,
majestic character of
Sir Walter Raleigh, his intrepidity while undergoing
tortures inflicted by a cowardly king, the ring of
indignation—– all these make a weapon
for him stronger than the ax that beheaded him.
In this poem he “has the last word.”
Goe, soule, the bodie’s
guest,
Upon a thanklesse
arrant;
Feare not to touche the best—
The truth shall
be thy warrant!
Goe,
since I needs must dye,
And
give the world the lye.
Goe tell the court it glowes
And shines like
rotten wood;
Goe tell the church it showes
What’s good,
and doth no good;
If
church and court reply,
Then
give them both the lye.
Tell potentates they live
Acting by others’
actions—
Not loved unlesse they give,
Not strong but
by their factions;
If
potentates reply,
Give
potentates the lye.
Tell men of high condition,
That rule affairs
of state,
Their purpose is ambition,
Their practice
only hate;
And
if they once reply,
Then
give them all the lye.
Tell zeale it lacks devotion;
Tell love it is
but lust;
Tell time it is but motion;
Tell flesh it
is but dust;
And
wish them not reply,
For
thou must give the lye.
Tell wit how much it wrangles
In tickle points
of nicenesse;
Tell wisdome she entangles
Herselfe in over-wisenesse;
And
if they do reply,
Straight
give them both the lye.
Tell physicke of her boldnesse;
Tell skill it
is pretension;
Tell charity of coldnesse;
Tell law it is
contention;
And
as they yield reply,
So
give them still the lye.
Tell fortune of her blindnesse;
Tell nature of
decay;
Tell friendship of unkindnesse;
Tell justice of
delay;
And
if they dare reply,
Then
give them all the lye.
Tell arts they have no soundnesse,
But vary by esteeming;
Tell schooles they want profoundnesse,
And stand too
much on seeming;
If
arts and schooles reply,
Give
arts and schooles the lye.
So, when thou hast, as I
Commanded thee,
done blabbing—
Although to give the lye
Deserves no less
than stabbing—
Yet
stab at thee who will,
No
stab the soule can kill.
SIR WALTER RALEIGH.
L’ENVOI.
“L’Envoi,” by Rudyard Kipling, is a favourite on account of its sweeping assertion of the individual’s right to self-development.
When Earth’s last picture
is painted, and the tubes are
twisted and dried,
When the oldest colours have faded, and the youngest
critic has died,
We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it—lie
down
for an aeon or two,
Till the Master of All Good Workmen shall set
us to work anew!
And those who were good shall be
happy: they shall sit
in a golden chair;
They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with
brushes of comet’s hair;
They shall find real saints to draw from—Magdalene,
Peter, and Paul;
They shall work for an age at a sitting and never
be tired at all!
And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame;
And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame;
But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,
Shall draw the Thing as he sees It for the God of Things as They Are!
RUDYARD KIPLING
CONTENTMENT
“Contentment,” by Edward Dyer (1545-1607). This poem holds much to comfort and control people who are shut up to the joys of meditation—people to whom the world of activity is closed. To be independent of things material—this is the soul’s pleasure.
My mind to me a kingdom is;
Such perfect joy
therein I find
As far excels all earthly
bliss
That God or Nature
hath assigned;
Though much I want that most
would have,
Yet still my mind forbids
to crave.
Content I live; this is my
stay,—
I seek no more
than may suffice.
I press to bear no haughty
sway;
Look, what I lack
my mind supplies.
Lo, thus I triumph like a
king,
Content with that my mind
doth bring.
I laugh not at another’s
loss,
I grudge not at
another’s gain;
No worldly wave my mind can
toss;
I brook that is
another’s bane.
I fear no foe, nor fawn on
friend;
I loathe not life, nor dread
mine end.
My wealth is health and perfect
ease;
My conscience
clear my chief defense;
I never seek by bribes to
please
Nor by desert
to give offense.
Thus do I live, thus will
I die;
Would all did so as well as
I!
EDWARD DYER.
THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA’S HALLS.
The harp that once through
Tara’s halls
The soul of music
shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara’s
walls
As if that soul
were fled.
So sleeps the pride of former
days,
So glory’s
thrill is o’er,
And hearts, that once beat
high for praise,
Now feel that
pulse no more.
No more to chiefs and ladies
bright
The harp of Tara
swells;
The chord alone, that breaks
at night,
Its tale of ruin
tells.
Thus Freedom now so seldom
wakes,
The only throb
she gives
Is when some heart indignant
breaks,
To show that still
she lives.
THOMAS MOORE.
THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET
“The Old Oaken Bucket,” by Samuel Woodworth (1785-1848), is a poem we love because it is an elegant expression of something very dear and homely.
How dear to this heart are
the scenes of my childhood,
When fond recollection
presents them to view!
The orchard, the meadow, the
deep-tangled wild-wood,
And every loved
spot which my infancy knew!
The wide-spreading pond, and
the mill that stood by it,
The bridge, and
the rock where the cataract fell,
The cot of my father, the
dairy-house nigh it,
And e’en
the rude bucket that hung in the well—
The old oaken bucket, the
iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket which
hung in the well.
That moss-covered vessel I
hailed as a treasure,
For often at noon,
when returned from the field,
I found it the source of an
exquisite pleasure,
The purest and
sweetest that nature can yield.
How ardent I seized it, with
hands that were glowing,
And quick to the
white-pebbled bottom it fell;
Then soon, with the emblem
of truth overflowing,
And dripping with
coolness, it rose from the well—
The old oaken bucket, the
iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket arose
from the well.
How sweet from the green mossy
brim to receive it
As poised on the
curb it inclined to my lips!
Not a full blushing goblet
could tempt me to leave it,
The brightest
that beauty or revelry sips.
And now, far removed from
the loved habitation,
The tear of regret
will intrusively swell.
As fancy reverts to my father’s
plantation,
And sighs for
the bucket that hangs in the well—
The old oaken bucket, the
iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket that
hangs in the well!
SAMUEL WOODWORTH.
THE RAVEN.
“The Raven,” by Edgar Allan Poe (1809-49), is placed here because so many college men speak of it at once as the great poem of their boyhood. The poem caught me when a child by its refrain and weird picturesqueness. It has never outgrown its mechanical charm.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while
I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten
lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there
came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber
door”
’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping
at my chamber door—
Only this, and nothing more.”
Ah! distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor;
Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain
rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic
terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart,
I stood repeating,
“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance
at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber
door:
This it is, and nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you.” Here I opened wide the door:
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering,
long I stood there, wondering,
fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared
to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness
gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered
word, “Lenore!”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the
word, “Lenore!”
Merely this, and nothing more.
Back into my chamber turning, all
my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a rapping, something louder
than before:
“Surely,” said I, “surely that
is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery
explore—
Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery
explore.
’Tis the wind, and nothing more.”
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven, of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he, not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched above a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling
my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance
it wore;
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,”
I said, “art
sure, no craven;
Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, wandering from
the nightly shore,
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night’s
Plutonian shore?”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer, little meaning, little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door
With such a name as “Nevermore.”
But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour;
Nothing further then he uttered, not a feather then he fluttered,
Till I scarcely more than muttered—“Other friends have flown before,
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.”
Then the bird said, “Nevermore.”
Startled by the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his hope this melancholy burden bore—
Of ‘Never, nevermore,’”
But the Raven still beguiling all
my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of
bird, and
bust, and door;
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself
to linking
Fancy into fancy, thinking what this ominous bird
of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and
ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining, that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet violet lining, with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then methought the air grew denser,
perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim, whose footfalls twinkled on
the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath
lent thee—by these angels He
hath sent thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe from my
memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget
this lost Lenore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
“Prophet,” said I, “thing of evil—prophet still, if bird or devil!
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted,
On this home by horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore,
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me, tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
“Prophet,” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still if bird or devil!
By that heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul, with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aiden
It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore!
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore?”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
“Be that our sign of parting, bird or fiend,” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the night’s Plutonian shore;
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken,
Leave my loneliness unbroken—quit the bust above my door,
Take thy beak from out my heart and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting,
On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming, throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow, that lies floating on the floor,
Shall be lifted—nevermore!
EDGAR ALLAN POE.
ARNOLD VON WINKLERIED.
“Make way for liberty!” he cried,
Make way for liberty, and died.
In arms the Austrian phalanx stood,
A living wall, a human wood,—
A wall, where every conscious stone
Seemed to its kindred thousands grown.
A rampart all assaults to bear,
Till time to dust their frames should wear;
So still, so dense the Austrians stood,
A living wall, a human wood.
Impregnable their front appears,
All horrent with projected
spears.
Whose polished points before
them shine,
From flank to flank, one brilliant
line,
Bright as the breakers’
splendours run
Along the billows to the sun.
Opposed to these a hovering
band
Contended for their fatherland;
Peasants, whose new-found
strength had broke
From manly necks the ignoble
yoke,
And beat their fetters into
swords,
On equal terms to fight their
lords;
And what insurgent rage had
gained,
In many a mortal fray maintained;
Marshalled, once more, at
Freedom’s call,
They came to conquer or to
fall,
Where he who conquered, he
who fell,
Was deemed a dead or living
And now the work of life and
death
Hung on the passing of a breath;
The fire of conflict burned
within,
The battle trembled to begin;
Yet, while the Austrians held
their ground,
Point for attack was nowhere
found;
Where’er the impatient
Switzers gazed,
The unbroken line of lances
blazed;
That line ’twere suicide
to meet,
And perish at their tyrant’s
feet;
How could they rest within
their graves,
And leave their homes, the
homes of slaves!
Would not they feel their
children tread,
With clanging chains, above
their head?
It must not be; this day,
this hour,
Annihilates the invader’s
power;
All Switzerland is in the
field;
She will not fly,—she
cannot yield,—
She must not fall; her better
fate
Here gives her an immortal
date.
Few were the numbers she could
boast,
But every freeman was a host,
And felt as ’twere a
secret known
That one should turn the scale
alone,
While each unto himself was
he
On whose sole arm hung victory.
It did depend on one indeed;
Behold him,—Arnold
Winkelried;
There sounds not to the trump
of fame
The echo of a nobler name.
Unmarked he stood amid the
throng,
In rumination deep and long,
Till you might see, with sudden
grace,
The very thought come o’er
his face;
And, by the motion of his
form,
Anticipate the bursting storm,
And, by the uplifting of his
brow,
Tell where the bolt would
strike, and how.
But ’twas no sooner
thought than done!
The field was in a moment
won;
“Make way for liberty!”
he cried,
Then ran, with arms extended
wide,
As if his dearest friend to
clasp;
Ten spears he swept within
his grasp.
“Make way for liberty!”
he cried.
Their keen points crossed
from side to side;
He bowed amidst them like
a tree,
And thus made way for liberty.
Swift to the breach his comrades
fly,
“Make way for liberty!”
they cry,
And through the Austrian phalanx
dart,
As rushed the spears through
Arnold’s heart.
While instantaneous as his
fall,
Rout, ruin, panic, seized
them all;
An earthquake could not overthrow
A city with a surer blow.
Thus Switzerland again was
free;
Thus Death made way for Liberty!
JAMES MONTGOMERY.
LIFE, I KNOW NOT WHAT THOU ART.
Life! I know not what
thou art.
But know that thou and I must
part;
And when, or how, or where
we met,
I own to me’s a secret
yet.
Life! we’ve been long
together
Through pleasant and through
cloudy weather;
Tis hard to part when friends
are dear—
Perhaps ’twill cost
a sigh, a tear;
—Then steal away,
give little warning,
Choose thine own time;
Say not Good Night,—but
in some brighter clime
Bid me Good Morning.
A.L. BARBAULD.
MERCY.
“Mercy,” an excerpt from “The Merchant of Venice,” “Polonius’ Advice,” from “Hamlet,” and “Antony’s Speech,” from “Julius Caesar” (all fragments from Shakespeare, 1564-1616), find a place in this book because a well-known New York teacher—one who is unremitting in his efforts to raise the good taste and character of his pupils—says: “A book of poetry could not be complete without these extracts.”
The quality of mercy is not
strain’d;
It droppeth as the gentle
rain from Heaven
Upon the place beneath:
it is twice bless’d;
It blesseth him that gives,
and him that takes:
’Tis mightiest in the mightiest;
it becomes
The throned monarch better
than his crown:
His scepter shows the force
of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread
and fear of kings;
But mercy is above his sceptered
sway;
It is enthroned in the hearts
of kings,
It is an attribute to God
himself;
And earthly power doth then
show likest God’s
When mercy seasons justice.
SHAKESPEARE ("Merchant of Venice").
POLONIUS’ ADVICE.
See thou character. Give
thy thoughts no tongue,
Nor any unproportion’d
thought his act.
Be thou familiar, but by no
means vulgar:
The friends thou hast, and
their adoption tried,
Grapple them to thy soul with
hoops of steel;
But do not dull thy palm with
entertainment
Of each new-hatch’d,
unfledg’d comrade. Beware
Of entrance to a quarrel;
but, being in,
Bear ‘t that th’
opposed may beware of thee.
Give every man thine ear,
but few thy voice:
Take each man’s censure,
but reserve thy judgment.
Costly thy habit as thy purse
can buy
But not expressed in fancy;
rich, not gaudy:
For the apparel oft proclaims
the man.
Neither a borrower nor a lender
be;
For loan oft loses both itself
and friend,
And borrowing dulls the edge
of husbandry.
This above all: to thine
own self be true;
And it must follow, as the
night the day,
Thou canst not then be false
to any man.
SHAKESPEARE ("Hamlet").
A FRAGMENT FROM MARK ANTONY’S SPEECH.
This was the noblest Roman
of them all:
All the conspirators, save
only he,
Did that they did in envy
of great Caesar;
He only, in a general honest
thought
And common good to all, made
one of them.
His life was gentle; and the
elements
So mix’d in him, that
Nature might stand up,
And say to all the world,
“This was a man!”
SHAKESPEARE ("Julius Caesar").
THE SKYLARK.
Bird
of the wilderness,
Blithesome
and cumberless,
Sweet be thy matin o’er
moorland and lea!
Emblem
of happiness,
Blest
is thy dwelling-place—
Oh, to abide in the desert
with thee!
Wild
is thy lay and loud,
Far
in the downy cloud,
Love gives it energy, love
gave it birth.
Where,
on thy dewy wing,
Where
art thou journeying?
Thy lay is in heaven, thy
love is on earth.
O’er
fell and fountain sheen,
O’er
moor and mountain green,
O’er the red streamer
that heralds the day,
Over
the cloudlet dim,
Over
the rainbow’s rim,
Musical cherub, soar, singing,
away!
Then,
when the gloaming comes,
Low
in the heather blooms
Sweet will thy welcome and
bed of love be!
Emblem of happiness,
Blest
is thy dwelling-place—
Oh, to abide in the desert
with thee!
THOMAS HOGG.
THE CHOIR INVISIBLE.
“The Choir Invisible” (by George Eliot, 1819-80) is a fitting exposition in poetry of this “Shakespeare of prose.”
O, may I join the choir invisible
Of those immortal dead who live again
In minds made better by their presence; live
In pulses stirred to generosity,
In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn
Of miserable aims that end with self,
In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like
stars,
And with their mild persistence urge men’s
minds
To vaster issues.
May I reach
That purest heaven,—be to other souls
The cup of strength in some great agony,
Enkindle generous ardour, feed pure love,
Beget the smiles that have no cruelty,
Be the sweet presence of good diffused,
And in diffusion ever more intense!
So shall I join the choir invisible,
Whose music is the gladness of the world.
GEORGE ELIOT.
THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US.
“The World Is Too Much With Us,” by Wordsworth
(1770-1850), is perhaps the greatest sonnet ever
written. It is true that “the eyes of the
soul” are blinded by a surfeit of worldly “goods.”
“I went to the Lake
District” (England), said John Burroughs,
“to see what kind of a country could produce
a Wordsworth.” Of course he found simple
houses, simple people, barren moors, heather-clad
mountains, wild flowers, calm lakes, plain, rugged
simplicity.
The world is too much with
us; late and soon,
Getting and spending,
we lay waste our powers;
Little we see
in Nature that is ours.
We have given our hearts away,
a sordid boon!
This sea, that bares her bosom
to the moon,
The winds that
will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered
now like sleeping flowers—
For this, for everything,
we are out of tune;
It moves us not. Great
God! I’d rather be
A pagan, suckled
in a creed outworn,
So might I, standing on this
pleasant lea,
Have glimpses
that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus, rising
from the sea,
Or hear old Triton
blow his wreathed horn.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
ON HIS BLINDNESS.
“Sonnet on His Blindness” (by John Milton, 1608-74). This is the most stately and pathetic sonnet in existence. The soul enduring enforced idleness and loss of power without repining. Inactivity made to serve a higher end.
“All service ranks
the same with God!
There is no first or last.”
When I consider how my light is
spent
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide,
Lodg’d with me useless, though my soul more
bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest He, returning, chide;
Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?
I fondly ask: but Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need
Either man’s work, or His own gifts; who
best
Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best; His
state
Is kingly; thousands at His bidding speed,
And post o’er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.
JOHN MILTON.
SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT.
“She Was a Phantom of Delight” (by William Wordsworth, 1770-1850) is included here because it is a picture of woman as she should be, not made dainty by finery, but by fine ideals—
“And not too good
For human nature’s daily food.”
She was a Phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely Apparition, sent
To be a moment’s ornament;
Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;
Like Twilight’s, too, her dusky hair:
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful Dawn.
A dancing Shape, an Image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
I saw her upon nearer view,
A Spirit, yet a Woman too!
Her household motions light
and free,
And steps of virgin liberty;
A countenance in which did
meet
Sweet records, promises as
sweet;
A Creature not too bright
or good
For human nature’s daily
food;
For transient sorrows, simple
wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses,
tears, and smiles.
And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A Being breathing thoughtful
breath,
A Traveller between life and
death:
The reason firm, the temperate
will,
Endurance, foresight, strength,
and skill;
A perfect Woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a Spirit still, and
bright,
With something of angelic
light.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.
“Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard” (Gray, 1716-71). I once drove from Windsor Castle through Eton, down the long hedge-bound road which passes the estate of William Penn’s descendants to Stoke Pogis, the little churchyard where this poem was written. They were trimming a great yew-tree under which Gray was said to have written this poem. The scene is one of peace and quiet. The “elegy” was a favourite form of poem with the ancients, but Gray is said to have reached the climax among poets in this style of verse. The great line of the poem is:
“The path of glory leads but to the grave.”
It would almost seem that poetry has
for its greatest mission the
lesson of a proper humility.
The curfew tolls the knell of parting
day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o’er the
lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape
on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled
tow’r
The moping owl
does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near
her secret bow’r,
Molest her ancient
solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms,
that yew-tree’s shade,
Where heaves the
turf in many a mould’ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell forever
laid,
The rude Forefathers
of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing
morn,
The swallow twitt’ring
from the straw-built shed,
The cock’s shrill clarion,
or the echoing horn,
No more shall
rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing
hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife
ply her evening care:
No children run to lisp their
sire’s return,
Or climb his knees
the envied kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their
sickle yield,
Their furrow oft
the stubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive
their team afield!
How bow’d
the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
Let not Ambition mock their
useful toil,
Their homely joys,
and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful
smile,
The short and
simple annals of the Poor.
The boast of heraldry, the
pomp of pow’r,
And all that beauty,
all that wealth e’er gave,
Await alike th’ inevitable
hour.
The paths of glory
lead but to the grave.
Forgive, ye Proud, th’
involuntary fault
If Memory to these
no trophies raise,
Where thro’ the long-drawn
aisle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem
swells the note of praise.
Can storied urn or animated
bust
Back to its mansion
call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour’s voice provoke
the silent dust,
Or Flatt’ry
soothe the dull cold ear of Death?
Perhaps in this neglected
spot is laid
Some heart once
pregnant with celestial fire,
Hands that the rod of empire
might have sway’d,
Or waked to ecstasy
the living lyre.
But Knowledge to their eyes
her ample page
Rich with the
spoils of time did ne’er unroll;
Chill Penury repress’d
their noble rage,
And froze the
genial current of the soul.
Full many a gem of purest
ray serene,
The dark unfathom’d
caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flower is born
to blush unseen,
And waste its
sweetness on the desert air.
Some village-Hampden, that
with dauntless breast
The little tyrant
of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton
here may rest,
Some Cromwell
guiltless of his country’s blood.
Th’ applause of listening
senates to command,
The threats of
pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o’er
a smiling land,
And read their
history in a nation’s eyes,
Their lot forbad: nor
circumscribed alone
Their growing
virtues, but their crimes confined
Forbad to wade through slaughter
to a throne,
And shut the gates
of mercy on mankind,
The struggling pangs of conscious
truth to hide,
To quench the
blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury
and Pride
With incense,
kindled at the Muse’s flame.
Far from the madding crowd’s
ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes
never learn’d to stray;
Along the cool sequester’d
vale of life
They kept the
noiseless tenour of their way.
Yet e’en those bones
from insult to protect
Some frail memorial
still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhimes and shapeless
sculpture deck’d,
Implores the passing
tribute of a sigh.
Their name, their years, spelt
by th’ unlettered Muse,
The place of fame
and elegy supply.
And many a holy text around
she strews
That teach the
rustic moralist to die.
For who to dumb forgetfulness
a prey,
This pleasing
anxious being e’er resigned,
Left the warm precincts of
the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing,
ling’ring look behind?
On some fond breast the parting
soul relies,
Some pious drops
the closing eye requires;
E’en from the tomb the
voice of Nature cries,
E’en in
our ashes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who, mindful of
th’ unhonour’d dead,
Dost in these
lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely Contemplation
led,
Some kindred spirit
shall inquire thy fate,
Haply some hoary-headed swain
may say,
“Oft have we seen
him at the peep of dawn
Brushing with hasty steps
the dews away,
To meet the sun
upon the upland lawn.
“There at the foot of yonder
nodding beech
That wreathes
its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noon-tide
would he stretch,
And pore upon
the brook that babbles by.
“Hard by yon wood, now smiling
as in scorn,
Muttering his
wayward fancies he would rove;
Now drooping, woeful wan,
like one forlorn,
Or crazed with
care, or crossed in hopeless love.
“One morn I miss’d him
on the custom’d hill,
Along the heath,
and near his favourite tree;
Another came; nor yet beside
the rill,
Nor up the lawn,
nor at the wood was he.
“The next with dirges due
in sad array
Slow thro’
the church-way path we saw him borne.
Approach and read (for thou
canst read) the lay,
Graved on the
stone beneath yon aged thorn.”
THE EPITAPH.
Here rests his head upon the
lap of Earth
A Youth to Fortune
and to Fame unknown;
Fair Science frown’d
not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy
mark’d him for her own.
Large was his bounty, and
his soul sincere,
Heaven did a recompense
as largely send:
He gave to Mis’ry all
he had, a tear:
He gain’d
from Heav’n (’twas all he wish’d)
a friend.
No farther seek his merits
to disclose,
Or draw his frailties
from their dread abode,
(There they alike in trembling
hope repose,)
The bosom of his
Father and his God.
THOMAS GRAY.
RABBI BEN EZRA
“Rabbi Ben Ezra” (by Robert Browning, 1812-89). Youth is for dispute and age for counsel; each year, each period of a man’s life is but the necessary step to the next. Youth is an uncertain thing to bank on.
“Grow old along with
me!
The best is yet to be,
The last of life for which the first was
made.”
“Rabbi Ben Ezra” is a plea for each period in life. Aspiration is the keynote.
" ... Trust God; see all, nor be afraid!”
Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be,
The last of life, for which the first was made:
Our times are in His hand
Who saith, “A whole I plann’d,
Youth shows but half; trust God: see all
nor be afraid!”
Not that, amassing flowers,
Youth sigh’d, “Which rose
make ours,
Which lily leave and then as best recall?”
Not that, admiring stars,
It yearn’d, “Nor Jove, nor
Mars;
Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends
them all!”
Not for such hopes and
fears
Annulling youth’s brief years,
Do I remonstrate: folly wide the mark!
Rather I prize the doubt
Low kinds exist without,
Finish’d and finite clods, untroubled by
a spark.
Poor vaunt of life indeed,
Were man but formed to feed
On joy, to solely seek and find and feast:
Such feasting ended, then
As sure an end to men;
Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets doubt
the maw-cramm’d beast?
Rejoice we are allied
To That which doth provide
And not partake, effect and not receive!
A spark disturbs our clod;
Nearer we hold of God
Who gives, than of His tribes that take, I must
believe.
Then, welcome each rebuff
That turns earth’s smoothness rough,
Each sting, that bids nor sit nor stand, but go!
Be our joys three parts pain!
Strive, and hold cheap the strain;
Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge
the throe!
For thence,—a
paradox
Which comforts while it mocks,—
Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail:
What I aspired to be,
And was not, comforts me:
A brute I might have been, but would not sink
i’ the scale.
What is he but a brute
Whose flesh has soul to suit,
Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play?
To man, propose this test—
Thy body at its best,
How far can that project thy soul on its lone
way?
Yet gifts should prove
their use:
I own the Past profuse
Of power each side, perfection every turn:
Eyes, ears took in their dole,
Brain treasured up the whole:
Should not the heart beat once “How good
to live and learn?”
Not once beat “Praise
be Thine!
I see the whole design,
I, who saw power, see now love perfect too:
Perfect I call Thy plan:
Thanks that I was a man!
Maker, remake, complete,—I trust what
Thou shalt do!”
For pleasant is this flesh,
Our soul, in its rose-mesh
Pull’d ever to the earth, still yearns for
rest;
Would we some prize might hold
To match those manifold
Possessions of the brute,—gain most,
as we did best!
Let us not always say,
“Spite of this flesh to-day
I strove, made head, gained ground upon the whole!”
As the bird wings and sings,
Let us cry, “All good things
Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than
flesh helps soul!”
Therefore I summon age
To grant youth’s heritage,
Life’s struggle having so far reached its
term:
Thence shall I pass, approved
A man, for aye removed
From the developed brute; a god though in the
germ.
And I shall thereupon
Take rest, ere I be gone
Once more on my adventure brave and new:
Fearless and unperplex’d,
When I wage battle next,
What weapons to select, what armour to indue.
Youth ended, I shall try
My gain or loss thereby;
Leave the fire ashes, what survives is gold:
And I shall weigh the same,
Give life its praise or blame:
Young, all lay in dispute; I shall know, being
old.
For note, when evening
shuts,
A certain moment cuts
The deed off, calls the glory from the gray:
A whisper from the west
Shoots—“Add this to the
rest,
Take it and try its worth: here dies another
day.”
So, still within this life,
Though lifted o’er its strife,
Let me discern, compare, pronounce at last,
“This rage was right i’ the
main,
That acquiescence vain:
The Future I may face now I have proved the Past”
For more is not reserved
To man, with soul just nerved
To act to-morrow what he learns to-day:
Here, work enough to watch
The Master work, and catch
Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool’s
true play.
As it was better, youth
Should strive, through acts uncouth,
Toward making, than repose on aught found made:
So, better, age, exempt
From strife, should know, than tempt
Further. Thou waitedest age: wait death
nor be afraid!
Enough now, if the Right
And Good and Infinite
Be named here, as thou callest thy hand thine
own,
With knowledge absolute,
Subject to no dispute
From fools that crowded youth, nor let thee feel
alone.
Be there, for once and
all,
Sever’d great minds from small,
Announced to each his station in the Past!
Was I, the world arraigned,
Were they, my soul disdain’d,
Right? Let age speak the truth and give us
peace at last!
Now, who shall arbitrate?
Ten men love what I hate,
Shun what I follow, slight what I receive;
Ten, who in ears and eyes
Match me: we all surmise,
They this thing, and I that: whom shall my
soul believe?
Not on the vulgar mass
Call’d “work,” must
sentence pass,
Things done, that took the eye and had the price;
O’er which, from level stand,
The low world laid its hand,
Found straightway to its mind, could value in
a trice:
But all, the world’s
coarse thumb
And finger fail’d to plumb,
So pass’d in making up the main account;
All instincts immature,
All purposes unsure,
That weigh’d not as his work, yet swell’d
the man’s amount:
Thoughts hardly to be pack’d
Into a narrow act,
Fancies that broke through language and escaped,
All I could never be,
All, men ignored in me,
This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher
shaped.
Ay, note that Potter’s
wheel,
That metaphor! and feel
Why time spins fast, why passive lies our clay,—
Thou, to whom fools propound,
When the wine makes its round,
“Since life fleets, all is change; the Past
gone, seize to-day!”
Fool! All that is,
at all,
Lasts ever, past recall;
Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure;
What enter’d into thee,
That was, is, and shall be:
Time’s wheel runs back or stops: Potter
and clay endure.
He fix’d thee ’mid
this dance
Of plastic circumstance,
This Present, thou, forsooth, wouldst fain arrest
Machinery just meant
To give thy soul its bent,
Try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently impress’d.
What though the earlier
grooves
Which ran the laughing loves
Around thy base, no longer pause and press?
What though, about thy rim,
Scull-things in order grim
Grow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner stress?
Look not thou down but
up!
To uses of a cup,
The festal board, lamp’s flash and trumpet’s
peal,
The new wine’s foaming flow,
The master’s lips aglow!
Thou, heaven’s consummate cup, what need’st
thou with earth’s wheel?
But I need, now as then,
Thee, God, who mouldest men;
And since, not even while the whirl was worst
Did I,—to the wheel of life
With shapes and colours rife,
Bound dizzily,—mistake my end, to slake
Thy thirst:
So, take and use Thy work:
Amend what flaws may lurk,
What strain o’ the stuff, what warpings
past the aim!
My times be in Thy hand!
Perfect the cup as plann’d!
Lest age approve of youth, and death complete
the same!
ROBERT BROWNING.
PROSPICE.
“Prospice,” by Robert Browning (1812-89), is the greatest death song ever written. It is a battle-song and a paean of victory.
“The journey is done,
the summit attained,
And the strong man must go.”
“I would hate that Death bandaged
my eyes and forebore,
And bade me creep past.”
“No! let me taste the whole of
it”
“The reward of all.”
This poem is included in this book
because these lines are enough to
reconcile any one to any fate.
Fear death?—to feel
the fog in my throat,
The mist in my face,
When the snows begin, and the blasts denote
I am nearing the place,
The power of the night, the press of the storm,
The post of the foe;
Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form,
Yet the strong man must go:
For the journey is done and the summit attained,
And the barriers fall,
Though a battle’s to fight ere a guerdon
be gained,
The reward of it all.
I was ever a fighter, so—one fight
more.
The best and the last!
I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and
forebore,
And bade me creep past.
No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my
peers
The heroes of old,
Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life’s
arrears
Of pain, darkness, and cold.
For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave,
The black minute’s at end.
And the elements’ rage, the fiend-voices
that rave
Shall dwindle, shall blend,
Shall change, shall become first a peace out of
pain,
Then a light, then thy breast,
O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee
again,
And with God be the rest!
ROBERT BROWNING.
RECESSIONAL.
The “Recessional” (by Rudyard Kipling, 1865-) is one of the most popular poems of this century. It is a warning to an age and a nation drunk with power, a rebuke to materialistic tendencies and boastfulness, a protest against pride.
“Reverence is the master-key of knowledge.”
God of our fathers, known of old—
Lord of our far-flung battle-line—
Beneath whose awful Hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!
The tumult and the shouting dies—
The captains and the kings depart—
Still stands Thine ancient Sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!
Far-called our navies melt
away—
On dune and headland
sinks the fire—
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh
and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare
us yet,
Lest we forget—lest
we forget!
If, drunk with sight of power,
we loose
Wild tongues that
have not Thee in awe—
Such boasting as the Gentiles
use
Or lesser breeds
without the Law—
Lord God of Hosts, be with
us yet,
Lest we forget—lest
we forget!
For heathen heart that puts
her trust
In reeking tube
and iron shard—
All valiant dust that builds
on dust,
And guarding calls
not Thee to guard—
For frantic boast and foolish
word,
Thy mercy on Thy People, Lord!
Amen.
RUDYARD KIPLING.
OZYMANDIAS OF EGYPT.
“Ozymandias of Egypt,” by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822). This sonnet is a rebuke to the insolent pride of kings and empires. It is extremely picturesque. It finds a place here because more elderly scholars of good judgment are pleased with it. I remember an old gray-haired scholar in Chicago who often recited it to his friends merely because it touched his fancy.
I met a traveller from an
antique land
Who said: “Two
vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert.
Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage
lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer
of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well
those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped
on these lifeless things,
The hand that mock’d
them and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these
words appear:
’My name is Ozymandias, king
of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty,
and despair!’
Nothing beside remains.
Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless
and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch
far away;”
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
MORTALITY.
“Mortality” (by William Knox, 1789-1825) is always quoted as Lincoln’s favourite poem.
O why should the spirit of
mortal be proud?
Like a fast-flitting meteor,
a fast-flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning,
a break of the wave,
He passes from life to his
rest in the grave.
The leaves of the oak and
the willow shall fade,
Be scattered around and together
be laid;
And the young and the old,
and the low and the high,
Shall moulder to dust and
together shall lie.
The child that a mother attended
and loved,
The mother that infant’s
affection that proved,
The husband that mother and
infant that blessed,
Each, all, are away to their
dwelling of rest.
The maid on whose cheek, on
whose brow, in whose eye,
Shone beauty and pleasure,—her
triumphs are by;
And the memory of those that
beloved her and praised
Are alike from the minds of
the living erased.
The hand of the king that
the scepter hath borne,
The brow of the priest that
the miter hath worn,
The eye of the sage, and the
heart of the brave,
Are hidden and lost in the
depths of the grave.
The peasant whose lot was
to sow and to reap,
The herdsman who climbed with
his goats to the steep,
The beggar that wandered in
search of his bread,
Have faded away like the grass
that we tread.
The saint that enjoyed the
communion of heaven,
The sinner that dared to remain
unforgiven,
The wise and the foolish,
the guilty and just,
Have quietly mingled their
bones in the dust.
So the multitude goes, like
the flower and the weed
That wither away to let others
succeed;
So the multitude comes, even
those we behold,
To repeat every tale that
hath often been told.
For we are the same that our
fathers have been;
We see the same sights that
our fathers have seen,—
We drink the same stream,
and we feel the same sun,
And we run the same course
that our fathers have run.
The thoughts we are thinking,
our fathers would think;
From the death we are shrinking
from, they too would shrink;
To the life we are clinging
to, they too would cling;
But it speeds from the earth
like a bird on the wing.
They loved, but their story
we cannot unfold;
They scorned, but the heart
of the haughty is cold;
They grieved, but no wail
from their slumbers may come;
They enjoyed, but the voice
of their gladness is dumb.
They died, ay! they died!
and we things that are now,
Who walk on the turf that
lies over their brow,
Who make in their dwellings
a transient abode,
Meet the changes they met
on their pilgrimage road.
Yea! hope and despondence,
and pleasure and pain,
Are mingled together like
sunshine and rain;
And the smile and the tear,
and the song and the dirge,
Still follow each other, like
surge upon surge.
’Tis the wink of an eye, ’tis
the draught of a breath,
From the blossom of health
to the paleness of death,
From the gilded saloon to
the bier and the shroud,—
O why should the spirit of
mortal be proud?
WILLIAM KNOX.
ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN’S “HOMER.”
“On First Looking Into Chapman’s ‘Homer,’”
by John Keats (1795-1821).
The last four lines of this sonnet form the
most tremendous climax in literature. The picture
is as vivid as if done with a brush. Every great
book, every great poem is a new world, an undiscovered
country.
Every learned person is a whole territory, a
universe of new thought.
Every one who does anything with a heart for
it, every specialist every one, however simple, who
is strenuous and genuine, is a “new discovery.”
Let us give credit to the smallest planet that is true
to its own orbit.
Much have I travelled in the
realms of gold,
And many goodly states and
kingdoms seen;
Round many western islands
have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo
hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had
I been told
That deep-brow’d Homer
ruled as his demesne:
Yet did I never breathe its
pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak
out loud and bold:
Then felt I like some watcher
of the skies
When a new planet swims into
his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when
with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific—and
all his men
Look’d at each other
with a wild surmise—
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
JOHN KEATS.
HERVE RIEL.
“Herve Riel” (by Robert Browning, 1812-89)
is a poem for older boys.
Here is a hero who does a great deed simply
as a part of his day’s work. He puts no
value on what he has done, because he could have done
no other way.
On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen
hundred ninety-two,
Did the English fight the French—woe
to France!
And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through
the blue,
Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of
sharks pursue,
Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the
Rance,
With the English fleet in view.
’Twas the squadron that escaped,
with the victor in full chase,
First and foremost of the drove, in his great
ship, Damfreville;
Close on him fled, great and small,
Twenty-two good ships in all;
And they signalled to the place,
“Help the winners of a race!
Get us guidance, give us harbour, take us quick—or,
quicker still,
Here’s the English can and will!”
Then the pilots of the place put
out brisk and leaped on board:
“Why, what hope or chance have ships like
these to pass?”
laughed they;
“Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all
the passage scarred
and scored,
Shall the Formidable here, with her twelve
and eighty guns,
Think to make the river-mouth by the single
narrow way,
Trust to enter where ’tis ticklish for a
craft of twenty tons.
And with flow at full beside?
Now ’tis slackest ebb of tide.
Reach the mooring! Rather say,
While rock stands or water runs,
Not a ship will leave the bay!”
Then was called a council
straight;
Brief and bitter the debate:
“Here’s the English at our heels; would
you have them take in tow
All that’s left us of the fleet, linked
together stern and bow,
For a prize to Plymouth Sound?—
Better run the ships aground!”
(Ended Damfreville his speech.)
“Not a minute more to wait!
Let the captains all and each
Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on
the beach!
France must undergo her fate.
“Give the word!”—But
no such word
Was ever spoke or heard;
For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid
all these—
A captain? A lieutenant? A mate—first,
second, third?
No such man of mark, and meet
With his betters to compete!
But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville
for the fleet—
A poor coasting pilot he, Herve Riel, the Croisiekese.
And “What mockery or malice
have we here?” cries Herve Riel:
“Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you
cowards, fools, or rogues?
Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the
soundings, tell
On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every
swell,
’Twixt the offing here and Greve where
the river disembogues?
Are you bought by English gold? Is it love
the lying’s for?
Morn and eve, night and day.
Have I piloted your bay,
Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of
Solidor.
Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were
worse than fifty Hogues!
Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs,
believe me there’s a way!
Only let me lead the line,
Have the biggest ship to steer,
Get this Formidable clear,
Make the others follow mine,
And I lead them, most and least, by a passage
I know well,
Right to Solidor past Greve,
And there lay them safe and sound;
And if one ship misbehave,
—Keel so much as grate the
ground,
Why, I’ve nothing but my life,—here’s
my head!” cries Herve Riel.
Not a minute more to wait
“Steer us in, then, small and great!
Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!”
cried its chief.
Captains, give the sailor place!
He is Admiral, in brief.
Still the north wind, by God’s grace!
See the noble fellow’s face
As the big ship, with a bound,
Clears the entry like a hound,
Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the
wide sea’s profound!
See, safe through shoal and rock,
How they follow in a flock,
Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates
the ground,
Not a spar that comes to grief!
The peril, see, is past,
All are harboured to the last,
And just as Herve Riel hollas “Anchor!”—sure
as fate,
Up the English come—too late!
So, the storm subsides
to calm:
They see the green trees wave
On the heights o’erlooking Greve.
Hearts that bled are stanched with balm,
“Just our rapture to enhance,
Let the English rake the bay,
Gnash their teeth and glare askance
Then said Damfreville,
“My friend,
I must speak out at the end,
Though I find the speaking hard.
Praise is deeper than the lips:
You have saved the King his ships,
You must name your own reward.
’Faith, our sun was near eclipse!
Demand whate’er you will,
France remains your debtor still.
Ask to heart’s content and have! or my name’s
not Damfreville.”
Then a beam of fun outbroke
On the bearded mouth that spoke,
As the honest heart laughed through
Those frank eyes of Breton blue:
“Since I needs must say my say,
Since on board the duty’s done,
And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is
it but a run?—
Since ’tis ask and have, I may—
Since the others go ashore—
Come! A good whole holiday!
Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle
Aurore!”
That he asked and that he got,—nothing
more.
Name and deed alike are
lost:
Not a pillar nor a post
In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell;
Not a head in white and black
On a single fishing smack,
In memory of the man but for whom had gone to
wrack
All that France saved from the fight whence
England bore the bell.
Go to Paris: rank on rank
Search the heroes flung pell-mell
On the Louvre, face and flank!
You shall look long enough ere you come to Herve
Riel.
So, for better and for worse,
Herve Riel, accept my verse!
In my verse, Herve Riel, do thou once more
Save the squadron, honour France, love thy wife
the Belle Aurore!
ROBERT BROWNING.
THE PROBLEM.
“The Problem” (by Ralph Waldo Emerson, 1803-80) is quoted from one end of the world to the other. Emerson teaches one lesson above all others, that each soul must work out for itself its latent force, its own individual expression, and that with a “sad sincerity.” “The bishop of the soul” can do no more.
I like a church; I like a
cowl;
I love a prophet of the soul;
And on my heart monastic aisles
Fall like sweet strains, or
pensive smiles:
Yet not for all his faith
can see
Would I that cowled churchman
be.
Why should the vest on him
allure,
Which I could not on me endure?
Not from a vain or shallow
thought
His awful Jove young Phidias
brought;
Never from lips of cunning
fell
The thrilling Delphic oracle;
Out from the heart of nature
rolled
Knowst thou what wove yon
woodbird’s nest
Of leaves and feathers from
her breast?
Or how the fish outbuilt her
shell,
Painting with morn each annual
cell?
Or how the sacred pine-tree
adds
To her old leaves new myriads?
Such and so grew these holy
piles,
While love and terror laid
the tiles.
Earth proudly wears the Parthenon,
As the best gem upon her zone,
And Morning opes with haste
her lids
To gaze upon the Pyramids;
O’er England’s
abbeys bends the sky,
As on its friends, with kindred
eye;
For out of Thought’s
interior sphere
These wonders rose to upper
air;
And Nature gladly gave them
place,
Adopted them into her race,
And granted them an equal
date
With Andes and with Ararat.
These temples grew as grows
the grass;
Art might obey, but not surpass.
The passive Master lent his
hand
To the vast soul that o’er
him planned;
And the same power that reared
the shrine
Bestrode the tribes that knelt
within.
Ever the fiery Pentecost
Girds with one flame the countless
host,
Trances the heart through
chanting choirs,
And through the priest the
mind inspires.
The word unto the prophet
spoken
Was writ on tables yet unbroken;
The word by seers or sibyls
told,
In groves of oak, or fanes
of gold.
Still floats upon the morning
wind,
Still whispers to the willing
mind.
One accent of the Holy Ghost
The heedless world hath never
lost.
I know what say the fathers
wise,—
The Book itself before me
lies,
Old Chrysostom, best Augustine,
And he who blent both in his
line,
The younger Golden Lips or
mines,
Taylor, the Shakespeare of
divines.
His words are music in my
ear,
I see his cowled portrait
dear;
And yet, for all his faith
could see,
I would not the good bishop
be.
RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
TO AMERICA.
“To America,” included by permission of the Poet Laureate, is a good poem and a great poem. It is a keen thrust at the common practice of teaching American children to hate the English of these days on account of the actions of a silly old king dead a hundred years. Alfred Austin deserves great credit for this poem.
What
is the voice I hear
On
the winds of the western sea?
Sentinel,
listen from out Cape Clear
And
say what the voice may be.
’Tis a proud free people calling
loud to a people proud and free.
And
it says to them: “Kinsmen, hail!
We
severed have been too long.
Now
let us have done with a worn-out tale—
The
tale of an ancient wrong—
And our friendship last long
as our love doth and be stronger
than
death is strong.”
Answer
them, sons of the self-same race,
And
blood of the self-same clan;
Let
us speak with each other face to face
And
answer as man to man,
And loyally love and trust
each other as none but free men can.
Now
fling them out to the breeze,
Shamrock,
Thistle, and Rose,
And
the Star-spangled Banner unfurl with these—
A
message to friends and foes
Wherever the sails of peace
are seen and wherever the war-wind blows—
A
message to bond and thrall to wake,
For
wherever we come, we twain,
The
throne of the tyrant shall rock and quake,
And
his menace be void and vain;
For you are lords of a strong
land and we are lords of the main.
Yes,
this is the voice of the bluff March gale;
We
severed have been too long,
But
now we have done with a worn-out tale—
The
tale of an ancient wrong—
And our friendship last long
as love doth last and stronger
than
death is strong.
ALFRED AUSTIN.
THE ENGLISH FLAG.
It is quite true that the English flag stands
for freedom the world
over. Wherever it floats almost any one
is safe, whether English or
not.
[Above the portico the Union Jack remained fluttering in the flames for some time, but ultimately when it fell the crowds rent the air with shouts, and seemed to see significance in the incident.—Daily Papers.]
Winds of the World, give answer? They are whimpering to and fro—
And what should they know of England who only England know?—
The poor little street-bred people that vapour and fume and brag,
They are lifting their heads in the stillness to yelp at
the English Flag!
Must we borrow a clout from the Boer—to plaster anew with dirt?
An Irish liar’s bandage, or an English coward’s shirt?
We may not speak of England; her Flag’s to sell or share.
What is the Flag of England? Winds of the World, declare!
The North Wind blew:—“From Bergen my steel-shod van-guards go;
I chase your lazy whalers home from the Disko floe;
By the great North Lights above me I work the will of God,
That the liner splits on the ice-field or the Dogger fills with cod.
“I barred my gates with iron,
I shuttered my doors with flame,
Because to force my ramparts
your nutshell navies came;
I took the sun from their
presence, I cut them down with my blast,
And they died, but the Flag
of England blew free ere the spirit passed.
“The lean white bear hath seen it in the long, long Arctic night,
The musk-ox knows the standard that flouts the Northern Light:
What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my bergs to dare,
Ye have but my drifts to conquer. Go forth, for it is there!”
The South Wind sighed:—“From
The Virgins my mid-sea course was ta’en
Over a thousand islands lost in an idle main,
Where the sea-egg flames on the coral and the
long-backed
breakers croon
Their endless ocean legends to the lazy, locked
lagoon.
“Strayed amid lonely islets, mazed amid outer keys,
I waked the palms to laughter—I tossed the scud in the breeze—
Never was isle so little, never was sea so lone,
But over the scud and the palm-trees an English flag was flown.
“I have wrenched it free from
the halliard to hang for a wisp
on the Horn;
I have chased it north to the Lizard—ribboned
and rolled and torn;
I have spread its fold o’er the dying, adrift
in a hopeless sea;
I have hurled it swift on the slaver, and seen
the slave set free.
“My basking sunfish know it, and wheeling albatross,
Where the lone wave fills with fire beneath the Southern Cross.
What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my reefs to dare,
Ye have but my seas to furrow. Go forth, for it is there!”
The East Wind roared:—“From the Kuriles, the Bitter Seas, I come,
And me men call the Home-Wind, for I bring the English home.
Look—look well to your shipping! By the breath of my mad typhoon
I swept your close-packed Praya and beached your best at Kowloon!
“The reeling junks behind
me and the racing seas before,
I raped your richest roadstead—I
plundered Singapore!
I set my hand on the Hoogli;
as a hooded snake she rose,
And I flung your stoutest
steamers to roost with the startled crows.
“Never the lotos closes, never
the wild-fowl wake,
But a soul goes out on the
East Wind that died for England’s sake—
Man or woman or suckling,
mother or bride or maid—
Because on the bones of the
English the English Flag is stayed.
“The desert-dust hath dimmed
it, the flying wild-ass knows.
The scared white leopard winds
it across the taintless snows.
What is the Flag of England?
Ye have but my sun to dare,
Ye have but my sands to travel.
Go forth, for it is there!”
The West Wind called:—“In
squadrons the thoughtless galleons fly
That bear the wheat and cattle
lest street-bred people die.
They make my might their porter,
they make my house their path,
Till I loose my neck from
their rudder and whelm them all in my wrath.
“I draw the gliding fog-bank
as a snake is drawn from the hole;
They bellow one to the other,
the frightened ship-bells toll,
For day is a drifting terror
till I raise the shroud with my breath,
And they see strange bows
above them and the two go locked to death.
“But whether in calm or wrack-wreath,
whether by dark or day,
I heave them whole to the
conger or rip their plates away,
First of the scattered legions,
under a shrieking sky,
Dipping between the rollers,
the English Flag goes by.
“The dead dumb fog hath wrapped
it—the frozen dews have kissed—
The naked stars have seen
it, a fellow-star in the mist.
What is the Flag of England?
Ye have but my breath to dare,
Ye have but my waves to conquer.
Go forth, for it is there!”
RUDYARD KIPLING.
THE MAN WITH THE HOE.
“The Man With the Hoe” is purely an American
product, and every
American ought to be proud of it, for we want
no such type allowed to be developed in this country
as the low-browed peasant of France. This poem
is a stroke of genius. The story goes that it
so offended a modern plutocrat that he offered a
reward of $10,000 to any one who could write an equally
good poem in rebuttal. “The Man With the
Hoe” has won for Edwin Markham the title of
“Poet Laureate of the Labouring
Classes.”
WRITTEN AFTER SEEING THE PAINTING BY MILLET.
God made man in His own image, in the image
of God made He
him.—GENESIS.
Bowed by the weight of centuries
he leans
Upon his hoe and gazes on
the ground,
The emptiness of ages in his
face,
And on his back the burden
of the world.
Who made him dead to rapture
and despair,
A thing that grieves not and
that never hopes,
Stolid and stunned, a brother
to the ox?
Who loosened and let down
this brutal jaw?
Whose was the hand that slanted
back this brow?
Whose breath blew out the
light within this brain?
Is this the Thing the Lord
God made and gave
To have dominion over sea
and land;
To trace the stars and search
the heavens for power;
To feel the passion of Eternity?
Is this the Dream He dreamed
who shaped the suns
And marked their ways upon
the ancient deep?
Down all the stretch of Hell
to its last gulf
There is no shape more terrible
than this—
More tongued with censure
of the world’s blind greed—
More filled with signs and
portents for the soul—
More fraught with menace to
the universe.
What gulfs between him and
the seraphim!
Slave of the wheel of labour,
what to him
Are Plato and the swing of
Pleiades?
What the long reaches of the
peaks of song,
The rift of dawn, the reddening
of the rose?
Through this dread shape the
suffering ages look;
Time’s tragedy is in
that aching stoop;
Through this dread shape humanity
betrayed,
Plundered, profaned, and disinherited,
Cries protest to the Judges
of the World,
A protest that is also prophecy.
O masters, lords, and rulers
in all lands,
Is this the handiwork you
give to God,
This monstrous thing distorted
and soul-quenched?
How will you ever straighten
up this shape;
Touch it again with immortality;
Give back the upward looking
and the light;
Rebuild in it the music and
the dream;
Make right the immemorial
infamies,
Perfidious wrongs, immedicable
woes?
O masters, lords, and rulers
in all lands,
How will the future reckon
with this Man?
How answer his brute question
in that hour
When whirlwinds of rebellion
shake the world?
How will it be with kingdoms
and with kings—
With those who shaped him
to the thing he is—
When this dumb Terror shall
reply to God,
After the silence of the centuries?
EDWIN MARKHAM.
SONG OF MYSELF.
“The Song of Myself” is one of Walt Whitman’s (1819-92) most characteristic poems. I love the swing and the stride of his great long lines. I love his rough-shod way of trampling down and kicking out of the way the conventionalities that spring up like poisonous mushrooms to make the world a vast labyrinth of petty “proprieties” until everything is nasty. I love the oxygen he pours on the world. I love his genius for brotherliness, his picture of the Negro with rolling eyes and the firelock in the corner. These excerpts are some of his best lines.
I celebrate myself, and sing
myself,
And what I assume you shall
assume,
For every atom belonging to
me as good belongs to you.
I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease
observing a spear of summer grass.
My tongue, every atom of my
blood, form’d from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born
here from parents the same, and their
parents
the same,
I, now thirty-seven years
old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.
I harbor for good or bad,
I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with
original energy.
Have you reckoned a thousand
acres much? have you reckon’d the
earth
much?
Have you practised so long
to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to
get at the meaning of poems?
Stop this day and night with
me and you shall possess the origin
of
all poems,
You shall possess the good
of the earth and sun (there are
millions
of suns left),
You shall no longer take things
at second or third hand, nor look
through
the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the specters in books,
You shall not look through
my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides
and filter them from yourself.
A child said, “What
is the grass?” fetching it to me with full
hands;
How could I answer the child?
I do not know what it is any more
than
he.
I guess it must be the flag
of my disposition, out of hopeful green
stuff
woven.
Or, I guess it is the handkerchief
of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrance
designedly dropt,
Bearing the owner’s
name some way in the corners,
that we may see
and remark, and say,
“Whose?”
Alone far in the wilds and
mountains I hunt,
Wandering amazed at my own
lightness and glee,
In the late afternoon choosing
a safe spot to pass the night,
Kindling a fire and broiling
the fresh-kill’d game,
Falling asleep on the gathered
leaves with my dog and gun by my side.
The Yankee clipper is under
her sky-sails, she cuts the sparkle
and
scud,
My eyes settle the land, I
bend at her prow or shout joyously from
the
deck.
The boatman and clam-diggers
arose early and stopt for me,
I tucked my trouser-ends in
my boots and went and had a good time;
You should have been with
us that day round the chowder-kettle.
The runaway slave came to
my house and stopt outside,
I heard his motions crackling
the twigs of the woodpile,
Through the swung half-door
of the kitchen I saw him limpsy and weak,
And went where he sat on a
log and led him in and assured him,
And brought water and fill’d
a tub for his sweated body and
bruis’d
feet,
And gave him a room that entered
from my own, and gave him some
coarse
clean clothes,
And remember perfectly well
his revolving eyes and his awkwardness,
And remember putting plasters
on the galls of his neck and ankles;
He staid with me a week before
he was recuperated and passed north,
I had him sit next me at table,
my firelock lean’d in the corner.
I am the poet of the woman
the same as the man,
And I say it is as great to
be a woman as to be a man,
And I say there is nothing
greater than the mother of men.
I understand the large hearts
of heroes,
The courage of present times
and all times,
How the skipper saw the crowded
and rudderless wreck of the steamship,
and
Death chasing it up and down the storm,
How he knuckled tight and
gave not back an inch and was faithful of
days
and faithful of nights,
And chalked in large letters
on a board, “Be of good cheer, we will
not
desert you”;
How he followed with them
and tack’d with them three days and would
not
give it up,
How he saved the drifting
company at last,
How the lank loose-gown’d
women looked when boated from the side
of
their prepared graves,
How the silent old-faced infants
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.
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
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
Maxwelton braes are bonnie, 226
Merrily swinging on brier and weed, 44
Methought I heard a butterfly, 42
’Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, 220
Mine be a cot beside the hill, 272
My country ’tis of thee, 228
My fairest child, I have no song to give you, 21
My good blade carves the casques of men, 253
My heart leaps up when I behold, 28
My little Maedchen found one day, 149
My mind to me a kingdom is, 286
My soul is sailing through the sea, 219
Much have I travell’d in the realms of gold, 326
Nae shoon to hide her tiny taes, 4
No stir in the air, no stir in the sea, 145
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 176
Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are, 179
O, a dainty plant is the ivy green, 59
O Captain! my Captain, our fearful trip is done, 57
Of all the woodland creatures, 60
Oft in the stilly night, 266
Oh where! and oh where! is your Highland laddie gone, 20
Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the West, 103
Old Grimes is dead; that good old man, 47
“O Mary, go and call the cattle home, 271
O, may I join the choir invisible, 303
Once a dream did wave a shade, 116
Once there was a little boy, 19
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, 289
On Linden, when the sun was low, 134
On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two, 326
Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass, 160
Over the hill the farm-boy goes, 90
O! say can you see, by the dawn’s early light, 31
O why should the spirit of mortal be proud, 323
Pussy can sit by the fire and sing, 8
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 126
Said the wind to the moon, “I will blow you out,” 111
Sail on, sail on, O Ship of State, 227
Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled, 142
See thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue, 301
Serene I fold my hands and wait, 267
Shed no tear! O shed no tear, 50
She dwelt among the untrodden ways, 272
She was a phantom of delight, 305
Speak! speak! thou fearful guest, 240
Stand! the ground’s your own, my braves!, 63
Sunset and evening star, 124
Sweet and low, sweet and low, 27
Tell me not in mournful numbers, 218
The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold, 158
The boy stood on the burning deck, 22
The breaking waves dashed high, 229
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 306
The Frost looked forth, one still, clear night, 39
The gingham dog and the calico cat, 18
The God of Music dwelleth out of doors, 275
The harp that once through Tara’s halls, 287
The nautilus and the ammonite, 188
The old mayor climb’d the belfry tower, 277
The Owl and the Pussy Cat went to sea, 15
The quality of mercy is not strained, 300
There came a youth upon the earth, 171
There came to port last Sunday night, 152
There lay upon the ocean’s shore, 148
There was a sound of revelry by night, 177
There was never a Queen like Balkis, 7
There were three kings into the East, 83
There were three sailors of Bristol City, 41
The splendour falls on castle walls, 66
The stately homes of England, 192
The summer and autumn had been so wet, 166
The sun shines bright in the old Kentucky home, 136
The world is too much with us; late and soon, 304
The year’s at the spring, 6
Thirty days hath September, 7
This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, 122
This was the noblest Roman of them all, 301
’Tis the last rose of summer, 225
T’other day as I was twining, 234
Traveller, pluck a stem of moly, 233
Triumphal arch that fills the sky, 53
’Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house, 29
Twinkle, twinkle little star, 6
Under a spreading chestnut tree, 25
Up from the meadows rich with corn, 96
Up from the South at break of day, 68
Way down upon de Swanee ribber, 137
Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower, 94
Wee, sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beastie, 92
Wee Willie Winkie rins through the town, 13
We were crowded in the cabin, 23
Whatever brawls disturb the street, 20
What is so rare as a day in June, 217
What is the voice I hear, 335
What was he doing, the great god Pan, 275
When cats run home and light is come, 40
When earth’s last picture is painted, 285
When George the Third was reigning, a hundred years ago, 236
When I consider how my light is spent, 304
When Letty had scarce pass’d her third glad year, 115
Where the pools are bright and deep, 50
Wild was the night, yet a wilder night, 131
Winds of the world, give answer, 337
Woodman, spare that tree, 222
Wynken, Blynken and Nod one night, 16
Ye banks and braes of bonnie Doon, 265
“You are old, Father William,” the young man said, 33
You know, we French storm’d Ratisbon, 43