The Project Gutenberg eBook of Poems Teachers Ask For, by AUTHOR.

Abou Ben Adhem	Hunt	30
Abraham Lincoln	T. Taylor	16
All Things Bright and Beautiful	Alexander	41
American Flag, The	Drake	133
Answer to "Rock Me to Sleep"		103
Arrow and the Song, The	Longfellow	74
Asleep at the Switch	Hoey	56
At School-Close	Whittier	65
Aunt Tabitha		45
Autumn Woods	Bryant	48

Baby, The	Macdonald	22
Barbara Frietchie	Whittier	71
Barefoot Boy, The	Whittier	176
Bay Billy	Gassaway	104
Be Strong	Babcock	174
Better Than Gold	Smart	143
Bingen on the Rhine	Norton	121
Blue and the Gray, The	Finch	183
Bluebird's Song, The	E.H. Miller	73
Bobby Shaftoe		8
Boy and His Stomach, A		93
Boy's Song, A	Hogg	172
"Breathes There the Man"	Scott	185
Brier-Rose	Boyesen	144
Brook, The	Tennyson	162
Brown Thrush, The	Larcom	181
Bugle Song, The	Tennyson	183
Builders, The	Longfellow	181
Building of the Ship, The	Longfellow	63
Burial of Sir John Moore, The	Wolfe	190

Calf Path, The	Foss	110
Casey at the Bat	Thayer	100
Casey's Revenge	Wilson	101
Chambered Nautilus, The	Holmes	169
Character of the Happy Warrior	Wordsworth	165
Charge of the Light Brigade, The	Tennyson	166
Children's Hour, The	Longfellow	70
Children, The	Dickinson	53
Child's Thought of God, A	E.B. Browning	183
Christ in Flanders		18
Christmas Everywhere	Brooks	158
Cloud, The	Shelley	159
College Oil Cans	McGuire	122
Columbus	Joaquin Miller	83
Concord Hymn, The	Emerson	99
Corn Song, The	Whittier	171
Crossing the Bar	Tennyson	186
Curfew Must Not Ring To-night	Thorpe	24
Custer's Last Charge	Whittaker	91

Daffodils	Wordsworth	179
Darius Green and His Flying Machine	Trowbridge	153
Day Well Spent, A		38
Dead Pussy Cat, The	Short	64
Diffidence		23
Don't Give Up	P. Cary	182
Driving Home the Cows	Osgood	88
Drummer Boy of Mission Ridge		49

Each in His Own Tongue	Carruth	58
Echo	Saxe	20
Engineers Making Love	Burdette	21
Eternal Goodness, The	Whittier	87

Fable, A	Emerson	177
Face Upon the Floor, The	D'Arcy	108
Fairies, The	Allingham	173
Fence or an Ambulance, A	Malins	127
First Settler's Story, The	Carleton	197
First Snow-fall, The	Lowell	99
Flag Goes By, The	Bennett	45
Fountain, The	Lowell	186
Four-leaf Clover, The	Higginson	134
Frost, The	Gould	171

Give Us Men	Holland	33
God's Judgment on a Wicked Bishop	Southey	124
Golden Keys		134
Good Night and Good Morning	Houghton	184
Gradatim	Holland	96
Green Mountain Justice, The	Reeves	74
Guilty or Not Guilty		22

Hand That Rules the World, The	Wallace	113
House by the Side of the Road, The	Foss	56
How Cyrus Laid the Cable	Saxe	58
How He Saved St. Michael's	Stansbury	119
Huskers, The	Whittier	152

If—	Kipling	51
I Like Little Pussy	J. Taylor	178
Incident of the French Camp	R. Browning	182
In Flanders Fields	McCrae	195
In Flanders Fields: An Answer	Galbreath	195
In School-Days	Whittier	31
Inventor's Wife, An	Ewing	13
Invictus	Henley	29
Is It Worth While?	Joachim Miller	36
I Want to Go to Morrow		72

Jane Conquest	Milne	76
Jane Jones	King	59
Johnny's Hist'ry Lesson	Waterman	62
June	Lowell	163

Kate Ketchem	P. Cary	81
Kate Shelly	Hall	25
Katie Lee and Willie Grey		30
Kentucky Belle	Woolson	10
Kentucky Philosophy	Robertson	32
Kid Has Gone to the Colors, The	Herschell	9
King Robert of Sicily	Longfellow	147

Lady Moon	Houghton	185
Landing of the Pilgrims, The	Hemans	8
Lasca	Desprez	129
Last Hymn, The	Faringham	126
Leak in the Dike, The	P. Cary	187
Leap for Life, A	Morris	74
Leap of Roushan Beg, The	Longfellow	60
Leedle Yawcob Strauss	Adams	35
Legend of Bregenz, A	Procter	141
Legend of the Organ-Builder, The	Dorr	106
L'Envoi	Kipling	67
Life's Mirror	Bridges	37
Lips That Touch Liquor, The	Young	79
Little Birdie	Tennyson	173
Little Black-Eyed Rebel, The	Carleton	37
Little Boy Blue	Field	195
Little Brown Hands	Krout	71
Little Plant, The	Brown	192
Lost Chord, The	Procter	69
Love of Country ("Breathes There the Man")	Scott	185

Main Truck, The	Morris	74>
Mandalay	Kipling	82
Man With the Hoe, The	Markham	115
Maud Muller	Whittier	205
Miller of the Dee, The	Mackay	39
Moo Cow Moo, The	Cooke	40
Mother's Fool		31
Mothers of Men	Joaquin Miller	43
Mount Vernon's Bells	Slade	95
Mr. Finney's Turnip		96
My Love Ship	Wilcox	114
My Mother		138

Nathan Hale	Finch	78
Never Trouble Trouble	Windsor	33
Nobility	A. Cary	169
"Not Understood"		136
November	A. Cary	173

O Captain! My Captain	Whitman	7
October's Bright Blue Weather	Jackson	144
Old Clock on the Stairs, The	Longfellow	17
Old Ironsides	Holmes	61
Old Red Cradle, The	Grannies	39
O Little Town of Bethlehem	Brooks	168
On His Blindness	Milton	172
On the Shores of Tennessee	Beers	93
Opportunity	Ingalls	175
Opportunity	Malone	175
Order for a Picture, An	A. Cary	41
Our Folks	Beers	107
Out in the Fields	E.B. Browning	73
Over the Hill to the Poorhouse	Carleton	131
Overworked Elocutionist, The		9
Owl and the Pussy-Cat, The	Lear	170
Owl Critic, The	Fields	64

Paul Revere's Ride	Longfellow	193
Penny Ye Mean to Gie, The		34
Perfect Day, A	Bond	80
Pippa's Song	R. Browning	185
Plain Bob and a Job	Foley	44
Planting of the Apple-Tree	Bryant	164
Poet's Prophecy, A	Tennyson	7
Polonius' Advice to Laertes	Shakespeare	177
Poorhouse Nan	Blinn	116
Psalm of Life, A	Longfellow	61

Quality of Mercy, The	Shakespeare	181

Raggedy Man, The	Riley	203
Recessional, The	Kipling	86
Ride of Jennie M'Neal, The	Carleton	111
Riding on the Rail	Saxe	62
Rivers of France, The		46
Robert of Lincoln	Bryant	189
Robert Reese (The Overworked Elocutionist)		9
Rock Me to Sleep	Allen	102

Say Not the Struggle Nought Availeth	Clough	39
Second Table	Waterman	52
Seein' Things	Field	203
Seven Times One	Ingelow	46
Seven Times Two	Ingelow	47
Seven Times Three	Ingelow	47
Seven Times Four	Ingelow	48
Sheridan's Ride	Read	167
She Walks in Beauty	Byron	180
Sister and I		207
Sister's Best Feller	Lincoln	84
Sleep, Baby, Sleep	Elizabeth Prentiss	69
Smack in School, The	Palmer	128
Somebody's Mother	Brine	136
Song of Our Flag, A	Nesbit	89
Song of the Camp, The	B. Taylor	180
Song of the Sea	Cornwall	23
Song of the Shirt	Hood	157
Song: The Owl	Tennyson	174
So Was I	Smiley	36
Suppose	P. Cary	178
Sweet and Low	Tennyson	175

Tapestry Weavers, The	Chester	85
Teacher's Dream, The	Venable	140
Telling the Bees	Whittier	135
Thanatopsis	Bryant	196
Thanksgiving-Day	Child	178
There's But One Pair of Stockings		27
To a Butterfly	Wordsworth	179
To a Skylark	Shelley	160
To a Waterfowl	Bryant	137
To-day	Carlyle	191
To-day	Waterman	35
To the Fringed Gentian	Bryant	179
Tree, The	Bjornson	186
Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star	J. Taylor	185
Two Glasses, The	Wilcox	15

Village Blacksmith, The	Longfellow	97
Visit from St. Nicholas, A	Moore	54

Walrus and the Carpenter, The	Carroll	138
We Are Seven	Wordsworth	19
What I Live For	Banks	114
What is Good	O'Reilly	34
When the Cows Come Home	Mitchell	90
When the Minister Comes to Tea	Lincoln	89
When the Teacher Gets Cross		86
Where the West Begins	Chapman	85
Whistling in Heaven		67
White-Footed Deer, The	Bryant	94
Who Won the War?	Pulsifer	43
Why Should the Spirit of Mortal Be Proud!	Knox	118
Wild White Rose, The	Willis	66
Wind and the Moon, The	Macdonald	191
Wind, The	Rossetti	170
Wishing	Allingham	190
Woman's Question, A	Lathrop	129
Wonderful World, The	Rands	174
Woodman, Spare That Tree	Morris	70

You and You	Wharton	97
Young Man Waited, The	Cooke	28
Your Mission	Gates	55

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 or 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.

For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see,

Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be;

Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails,

Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales;

Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rained a ghastly dew

From the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue;

Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing warm,

With the standards of the peoples plunging through the thunderstorm;

Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the battleflags were furl'd

In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world.

There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe,

And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law.

Tennyson, "Locksley Hall," 1842.

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's gloom

With their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storms 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

Amidst 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.

"Marie, will you marry me?

For you know how I love thee!

Tell me, darling, will you be

The wife of Bobby Shaftoe?"

"Bobby, pray don't ask me more,

For you've asked me twice before;

Let us be good friends, no more,

No more, Bobby Shaftoe."

"If you will not marry me,

I will go away to sea;

And you ne'er again shall be

A friend of Bobby Shaftoe."

"Oh, you will not go away

For you've said so twice to-day.

Stop! He's gone! Dear Bobby, stay!

Dearest Bobby Shaftoe!

"Bobby Shaftoe's gone to sea,

Silver buckles on his knee,

But he'll come back and marry me,

Pretty Bobby Shaftoe.

"He will soon come back to me,

And how happy I shall be,

He'll come back and marry me,

Dearest Bobby Shaftoe."

"Bobby Shaftoe's lost at sea,

He cannot come back to thee.

And you ne'er again will see

Your dear Bobby Shaftoe.

"Oh, we sadly mourn for thee,

And regret we ne'er shall see

Our friend Bobby, true and free,

Dearest Bobby Shaftoe."

"Bobby Shaftoe's lost at sea.

And can ne'er come back to me,

But I'll ever faithful be,

True to Bobby Shaftoe."

"Darling, I've come home from sea,

I've come back to marry thee,

For I know you're true to me,

True to Bobby Shaftoe."

"Yes, I always cared for thee,

And now you've come back to me,

And we will always happy be,

Dearest Bobby Shaftoe."

"Bobby Shaftoe's come from sea,

And we will united be,

Heart and hand in unity,

Mr. and Mrs. Shaftoe."

Once there was a little boy

Whose name was Robert Reese,

And every Friday afternoon

He had to speak a piece.

So many poems thus he learned

That soon he had a store

Of recitations in his head

And still kept learning more.

Now this it is what happened:

He was called upon one week

And totally forgot the piece

He was about to speak.

His brain he vainly cudgeled

But no word was in his head,

And so he spoke at random,

And this is what he said;

My beautiful, my beautiful,

Who standest proudly by,

It was the schooner Hesperus

The breaking waves dashed high.

Why is the Forum crowded?

What means this stir in Rome?

Under a spreading chestnut tree

There is no place like home.

When Freedom from her mountain height

Cried, "Twinkle, little star,"

Shoot if you must this old gray head,

King Henry of Navarre.

If you're waking, call me early

To be or not to be,

Curfew must not ring to-night,

Oh, woodman, spare that tree.

Charge, Chester, Charge! On, Stanley, on!

And let who will be clever,

The boy stood on the burning deck

But I go on for ever.

The Kid has gone to the Colors

And we don't know what to say;

The Kid we have loved and cuddled

Stepped out for the Flag to-day.

We thought him a child, a baby

With never a care at all,

But his country called him man-size

And the Kid has heard the call.

He paused to watch the recruiting,

Where, fired by the fife and drum,

He bowed his head to Old Glory

And thought that it whispered: "Come!"

The Kid, not being a slacker,

Stood forth with patriot-joy

To add his name to the roster—

And God, we're proud of the boy!

The Kid has gone to the Colors;

It seems but a little while

Since he drilled a schoolboy army

In a truly martial style,

But now he's a man, a soldier,

And we lend him a listening ear,

For his heart is a heart all loyal,

Unscourged by the curse of fear.

His dad, when he told him, shuddered,

His mother—God bless her!—cried;

Yet, blest with a mother-nature,

She wept with a mother-pride,

But he whose old shoulders straightened

Was Granddad—for memory ran

To years when he, too, a youngster,

Was changed by the Flag to a man!

W.M. Herschell.

Summer of 'sixty-three, sir, and Conrad was gone away—

Gone to the county-town, sir, to sell our first load of hay—

We lived in the log house yonder, poor as ever you've seen;

Roschen there was a baby, and I was only nineteen.

Conrad, he took the oxen, but he left Kentucky Belle.

How much we thought of Kentuck, I couldn't begin to tell—

Came from the Blue-Grass country; my father gave her to me

When I rode north with Conrad, away from the Tennessee.

Conrad lived in Ohio—a German he is, you know—

The house stood in broad cornfields, stretching on, row after row.

The old folks made me welcome; they were kind as kind could be;

But I kept longing, longing, for the hills of the Tennessee.

Oh, for a sight of water, the shadowed slope of a hill!

Clouds that hang on the summit, a wind that never is still!

But the level land went stretching away to meet the sky—

Never a rise, from north to south, to rest the weary eye!

From east to west, no river to shine out under the moon,

Nothing to make a shadow in the yellow afternoon:

Only the breathless sunshine, as I looked out, all forlorn;

Only the rustle, rustle, as I walked among the corn.

When I fell sick with pining, we didn't wait any more,

But moved away from the cornlands, out to this river shore—

The Tuscarawas it's called, sir—off there's a hill, you see—

And now I've grown to like it next best to the Tennessee.

I was at work that morning. Some one came riding like mad

Over the bridge and up the road—Farmer Rouf's little lad.

Bareback he rode; he had no hat; he hardly stopped to say,

"Morgan's men are coming, Frau; they're galloping on this way.

"I'm sent to warn the neighbors. He isn't a mile behind;

He sweeps up all the horses—every horse that he can find.

Morgan, Morgan the raider, and Morgan's terrible men,

With bowie knives and pistols, are galloping up the glen!"

The lad rode down the valley, and I stood still at the door;

The baby laughed and prattled, playing with spools on the floor;

Kentuck was out in the pasture; Conrad, my man, was gone.

Nearer, nearer, Morgan's men were galloping, galloping on!

Sudden I picked up baby, and ran to the pasture bar.

"Kentuck!" I called—"Kentucky!" She knew me ever so far!

I led her down the gully that turns off there to the right,

And tied her to the bushes; her head was just out of sight.

As I ran back to the log house, at once there came a sound—

The ring of hoofs, galloping hoofs, trembling over the ground—

Coming into the turnpike out from the White Woman Glen—

Morgan, Morgan the raider, and Morgan's terrible men.

As near they drew and nearer, my heart beat fast in alarm;

But still I stood in the doorway with baby on my arm.

They came, they passed; with spur and whip in haste they sped along—

Morgan, Morgan the raider, and his band, six hundred strong.

Weary they looked and jaded, riding through night and through day;

Pushing on east to the river, many long miles away,

To the border strip where Virginia runs up into the West,

And fording the Upper Ohio before they could stop to rest.

On like the wind they hurried, and Morgan rode in advance;

Bright were his eyes like live coals, as he gave me a sideways glance.

And I was just breathing freely, after my choking pain,

When the last one of the troopers suddenly drew his rein.

Frightened I was to death, sir; I scarce dared look in his face,

As he asked for a drink of water, and glanced around the place.

I gave him a cup, and he smiled—'twas only a boy, you see;

Faint and worn, with dim blue eyes; and he'd sailed on the Tennessee.

Only sixteen he was, sir—a fond mother's only son—

Off and away with Morgan before his life had begun!

The damp drops stood on his temples; drawn was the boyish mouth;

And I thought me of the mother waiting down in the South.

Oh! pluck was he to the backbone, and clear grit through and through;

Boasted and bragged like a trooper; but the big words wouldn't do;—

The boy was dying, sir, dying as plain as plain could be,

Worn out by his ride with Morgan up from the Tennessee.

But when I told the laddie that I too was from the South,

Water came in his dim eyes, and quivers around his mouth.

"Do you know the Blue-Grass country?" he wistful began to say;

Then swayed like a willow sapling, and fainted dead away.

I had him into the log house, and worked and brought him to;

I fed him, and I coaxed him, as I thought his mother'd do;

And when the lad got better, and the noise in his head was gone,

Morgan's men—were miles; away, galloping, galloping on.

"Oh, I must go," he muttered; "I must be up and away!

Morgan—Morgan is waiting for me; Oh, what will Morgan say?"

But I heard a sound of tramping and kept him back from the door—

The ringing sound of horses' hoofs that I had heard before.

And on, on, came the soldiers—the Michigan cavalry—

And fast they rode, and black they looked, galloping rapidly,—

They had followed hard on Morgan's track; they had followed day and night;

But of Morgan and Morgan's raiders they had never caught a sight.

And rich Ohio sat startled through all those summer days;

For strange, wild men were galloping over her broad highways—

Now here, now there, now seen, now gone, now north, now east, now west,

Through river-valleys and cornland farms, sweeping away her best.

A bold ride and a long ride; but they were taken at last.

They almost reached the river by galloping hard and fast;

But the boys in blue were upon them ere ever they gained the ford,

And Morgan, Morgan the raider, laid down his terrible sword.

Well, I kept the boy till evening—kept him against his will—

But he was too weak to follow, and sat there pale and still.

When it was cool and dusky—you'll wonder to hear me tell—

But I stole down to that gully, and brought up Kentucky Belle.

I kissed the star on her forehead—my pretty gentle lass—

But I knew that she'd be happy back in the old Blue-Grass.

A suit of clothes of Conrad's, with all the money I had,

And Kentuck, pretty Kentuck, I gave to the worn-out lad.

I guided him to the southward as well as I know how;

The boy rode off with many thanks, and many a backward bow;

And then the glow it faded, and my heart began to swell,

As down the glen away she went, my lost Kentucky Belle!

When Conrad came in the evening, the moon was shining high;

Baby and I were both crying—I couldn't tell him why—

But a battered suit of rebel gray was hanging on the wall,

And a thin old horse, with drooping head, stood in Kentucky's stall.

Well, he was kind, and never once said a hard word to me;

He knew I couldn't help it—'twas all for the Tennessee,

But, after the war was over, just think what came to pass—

A letter, sir; and the two were safe back in the old Blue-Grass.

The lad had got across the border, riding Kentucky Belle;

And Kentuck, she was thriving, and fat, and hearty, and well;

He cared for her, and kept her, nor touched her with whip or spur.

Ah! we've had many horses since, but never a horse like her!

Constance F. Woolson.

I remember it all so very well, the first of my married life,

That I can't believe it was years ago—it doesn't seem true at all;

Why, I just can see the little church where they made us man and wife,

And the merry glow of the first wood-fire that danced on our cottage wall.

We were happy? Yes; and we prospered, too; the house belonged to Joe,

And then, he worked in the planing mill, and drew the best of pay;

And our cup was full when Joey came,—our baby-boy, you know;

So, all went well till that mill burned down and the owner moved away.

It wasn't long till Joe found work, but 'twas never quite the same,—

Never steady, with smaller pay; so to make the two ends meet

He fell to inventin' some machine—I don't recall the name,

But he'd sit for hours in his little shop that opens toward the street,—

Sit for hours, bent over his work, his tools all strewn about.

I used to want to go in there to dust and sweep the floor,

But 'twas just as if 'twas the parson there, writing his sermon out;

Even the baby—bless the child!—learned never to slam that door!

People called him a clever man, and folks from the city came

To look at his new invention and wish my Joe success;

And Joe would say, "Little woman,"—for that was my old pet-name,—

"If my plan succeeds, you shall have a coach and pair, and a fine silk dress!"

I didn't want 'em, the grand new things, but it made the big tears start

To see my Joe with his restless eyes, his fingers worn away

To the skin and bone, for he wouldn't eat; and it almost broke my heart

When he tossed at night from side to side, till the dawning of the day.

Of course, with it all he lost his place. I couldn't blame the man,

The foreman there at the factory, for losing faith in Joe,

For his mind was never upon his work, but on some invention-plan,

As with folded arms and his head bent down he wandered to and fro.

Yet, he kept on workin' at various things, till our little money went

For wheels and screws and metal casts and things I had never seen;

And I ceased to ask, "Any pay, my dear?" with the answer, "Not a cent!"

When his lock and his patent-saw had failed, he clung to that great machine.

I remember one special thing that year. He had bought some costly tool,

When we wanted our boy to learn to read—he was five years old, you know;

He went to his class with cold, bare feet, till at last he came from school

And gravely said, "Don't send me back; the children tease me so!"

I hadn't the heart to cross the child, so, while I sat and sewed

He would rock his little sister in the cradle at my side;

And when the struggle was hardest and I felt keen hunger's goad

Driving me almost to despair—the little baby died.

Her father came to the cradle-side, as she lay, so small and white;

"Maggie," he said, "I have killed this child, and now I am killing you!

I swear by heaven, I will give it up!" Yet, like a thief, that night

He stole to the shop and worked; his brow all wet with a clammy dew.

I cannot tell how I lived that week, my little boy and I,

Too proud to beg; too weak to work; and the weather cold and wild.

I can only think of one dark night when the rain poured from the sky,

And the wind went wailing round the house, like the ghost of my buried child.

Joe still toiled in the little shop. Somebody clicked the gate;

A neighbor-lad brought in the mail and laid it on the floor,

But I sat half-stunned by my heavy grief crouched over the empty grate,

Till I heard—the crack of a pistol-shot; and I sprang to the workshop door.

That door was locked and the bolt shut fast. I could not cry, nor speak,

But I snatched my boy from the corner there, sick with a sudden dread,

And carried him out through the garden plot, forgetting my arms were weak,

Forgetting the rainy torrent that beat on my bare young head;

The front door yielded to my touch. I staggered faintly in,

Fearing—what? He stood unharmed, though the wall showed a jagged hole.

In his trembling hand, his aim had failed, and the great and deadly sin

Of his own life's blood was not yet laid on the poor man's tortured soul.

But the pistol held another charge, I knew; and like something mad

I shook my fist in my poor man's face, and shrieked at him, fierce and wild,

"How can you dare to rob us so?"—and I seized the little lad;

"How can you dare to rob your wife and your little helpless child?"

All of a sudden, he bowed his head, while from his nerveless hand

That hung so limp, I almost feared to see the pistol fall.

"Maggie," he said in a low, low voice, "you see me as I stand

A hopeless man. My plan has failed. That letter tells you all."

Then for a moment the house was still as ever the house of death;

Only the drip of the rain outside, for the storm was almost o'er;

But no;—there followed another sound, and I started, caught my breath;

As a stalwart man with a heavy step came in at the open door.

I shall always think him an angel sent from heaven in a human guise;

He must have guessed our awful state; he couldn't help but see

There was something wrong; but never a word, never a look in his eyes

Told what he thought, as in kindly way he talked to Joe and me.

He was come from a thriving city firm, and they'd sent him here to say

That one of Joe's inventions was a great, successful thing;

And which do you think? His window-catch that he'd tinkered up one day;

And we were to have a good per cent on the sum that each would bring.

And then the pleasant stranger went, and we wakened as from a dream.

My man bent down his head and said, "Little woman, you've saved my life!"

The worn look gone from his dear gray eyes, and in its place, a gleam

From the sun that has shone so brightly since, on Joe and his happy wife!

Jeannie Pendleton Ewing.

There sat two glasses filled to the brim

On a rich man's table, rim to rim,

One was ruddy and red as blood,

And one was clear as the crystal flood.

Said the Glass of Wine to his paler brother:

"Let us tell tales of the past to each other;

I can tell of banquet and revel and mirth,

Where I was king, for I ruled in might;

For the proudest and grandest souls of earth

Fell under my touch, as though struck with blight.

From the heads of kings I have torn the crown;

From the heights of fame I have hurled men down.

I have blasted many an honored name;

I have taken virtue and given shame;

I have tempted youth with a sip, a taste,

That has made his future a barren waste.

Far greater than any king am I,

Or than any army beneath the sky.

I have made the arm of the driver fail,

And sent the train from the iron rail.

I have made good ships go down at sea.

And the shrieks of the lost were sweet to me.

Fame, strength, wealth, genius before me fall;

And my might and power are over all!

Ho, ho, pale brother," said the Wine,

"Can you boast of deeds as great as mine?"

Said the Water Glass: "I cannot boast

Of a king dethroned, or a murdered host;

But I can tell of hearts that were sad,

By my crystal drops made bright and glad;

Of thirsts I have quenched and brows I have laved,

Of hands I have cooled, and souls I have saved.

I have leaped through the valley, dashed down the mountain,

Slipped from the sunshine, and dripped from the fountain,

I have burst my cloud-fetters, and dropped from the sky,

And everywhere gladdened the prospect and eye;

I have eased the hot forehead of fever and pain,

I have made the parched meadows grow fertile with grain.

I can tell of the powerful wheel of the mill,

That ground out the flour, and turned at my will.

I can tell of manhood debased by you

That I have uplifted and crowned anew;

I cheer, I help, I strengthen and aid,

I gladden the heart of man and maid;

I set the wine-chained captive free,

And all are better for knowing me."

These are the tales they told each other,

The Glass of Wine, and its paler brother,

As they sat together, filled to the brim,

On a rich man's table, rim to rim.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

You lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier!

You, who with mocking pencil wont to trace,

Broad for the self-complacent British sneer,

His length of shambling limb, his furrowed face,

His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling hair,

His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease,

His lack of all we prize as debonair,

Of power or will to shine, of art to please!

You, whose smart pen backed up the pencil's laugh,

Judging each step, as though the way were plain;

Reckless, so it could point its paragraph,

Of chief's perplexity, or people's pain!

Beside this corpse, that bears for winding-sheet

The Stars and Stripes he lived to rear anew,

Between the mourners at his head and feet—

Say, scurril jester, is there room for you?

Yes, he had lived to shame me from my sneer—

To lame my pencil and confute my pen—

To make me own this hind, of princes peer,

This rail-splitter, a true-born king of men.

My shallow judgment I had learned to rue,

Noting how to occasion's height he rose;

How his quaint wit made home-truth seem more true,

How, iron-like, his temper grew by blows;

How humble, yet how hopeful he could be;

How in good fortune and in ill the same;

Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he,

Thirsty for gold, nor feverish for fame.

He went about his work—such work as few

Ever had laid on head, and heart, and hand—

As one who knows where there's a task to do,

Man's honest will must Heaven's good grace command;

Who trusts the strength will with the burden grow,

That God makes instruments to work His will,

If but that will we can arrive to know,

Nor tamper with the weights of good and ill.

So he went forth to battle, on the side

That he felt clear was Liberty's and Right's,

As in his peasant boyhood he had plied

His warfare with rude nature's thwarting mights;—

The uncleared forest, the unbroken soil,

The iron bark that turns the lumberer's axe,

The rapid, that o'erbears the boatman's toil,

The prairie, hiding the mazed wanderer's tracks,

The ambushed Indian and the prowling bear—

Such were the needs that helped his youth to train:

Rough culture—but such trees large fruit may bear,

If but their stocks be of right girth and grain.

So he grew up, a destined work to do,

And lived to do it: four long, suffering years

Ill-fate, ill-feeling, ill-report, lived through,

And then he heard the hisses change to cheers,

The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise,

And took both with the same unwavering mood;

Till, as he came on light, from darkling days,

And seemed to touch the goal from where he stood,

A felon hand, between the goal and him,

Beached from behind his back, a trigger prest—

And those perplexed and patient eyes were dim,

Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to rest!

The words of mercy were upon his lips,

Forgiveness in his heart and on his pen,

When this vile murderer brought swift eclipse

To thoughts of peace on earth, goodwill to men.

The Old World and the New, from sea to sea,

Utter one voice of sympathy and shame!

Sore heart, so stopped when it at last beat high;

Sad life, cut short as its triumph came!

Somewhat back from the village street

Stands the old-fashioned country-seat;

Across its antique portico

Tall poplar trees their shadows throw;

And, from its station in the hall,

An ancient timepiece says to all,

"Forever—never!

Never—forever!"

Half-way up the stairs it stands,

And points and beckons with its hands,

From its case of massive oak,

Like a monk who, under his cloak,

Crosses himself, and sighs, alas!

With sorrowful voice to all who pass,

"Forever—never!

Never—forever!"

By day its voice is low and light;

But in the silent dead of night,

Distinct as a passing footstep's fall,

It echoes along the vacant hall,

Along the ceiling, along the floor,

And seems to say at each chamber door,

"Forever—never!

Never—forever!"

Through days of sorrow and of mirth,

Through days of death and days of birth,

Through every swift vicissitude

Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood,

And as if, like God, it all things saw,

It calmly repeats those words of awe,

"Forever—never!

Never—forever!"

In that mansion used to be

Free-hearted Hospitality;

His great fires up the chimney roared;

The stranger feasted at his board;

But, like the skeleton at the feast,

That warning timepiece never ceased,—

"Forever—never!

Never—forever!"

There groups of merry children played;

There youths and maidens dreaming strayed;

Oh, precious hours! oh, golden prime

And affluence of love and time!

Even as a miser counts his gold,

Those hours the ancient timepiece told,—

"Forever—never!

Never—forever!"

From that chamber, clothed in white,

The bride came forth on her wedding night;

There, in that silent room below,

The dead lay, in his shroud of snow;

And, in the hush that followed the prayer,

Was heard the old clock on the stair,—

"Forever—never!

Never—forever!"

All are scattered, now, and fled,—

Some are married, some are dead;

And when I ask, with throbs of pain,

"Ah! when shall they all meet again?"

As in the days long since gone by,

The ancient timepiece makes reply,—

"Forever—never!

Never-forever!"

Never here, forever there,

Where all parting, pain, and care,

And death, and time, shall disappear,—

Forever there, but never here!

The horologe of Eternity

Sayeth this incessantly,—

"Forever—never!

Never—forever!"

H.W. Longfellow.

We had forgotten You, or very nearly—

You did not seem to touch us very nearly—

Of course we thought about You now and then;

Especially in any time of trouble—

We knew that you were good in time of trouble—

But we were very ordinary men.

And there were always other things to think of—

There's lots of things a man has got to think of—

His work, his home, his pleasure, and his wife;

And so we only thought of You on Sunday—

Sometimes, perhaps, not even on a Sunday—

Because there's always lots to fill one's life.

And, all the while, in street or lane or byway—

In country lane, in city street, or byway—

You walked among us, and we did not see.

Your feet were bleeding as You walked our pavements—

How did we miss Your footprints on our pavements?—

Can there be other folk as blind as we?

Now we remember; over here in Flanders—

(It isn't strange to think of You in Flanders)—

This hideous warfare seems to make things clear.

We never thought about You much in England—

But now that we are far away from England—

We have no doubts, we know that You are here.

You helped us pass the jest along the trenches—

Where, in cold blood, we waited in the trenches—

You touched its ribaldry and made it fine.

You stood beside us in our pain and weakness—

We're glad to think You understand our weakness—

Somehow it seems to help us not to whine.

We think about You kneeling in the Garden—

Ah, God, the agony of that dread Garden—

We know You prayed for us upon the cross.

If anything could make us glad to bear it—

'Twould be the knowledge that You willed to bear it—

Pain—death—the uttermost of human loss.

Though we forgot You—You will not forget us—

We feel so sure that You will not forget us—

But stay with us until this dream is past.

And so we ask for courage, strength, and pardon—

Especially, I think, we ask for pardon—

And that You'll stand beside us to the last.

L.W. in London "Spectator."

—A simple Child,

That lightly draws its breath,

And feels its life in every limb,

What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage Girl:

She was eight years old, she said;

Her hair was thick with many a curl

That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,

And she was wildly clad:

Her eyes were fair, and very fair;

—Her beauty made me glad.

"Sisters and brothers, little Maid,

How many may you be?"

"How many? Seven in all," she said,

And wondering looked at me.

"And where are they? I pray you tell."

She answered, "Seven are we;

And two of us at Conway dwell,

And two are gone to sea.

"Two of us in the church-yard lie,

My sister and my brother;

And, in the church-yard cottage, I

Dwell near them with my mother."

"You say that two at Conway dwell,

And two are gone to sea,

Yet ye are seven!—I pray you tell,

Sweet Maid, how this may be."

Then did the little Maid reply,

"Seven boys and girls are we;

Two of us in the church-yard lie,

Beneath the church-yard tree."

"You run about, my little Maid,

Your limbs they are alive;

If two are in the church-yard laid,

Then ye are only five."

"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"

The little Maid replied,

"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,

And they are side by side.

"My stockings there I often knit,

My kerchief there I hem;

And there upon the ground I sit,

And sing a song to them.

"And often after sunset, Sir,

When it is light and fair,

I take my little porringer,

And eat my supper there.

"The first that died was sister Jane;

In bed she moaning lay,

Till God released her of her pain;

And then she went away.

"So in the church-yard she was laid;

And, when the grass was dry,

Together round her grave we played,

My brother John and I.

"And when the ground was white with snow,

And I could run and slide,

My brother John was forced to go,

And he lies by her side."

"How many are you, then," said I,

"If they two are in heaven?"

Quick was the little Maid's reply,

"O Master! we are seven."

"But they are dead; those two are dead!

Their spirits are in heaven!"

'T was throwing words away; for still

The little Maid would have her will,

And said, "Nay, we are seven!"

William Wordsworth.

"I asked of Echo, t'other day

(Whose words are often few and funny),

What to a novice she could say

Of courtship, love and matrimony.

Quoth Echo plainly,—'Matter-o'-money!'

"Whom should I marry? Should it be

A dashing damsel, gay and pert,

A pattern of inconstancy;

Or selfish, mercenary flirt?

Quoth Echo, sharply,—'Nary flirt!'

"What if, aweary of the strife

That long has lured the dear deceiver,

She promise to amend her life,

And sin no more; can I believe her?

Quoth Echo, very promptly,—'Leave her!'

"But if some maiden with a heart

On me should venture to bestow it,

Pray should I act the wiser part

To take the treasure or forego it?

Quoth Echo, with decision,—'Go it!'

"But what if, seemingly afraid

To bind her fate in Hymen's fetter,

She vow she means to die a maid,

In answer to my loving letter?

Quoth Echo, rather coolly,-'Let her!'

"What if, in spite of her disdain,

I find my heart entwined about

With Cupid's dear, delicious chain

So closely that I can't get out?

Quoth Echo, laughingly,—'Get out!'

"But if some maid with beauty blest,

As pure and fair as Heaven can make her,

Will share my labor and my rest

Till envious Death shall overtake her?

Quoth Echo (sotto voce),—'Take her!'"

John G. Saxe.

It's noon when Thirty-five is due,

An' she comes on time like a flash of light,

An' you hear her whistle "Too-tee-too!"

Long 'fore the pilot swings in sight.

Bill Madden's drivin' her in to-day,

An' he's calling his sweetheart far away—

Gertrude Hurd lives down by the mill;

You might see her blushin'; she knows it's Bill.

"Tudie, tudie! Toot-ee! Tudie, tudie! Tu!"

Six-five, A.M. there's a local comes,

Makes up at Bristol, runnin' east;

An' the way her whistle sings and hums

Is a livin' caution to man and beast.

Every one knows who Jack White calls,—

Little Lou Woodbury, down by the falls;

Summer or Winter, always the same,

She hears her lover callin' her name—

"Lou-ie! Lou-ie! Lou-iee!"

But at one fifty-one, old Sixty-four—

Boston express, runs east, clear through—

Drowns her rattle and rumble and roar

With the softest whistle that ever blew.

An' away on the furthest edge of town

Sweet Sue Winthrop's eyes of brown

Shine like the starlight, bright and clear,

When she hears the whistle of Abel Gear,

"You-oo! Su-u-u-u-u-e!"

Along at midnight a freight comes in,

Leaves Berlin sometime—I don't know when;

But it rumbles along with a fearful din

Till it reaches the Y-switch there and then

The clearest notes of the softest bell

That out of a brazen goblet fell

Wake Nellie Minton out of her dreams;

To her like a wedding-bell it seems—

"Nell, Nell, Nell! Nell, Nell, Nell!"

Tom Willson rides on the right-hand side,

Givin' her steam at every stride;

An' he touches the whistle, low an' clear,

For Lulu Gray on the hill, to hear—

"Lu-Lu! Loo-Loo! Loo-oo!"

So it goes all day an' all night

Till the old folks have voted the thing a bore;

Old maids and bachelors say it ain't right

For folks to do courtin' with such a roar.

But the engineers their kisses will blow

From a whistle valve to the girls they know,

An' stokers the name of their sweethearts tell;

With the "Too-too-too" and the swinging bell.

R.J. Burdette.

She stood at the bar of justice,

A creature wan and wild,

In form too small for a woman,

In features too old for a child;

For a look so worn and pathetic

Was stamped on her pale young face,

It seemed long years of suffering

Must have left that silent trace.

"Your name?" said the judge, as he eyed her

With kindly look yet keen,—

"Is Mary McGuire, if you please, sir."

And your age?"—"I am turned fifteen."

"Well, Mary," and then from a paper

He slowly and gravely read,

"You are charged here—I'm sorry to say it—

With stealing three loaves of bread.

"You look not like an offender,

And I hope that you can show

The charge to be false. Now, tell me,

Are you guilty of this, or no?"

A passionate burst of weeping

Was at first her sole reply.

But she dried her eyes in a moment,

And looked in the judge's eye.

"I will tell you just how it was, sir:

My father and mother are dead,

And my little brothers and sisters

Were hungry and asked me for bread.

At first I earned it for them

By working hard all day,

But somehow, times were bad, sir,

And the work all fell away.

"I could get no more employment.

The weather was bitter cold,

The young ones cried and shivered—

(Little Johnny's but four years old)—

So what was I to do, sir?

I am guilty, but do not condemn.

I took—oh, was it stealing?—

The bread to give to them."

Every man in the court-room—

Gray-beard and thoughtless youth—

Knew, as he looked upon her,

That the prisoner spake the truth;

Out from their pockets came kerchiefs,

Out from their eyes sprung tears,

And out from their old faded wallets

Treasures hoarded for years.

The judge's face was a study,

The strangest you ever saw,

As he cleared his throat and murmured

Something about the law;

For one so learned in such matters,

So wise in dealing with men,

He seemed, on a simple question,

Sorely puzzled, just then.

But no one blamed him or wondered,

When at last these words he heard,

"The sentence of this young prisoner

Is, for the present, deferred."

And no one blamed him or wondered

When he went to her and smiled

And tenderly led from the court-room,

Himself, the "guilty" child.

Where did you come from, baby dear?

Out of the everywhere into the here.

Where did you get your eyes so blue?

Out of the sky as I came through.

What makes the light in them sparkle and spin?

Some of the starry spikes left in.

Where did you get that little tear?

I found it waiting when I got here.

What makes your forehead so smooth and high?

A soft hand stroked it as I went by.

What makes your cheek like a warm white rose?

Something better than anyone knows.

Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss?

Three angels gave me at once a kiss.

Where did you get that pearly ear?

God spoke, and it came out to hear.

Where did you get those arms and hands?

Love made itself into hooks and bands.

Feet, whence did you come, you darling things?

From the same box as the cherubs' wings.

How did they all just come to be you?

God thought about me, and so I grew.

But how did you come to us, you dear?

God thought of you, and so I am here.

George Macdonald.

The sea! the sea! the open sea!

The blue, the fresh, the ever free!

Without a mark, without a bound,

It runneth the earth's wide regions round;

It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies,

Or like a cradled creature lies.

I'm on the sea! I'm on the sea!

I am where I would ever be;

With the blue above and the blue below,

And silence wheresoe'er I go.

If a storm should come and awake the deep

What matter? I shall ride and sleep.

I love, oh, how I love to ride

On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide,

When every mad wave drowns the moon,

Or whistles aloud his tempest tune,

And tells how goeth the world below,

And why the southwest blasts do blow.

I never was on the dull, tame shore,

But I loved the great sea more and more,

And back I flew to her billowy breast,

Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest;

And a mother she was, and is, to me,

For I was born on the open sea!

I've lived, since then, in calm and strife,

Full fifty summers a sailor's life,

With wealth to spend and a power to range,

But never have sought nor sighed for change;

And Death, whenever he comes to me,

Shall come on the wild, unbounded sea.

Barry Cornwall.

"I'm after axin', Biddy dear—"

And here he paused a while

To fringe his words the merest mite

With something of a smile—

A smile that found its image

In a face of beauteous mold,

Whose liquid eyes were peeping

From a broidery of gold.

"I've come to ax ye, Biddy dear,

If—" then he stopped again,

As if his heart had bubbled o'er

POEMS TEACHERS ASK FOR

Selected by READERS OF "NORMAL INSTRUCTOR-PRIMARY PLANS"

COMPRISING THE POEMS MOST FREQUENTLY REQUESTED FOR PUBLICATION IN THAT MAGAZINE ON THE PAGE "POEMS OUR READERS HAVE ASKED FOR"

INDEX

PREFACE

POEMS TEACHERS ASK FOR

O Captain! My Captain!

(This poem was written in memory of Abraham Lincoln.)

A Poet's Prophecy

The Landing of the Pilgrims

Bobby Shaftoe

The Overworked Elocutionist

(Or "ROBERT REESE")

The Kid Has Gone to the Colors

Kentucky Belle

An Inventor's Wife

The Two Glasses

Abraham Lincoln

(Written after Lincoln's death by Tom Taylor, famous cartoonist of the London "Punch.")

The Old Clock on the Stairs

Christ in Flanders

We Are Seven

Echo

Engineers Making Love

Guilty or Not Guilty

The Baby

Song of the Sea

Diffidence