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Title: Poems Teachers Ask For, Book Two
Author: Various
Release Date: October 4, 2006 [eBook #19469]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS TEACHERS ASK FOR, BOOK TWO***
In homely phrase, this is a sort of "second helping" of a dish that has pleased the taste of thousands. Our first collection of Poems Teachers Ask For was the response to a demand for such a book, and this present volume is the response to a demand for "more." In Book One it was impracticable to use all of the many poems entitled to inclusion on the basis of their being desired. We are constantly in receipt of requests that certain selections be printed in NORMAL INSTRUCTOR-PRIMARY PLANS on the page "Poems Our Readers Have Asked For." More than two hundred of these were chosen for Book One, and more than two hundred others, as much desired as those in the earlier volume, are included in Book Two.
Because of copyright restrictions, we often have been unable to present, in magazine form, verse of large popular appeal. By special arrangement, a number of such poems were included in Book One of Poems Teachers Ask For, and many more are given in the pages that follow. Acknowledgment is made below to publishers and authors for courteous permission to reprint in this volume material which they control:
THE CENTURY COMPANY—The Minuet, from "Poems and Verses," by Mary Mapes Dodge.
W.B. CONKEY COMPANY—Solitude, from "Poems of Passion," and How Salvator Won, from "Kingdom of Love," both by Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, INC.—Encouragement, by Paul Laurence Dunbar, copyright by Dodd, Mead & Company; Work, by Angela Morgan, from "The Hour Has Struck," copyright 1914 by Angela Morgan.
DODGE PUBLISHING COMPANY—How Did You Die? from "Impertinent Poems," and The Sin of the Coppenter Man, from "I Rule the House," both by Edmund Vance Cooke.
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY—The House with Nobody in It, from "Trees and Other Poems," by Joyce Kilmer, copyright 1914 by George H. Doran Company, publishers.
HAMLIN GARLAND—My Prairies and Color in the Wheat.
ISABEL AMBLER GILMAN—The Sunset City.
HARPER & BROTHERS—Over the Hill from the Poor-House and The School-Master's Guests, from "Farm Legends," by Will Carleton.
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY—The Sandman, by Margaret Vandegrift; The Sin of Omission and Our Own, by Margaret E. Sangster; The Ballad of the Tempest, by James T. Fields; also the poems by Henry W. Longfellow, John G. Whittier, James Russell Lowell, Alice Cary, Phoebe Cary, Oliver Wendell Holmes, and J.T. Trowbridge, of whose works they are the authorized publishers.
CHARLES H.L. JOHNSTON—The President.
RUDYARD KIPLING and DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY (A.P. WATT & SON, London, England)—Mother o' Mine.
LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD COMPANY—Hullo and The Volunteer Organist, both from "Back Country Poems," by Sam Walter Foss, and He Worried About It, from "Whiffs from Wild Meadows," by Sam Walter Foss.
EDWIN MARKHAM—Lincoln, the Man of the People.
REILLY & LEE CO.—Home, from "A Heap o' Livin'," by Edgar A. Guest.
FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY—Our Flag, by Margaret E. Sangster.
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS—I Have a Rendezvous with Death, by Alan Seeger; Song of the Chattahoochee, by Sidney Lanier; If All the Skies, by Henry van Dyke.
HARR WAGNER PUBLISHING COMPANY—Mothers of Men and The Fortunate Isles, by Joaquin Miller.
THE PUBLISHERS.[Pg 6]
| It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it home, |
| A heap o' sun an' shadder, an' ye sometimes have t' roam |
| Afore ye really 'preciate the things ye left behind, |
| An' hunger fer 'em somehow, with 'em allus on yer mind. |
| It don't make any differunce how rich ye get t' be, |
| How much yer chairs an' tables cost, how great yer luxury; |
| It ain't home t' ye, though it be the palace of a king, |
| Until somehow yer soul is sort o' wrapped 'round everything. |
| Home ain't a place that gold can buy or get up in a minute; |
| Afore it's home there's got t' be a heap o' livin' in it: |
| Within the walls there's got t' be some babies born, and then |
| Right there ye've got t' bring 'em up t' women good, an' men; |
| And gradjerly, as time goes on ye find ye wouldn't part |
| With anything they ever used—they've grown into yer heart; |
| The old high chairs, the playthings, too, the little shoes they wore |
| Ye hoard; an' if ye could ye'd keep the thumbmarks on the door. |
| Ye've got t' weep t' make it home, ye've got t' sit and sigh |
| An' watch beside a loved one's bed, an' know that Death is nigh; |
| An' in the stillness o' the night t' see Death's angel come, |
| An' close the eyes o' her that smiled, an' leave her sweet voice dumb. |
| Fer these are scenes that grip the heart, an' when yer tears are dried, |
| Ye find the home is dearer than it was, an' sanctified; |
| An' tuggin' at ye always are the pleasant memories |
| O' her that was an' is no more—ye can't escape from these. |
| Ye've got t' sing and dance fer years, ye've got t' romp an' play, |
| An' learn t' love the things ye have by usin' 'em each day; |
| Even the roses 'round the porch must blossom year by year |
| Afore they 'come a part o' ye, suggestin' someone dear |
| Who used t' love 'em long ago, an' trained 'em jes' t' run |
| The way they do, so's they would get the early mornin' sun; |
| Ye've got t' love each brick an' stone from cellar up t' dome: |
| It takes a heap o' livin' in a house f' make it home. |
| [Pg 7]Edgar A. Guest. |
| Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie track |
| I go by a poor old farm-house with its shingles broken and black; |
| I suppose I've passed it a hundred times, but I always stop for a minute |
| And look at the house, the tragic house, the house with nobody in it. |
| I've never seen a haunted house, but I hear there are such things; |
| That they hold the talk of spirits, their mirth and sorrowings. |
| I know that house isn't haunted and I wish it were, I do, |
| For it wouldn't be so lonely if it had a ghost or two. |
| This house on the road to Suffern needs a dozen panes of glass, |
| And somebody ought to weed the walk and take a scythe to the grass. |
| It needs new paint and shingles and vines should be trimmed and tied, |
| But what it needs most of all is some people living inside. |
| If I had a bit of money and all my debts were paid, |
| I'd put a gang of men to work with brush and saw and spade. |
| I'd buy that place and fix it up the way that it used to be, |
| And I'd find some people who wanted a home and give it to them free. |
| Now a new home standing empty with staring window and door |
| Looks idle perhaps and foolish, like a hat on its block in the store, |
| But there's nothing mournful about it, it cannot be sad and lone |
| For the lack of something within it that it has never known. |
| But a house that has done what a house should do, a house that has sheltered life, |
| That has put its loving wooden arms around a man and his wife, |
| A house that has echoed a baby's laugh and helped up his stumbling feet, |
| Is the saddest sight, when it's left alone, that ever your eyes could meet. |
| So whenever I go to Suffern along the Erie track |
| I never go by the empty house without stopping and looking back, |
| Yet it hurts me to look at the crumbling roof and the shutters fallen apart, |
| For I can't help thinking the poor old house is a house with a broken heart. |
| Joyce Kilmer. |
| Like liquid gold the wheat field lies, |
| A marvel of yellow and russet and green, |
| That ripples and runs, that floats and flies, |
| With the subtle shadows, the change, the sheen, |
| That play in the golden hair of a girl,— |
| A ripple of amber—a flare |
| Of light sweeping after—a curl |
| In the hollows like swirling feet |
| Of fairy waltzers, the colors run |
| To the western sun |
| Through the deeps of the ripening wheat. |
| Broad as the fleckless, soaring sky, |
| Mysterious, fair as the moon-led sea, |
| [Pg 8]The vast plain flames on the dazzled eye |
| Under the fierce sun's alchemy. |
| The slow hawk stoops |
| To his prey in the deeps; |
| The sunflower droops |
| To the lazy wave; the wind sleeps— |
| Then swirling in dazzling links and loops, |
| A riot of shadow and shine, |
| A glory of olive and amber and wine, |
| To the westering sun the colors run |
| Through the deeps of the ripening wheat. |
| O glorious land! My western land, |
| Outspread beneath the setting sun! |
| Once more amid your swells, I stand, |
| And cross your sod-lands dry and dun. |
| I hear the jocund calls of men |
| Who sweep amid the ripened grain |
| With swift, stern reapers; once again |
| The evening splendor floods the plain, |
| The crickets' chime |
| Makes pauseless rhyme, |
| And toward the sun, |
| The colors run |
| Before the wind's feet |
| In the wheat! |
| Hamlin Garland. |
| I walked through the woodland meadows, |
| Where sweet the thrushes sing; |
| And I found on a bed of mosses |
| A bird with a broken wing. |
| I healed its wound, and each morning |
| It sang its old sweet strain, |
| But the bird with a broken pinion |
| Never soared as high again. |
| I found a young life broken |
| By sin's seductive art; |
| And touched with a Christlike pity, |
| I took him to my heart. |
| He lived with a noble purpose |
| And struggled not in vain; |
| But the life that sin had stricken |
| Never soared as high again. |
| But the bird with a broken pinion |
| Kept another from the snare; |
| And the life that sin had stricken |
| Raised another from despair. |
| Each loss has its compensation, |
| There is healing for every pain; |
| But the bird with a broken pinion |
| Never soars as high again. |
| Hezekiah Butterworth. |
| It was in the days when Claverhouse |
| Was scouring moor and glen, |
| To change, with fire and bloody sword, |
| The faith of Scottish men. |
| They had made a covenant with the Lord |
| Firm in their faith to bide, |
| Nor break to Him their plighted word, |
| Whatever might betide. |
| The sun was well-nigh setting, |
| When o'er the heather wild, |
| And up the narrow mountain-path, |
| Alone there walked a child. |
| He was a bonny, blithesome lad, |
| Sturdy and strong of limb— |
| A father's pride, a mother's love, |
| Were fast bound up in him. |
| His bright blue eyes glanced fearless round, |
| His step was firm and light; |
| What was it underneath his plaid |
| His little hands grasped tight? |
| [Pg 9] |
| It was bannocks which, that very morn, |
| His mother made with care. |
| From out her scanty store of meal; |
| And now, with many a prayer, |
| Had sent by Jamie her ane boy, |
| A trusty lad and brave, |
| To good old Pastor Tammons Roy, |
| Now hid in yonder cave, |
| And for whom the bloody Claverhouse |
| Had hunted long in vain, |
| And swore they would not leave that glen |
| Till old Tam Roy was slain. |
| So Jamie Douglas went his way |
| With heart that knew no fear; |
| He turned the great curve in the rock, |
| Nor dreamed that death was near. |
| And there were bloody Claverhouse men, |
| Who laughed aloud with glee, |
| When trembling now within their power, |
| The frightened child they see. |
| He turns to flee, but all in vain, |
| They drag him back apace |
| To where their cruel leader stands, |
| And set them face to face. |
| The cakes concealed beneath his plaid |
| Soon tell the story plain— |
| "It is old Tam Roy the cakes are for," |
| Exclaimed the angry man. |
| "Now guide me to his hiding place |
| And I will let you go." |
| But Jamie shook his yellow curls, |
| And stoutly answered—"No!" |
| "I'll drop you down the mountain-side, |
| And there upon the stones |
| The old gaunt wolf and carrion crow |
| Shall battle for your bones." |
| And in his brawny, strong right hand |
| He lifted up the child, |
| And held him where the clefted rocks |
| Formed a chasm deep and wild |
| So deep it was, the trees below |
| Like stunted bushes seemed. |
| Poor Jamie looked in frightened maze, |
| It seemed some horrid dream. |
| He looked up at the blue sky above |
| Then at the men near by; |
| Had they no little boys at home, |
| That they could let him die? |
| But no one spoke and no one stirred, |
| Or lifted hand to save |
| From such a fearful, frightful death, |
| The little lad so brave. |
| "It is woeful deep," he shuddering cried, |
| "But oh! I canna tell, |
| So drop me down then, if you will— |
| It is nae so deep as hell!" |
| A childish scream, a faint, dull sound, |
| Oh! Jamie Douglas true, |
| Long, long within that lonely cave |
| Shall Tam Roy wait for you. |
| Long for your welcome coming |
| Waits the mother on the moor, |
| And watches and calls, "Come, Jamie, lad," |
| Through the half-open door. |
| No more adown the rocky path |
| You come with fearless tread, |
| Or, on moor or mountain, take |
| The good man's daily bread. |
| But up in heaven the shining ones |
| A wondrous story tell, |
| Of a child snatched up from a rocky gulf |
| That is nae so deep as hell. |
| [Pg 10] |
| And there before the great white throne, |
| Forever blessed and glad, |
| His mother dear and old Tam Roy |
| Shall meet their bonny lad. |
| Never mind me, Uncle Jared, never mind my bleeding breast! |
| They are charging in the valley and you're needed with the rest. |
| All the day long from its dawning till you saw your kinsman fall, |
| You have answered fresh and fearless to our brave commander's call; |
| And I would not rob my country of your gallant aid to-night, |
| Though your presence and your pity stay my spirit in its flight. |
| All along that quivering column see the death steed trampling down |
| Men whose deeds this day are worthy of a kingdom and a crown. |
| Prithee hasten, Uncle Jared, what's the bullet in my breast |
| To that murderous storm of fire raining tortures on the rest? |
| See! the bayonets flash and falter—look! the foe begins to win; |
| See! oh, see our falling comrades! God! the ranks are closing in. |
| Hark! there's quickening in the distance and a thundering in the air, |
| Like the roaring of a lion just emerging from his lair. |
| There's a cloud of something yonder fast unrolling like a scroll— |
| Quick! oh, quick! if it be succor that can save the cause a soul! |
| Look! a thousand thirsty bayonets are flashing down the vale, |
| And a thousand thirsty riders dashing onward like a gale! |
| Raise me higher, Uncle Jared, place the ensign in my hand! |
| I am strong enough to float it while you cheer that flying band; |
| Louder! louder! shout for Freedom with prolonged and vigorous breath— |
| Shout for Liberty and Union, and the victory over death!— |
| See! they catch the stirring numbers and they swell them to the breeze— |
| Cap and plume and starry banner waving proudly through the trees. |
| Mark our fainting comrades rally, see that drooping column rise! |
| I can almost see the fire newly kindled in their eyes. |
| Fresh for conflict, nerved to conquer, see them charging on the foe— |
| Face to face with deadly meaning—shot and shell and trusty blow. |
| See the thinned ranks wildly breaking—see them scatter to the sun— |
| I can die, Uncle Jared, for the glorious day is won! |
| But there's something, something pressing with a numbness on my heart, |
| And my lips with mortal dumbness fail the burden to impart. |
| Oh I tell you, Uncle Jared, there is something back of all |
| That a soldier cannot part with when he heeds his country's call! |
| Ask the mother what, in dying, sends her yearning spirit back |
| Over life's rough, broken marches, where she's pointed out the track. |
| Ask the dear ones gathered nightly round the shining household hearth, |
| [Pg 11]What to them is dearer, better, than the brightest things of earth, |
| Ask that dearer one whose loving, like a ceaseless vestal flame, |
| Sets my very soul a-glowing at the mention of her name; |
| Ask her why the loved in dying feels her spirit linked with his |
| In a union death but strengthens, she will tell you what it is. |
| And there's something, Uncle Jared, you may tell her if you will— |
| That the precious flag she gave me, I have kept unsullied still. |
| And—this touch of pride forgive me—where death sought our gallant host— |
| Where our stricken lines were weakest, there it ever waved the most. |
| Bear it back and tell her fondly, brighter, purer, steadier far, |
| 'Mid the crimson tide of battle, shone my life's fast setting star. |
| But forbear, dear Uncle Jared, when there's something more to tell, |
| When her lips with rapid blanching bid you answer how I fell; |
| Teach your tongue the trick of slighting, though 'tis faithful to the rest, |
| Lest it say her brother's bullet is the bullet in my breast; |
| But if it must be that she learn it despite your tenderest care, |
| 'Twill soothe her bleeding heart to know my bayonet pricked the air. |
| Life is ebbing, Uncle Jared, my enlistment endeth here; |
| Death, the Conqueror, has drafted—I can no more volunteer,— |
| But I hear the roll call yonder and I go with willing feet— |
| Through the shadows of the valley where victorious armies meet, |
| Raise the ensign, Uncle Jared, let its dear folds o'er me fall— |
| Strength and Union for my country—and God's banner over all. |
| Every coin of earthly treasure |
| We have lavished upon earth |
| For our simple worldly pleasure |
| May be reckoned something worth; |
| For the spending was not losing, |
| Tho' the purchase were but small; |
| It has perished with the using. |
| We have had it,—that is all! |
| All the gold we leave behind us, |
| When we turn to dust again, |
| Tho' our avarice may blind us, |
| We have gathered quite in vain; |
| Since we neither can direct it, |
| By the winds of fortune tost, |
| Nor in other worlds expect it; |
| What we hoarded we have lost. |
| But each merciful oblation— |
| Seed of pity wisely sown, |
| What we gave in self-negation, |
| We may safely call our own; |
| For the treasure freely given |
| Is the treasure that we hoard, |
| Since the angels keep in heaven, |
| What is lent unto the Lord. |
| John G. Saxe. |
| Whence come those shrieks so wild and shrill, |
| That cut, like blades of steel, the air, |
| Causing the creeping blood to chill |
| With the sharp cadence of despair? |
| Again they come, as if a heart |
| Were cleft in twain by one quick blow, |
| And every string had voice apart |
| To utter its peculiar woe. |
| [Pg 12] |
| Whence came they? From yon temple, where |
| An altar, raised for private prayer, |
| Now forms the warrior's marble bed |
| Who Warsaw's gallant armies led. |
| The dim funereal tapers throw |
| A holy luster o'er his brow, |
| And burnish with their rays of light |
| The mass of curls that gather bright |
| Above the haughty brow and eye |
| Of a young boy that's kneeling by. |
| What hand is that, whose icy press |
| Clings to the dead with death's own grasp, |
| But meets no answering caress? |
| No thrilling fingers seek its clasp. |
| It is the hand of her whose cry |
| Rang wildly, late, upon the air, |
| When the dead warrior met her eye |
| Outstretched upon the altar there. |
| With pallid lip and stony brow |
| She murmurs forth her anguish now. |
| But hark! the tramp of heavy feet |
| Is heard along the bloody street; |
| Nearer and nearer yet they come, |
| With clanking arms and noiseless drum. |
| Now whispered curses, low and deep, |
| Around the holy temple creep; |
| The gate is burst; a ruffian band |
| Rush in, and savagely demand, |
| With brutal voice and oath profane, |
| The startled boy for exile's chain. |
| The mother sprang with gesture wild, |
| And to her bosom clasped her child; |
| Then, with pale cheek and flashing eye, |
| Shouted with fearful energy, |
| "Back, ruffians, back! nor dare to tread |
| Too near the body of my dead; |
| Nor touch the living boy; I stand |
| Between him and your lawless band. |
| Take me, and bind these arms—these hands,— |
| With Russia's heaviest iron bands, |
| And drag me to Siberia's wild |
| To perish, if 'twill save my child!" |
| "Peace, woman, peace!" the leader cried, |
| Tearing the pale boy from her side, |
| And in his ruffian grasp he bore |
| His victim to the temple door. |
| "One moment!" shrieked the mother; "one! |
| Will land or gold redeem my son? |
| Take heritage, take name, take all, |
| But leave him free from Russian thrall! |
| Take these!" and her white arms and hands |
| She stripped of rings and diamond bands, |
| And tore from braids of long black hair |
| The gems that gleamed like starlight there; |
| Her cross of blazing rubies, last, |
| Down at the Russian's feet she cast. |
| He stooped to seize the glittering store;— |
| Up springing from the marble floor, |
| The mother, with a cry of joy, |
| Snatched to her leaping heart the boy. |
| But no! the Russian's iron grasp |
| Again undid the mother's clasp. |
| Forward she fell, with one long cry |
| Of more than mortal agony. |
| But the brave child is roused at length, |
| And, breaking from the Russian's hold, |
| He stands, a giant in the strength |
| Of his young spirit, fierce and bold. |
| Proudly he towers; his flashing eye, |
| So blue, and yet so bright, |
| Seems kindled from the eternal sky, |
| So brilliant is its light. |
| His curling lips and crimson cheeks |
| Foretell the thought before he speaks; |
| With a full voice of proud command |
| He turned upon the wondering band. |
| [Pg 13] |
| "Ye hold me not! no! no, nor can; |
| This hour has made the boy a man. |
| I knelt before my slaughtered sire, |
| Nor felt one throb of vengeful ire. |
| I wept upon his marble brow, |
| Yes, wept! I was a child; but now |
| My noble mother, on her knee, |
| Hath done the work of years for me!" |
| He drew aside his broidered vest, |
| And there, like slumbering serpent's crest, |
| The jeweled haft of poniard bright |
| Glittered a moment on the sight. |
| "Ha! start ye back? Fool! coward! knave! |
| Think ye my noble father's glaive |
| Would drink the life-blood of a slave? |
| The pearls that on the handle flame |
| Would blush to rubies in their shame; |
| The blade would quiver in thy breast |
| Ashamed of such ignoble rest. |
| No! thus I rend the tyrant's chain, |
| And fling him back a boy's disdain!" |
| A moment, and the funeral light |
| Flashed on the jeweled weapon bright; |
| Another, and his young heart's blood |
| Leaped to the floor, a crimson flood. |
| Quick to his mother's side he sprang, |
| And on the air his clear voice rang: |
| "Up, mother, up! I'm free! I'm free! |
| The choice was death or slavery. |
| Up, mother, up! Look on thy son! |
| His freedom is forever won; |
| And now he waits one holy kiss |
| To bear his father home in bliss; |
| One last embrace, one blessing,—one! |
| To prove thou knowest, approvest thy son. |
| What! silent yet? Canst thou not feel |
| My warm blood o'er thy heart congeal? |
| Speak, mother, speak! lift up thy head! |
| What! silent still? Then art thou dead: |
| —Great God, I thank thee! Mother, I |
| Rejoice with thee,—and thus—to die." |
| One long, deep breath, and his pale head |
| Lay on his mother's bosom,—dead. |
| Ann S. Stephens. |
| I wrote some lines once on a time |
| In wondrous merry mood, |
| And thought, as usual, men would say |
| They were exceeding good. |
| They were so queer, so very queer, |
| I laughed as I would die; |
| Albeit, in the general way, |
| A sober man am I. |
| I called my servant, and he came; |
| How kind it was of him |
| To mind a slender man like me, |
| He of the mighty limb! |
| "These to the printer," I exclaimed, |
| And, in my humorous way, |
| I added (as a trifling jest), |
| "There'll be the devil to pay." |
| He took the paper, and I watched, |
| And saw him peep within; |
| At the first line he read, his face |
| Was all upon the grin. |
| He read the next; the grin grew broad, |
| And shot from ear to ear; |
| He read the third; a chuckling noise |
| I now began to hear. |
| The fourth; he broke into a roar; |
| The fifth; his waistband split; |
| The sixth; he burst five buttons off, |
| And tumbled in a fit. |
| Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye, |
| I watched that wretched man, |
| And since, I never dare to write |
| As funny as I can. |
| [Pg 14]Oliver Wendell Holmes. |
| The shades of night were falling fast, |
| As through an Alpine village passed |
| A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, |
| A banner with the strange device, |
| Excelsior! |
| His brow was sad his eye beneath |
| Flashed like a falchion from its sheath, |
| And like a silver clarion rung |
| The accents of that unknown tongue, |
| Excelsior! |
| In happy homes he saw the light |
| Of household fires gleam warm and bright; |
| Above, the spectral glaciers shone, |
| And from his lips escaped a groan, |
| Excelsior! |
| "Try not the Pass!" the old man said; |
| "Dark lowers the tempest overhead, |
| The roaring torrent is deep and wide!" |
| And loud the clarion voice replied, |
| Excelsior! |
| "O stay," the maiden said, "and rest |
| Thy weary head upon this breast!" |
| A tear stood in his bright blue eye, |
| But still he answered, with a sigh, |
| Excelsior! |
| "Beware the pine-tree's withered branch! |
| Beware the awful avalanche!" |
| This was the peasant's last Good-night, |
| A voice replied, far up the height, |
| Excelsior! |
| At break of day, as heavenward |
| The pious monks of Saint Bernard |
| Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, |
| A voice cried through the startled air, |
| Excelsior! |
| A traveller, by the faithful hound, |
| Half-buried in the snow was found, |
| Still grasping in his hand of ice |
| That banner with the strange device, |
| Excelsior! |
| There in the twilight cold and gray, |
| Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, |
| And from the sky, serene and far, |
| A voice fell, like a falling star, |
| Excelsior! |
| Henry W. Longfellow. |
| The muffled drum's sad roll has beat |
| The soldier's last tattoo; |
| No more on life's parade shall meet |
| That brave and fallen few. |
| On fame's eternal camping ground |
| Their silent tents are spread, |
| And Glory guards with solemn round |
| The bivouac of the dead. |
| No rumor of the foe's advance |
| Now swells upon the wind; |
| No troubled thought at midnight haunts |
| Of loved ones left behind; |
| No vision of the morrow's strife |
| The warrior's dream alarms; |
| No braying horn or screaming fife |
| At dawn shall call to arms. |
| Their shivered swords are red with rust; |
| Their plumèd heads are bowed; |
| Their haughty banner, trailed in dust, |
| Is now their martial shroud; |
| And plenteous funeral tears have washed |
| The red stains from each brow; |
| And the proud forms, by battle gashed, |
| Are free from anguish now. |
| The neighing troop, the flashing blade, |
| The bugle's stirring blast, |
| [Pg 15]The charge, the dreadful cannonade, |
| The din and shout are passed. |
| Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal, |
| Shall thrill with fierce delight |
| Those breasts that nevermore shall feel |
| The rapture of the fight. |
| Like a fierce northern hurricane |
| That sweeps his great plateau, |
| Flushed with the triumph yet to gain, |
| Came down the serried foe, |
| Who heard the thunder of the fray |
| Break o'er the field beneath, |
| Knew well the watchword of that day |
| Was "Victory or Death!" |
| Full many a mother's breath hath swept |
| O'er Angostura's plain, |
| And long the pitying sky hath wept |
| Above its moulder'd slain. |
| The raven's scream, or eagle's flight, |
| Or shepherd's pensive lay, |
| Alone now wake each solemn height |
| That frowned o'er that dread fray. |
| Sons of the "dark and bloody ground," |
| Ye must not slumber there, |
| Where stranger steps and tongues resound |
| Along the heedless air! |
| Your own proud land's heroic soil |
| Shall be your fitter grave; |
| She claims from war its richest spoil,— |
| The ashes of her brave. |
| Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest, |
| Far from the gory field, |
| Borne to a Spartan mother's breast |
| On many a bloody shield. |
| The sunshine of their native sky |
| Smiles sadly on them here, |
| And kindred eyes and hearts watch by |
| The heroes' sepulcher. |
| Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead! |
| Dear as the blood ye gave; |
| No impious footsteps here shall tread |
| The herbage of your grave; |
| Nor shall your glory be forgot |
| While fame her record keeps, |
| Or honor points the hallowed spot |
| Where Valor proudly sleeps. |
| Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone |
| In deathless song shall tell, |
| When many a vanished year hath flown, |
| The story how ye fell. |
| Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, |
| Nor time's remorseless doom, |
| Can dim one ray of holy light |
| That gilds your glorious tomb. |
| Theodore O'Hara. |
| Come to me, O ye children! |
| For I hear you at your play, |
| And the questions that perplexed me |
| Have vanished quite away. |
| Ye open the eastern windows, |
| That look towards the sun, |
| Where thoughts are singing swallows |
| And the brooks of morning run. |
| In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine, |
| In your thoughts the brooklet's flow |
| But in mine is the wind of Autumn |
| And the first fall of the snow. |
| Ah! what would the world be to us |
| If the children were no more? |
| We should dread the desert behind us |
| Worse than the dark before. |
| What the leaves are to the forest, |
| With light and air for food, |
| Ere their sweet and tender juices |
| Have been hardened into wood,— |
| That to the world are children; |
| Through them it feels the glow |
| [Pg 16]Of a brighter and sunnier climate |
| Than reaches the trunks below. |
| Come to me, O ye children! |
| And whisper in my ear |
| What the birds and the winds are singing |
| In your sunny atmosphere. |
| For what are all our contrivings, |
| And the wisdom of our books, |
| When compared with your caresses, |
| And the gladness of your looks? |
| Ye are better than all the ballads |
| That ever were sung or said; |
| For ye are living poems, |
| And all the rest are dead. |
| Henry W. Longfellow. |
| 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 |
| Blush'd 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, |
| [Pg 17]Or whispering with white lips, "The foe! they come! they come!" |
| 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 marshaling 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. |
| This is the land where hate should die— |
| No feuds of faith, no spleen of race, |
| No darkly brooding fear should try |
| Beneath our flag to find a place. |
| Lo! every people here has sent |
| Its sons to answer freedom's call, |
| Their lifeblood is the strong cement |
| That builds and binds the nation's wall. |
| This is the land where hate should die— |
| Though dear to me my faith and shrine, |
| I serve my country when I |
| Respect the creeds that are not mine. |
| He little loves his land who'd cast |
| Upon his neighbor's word a doubt, |
| Or cite the wrongs of ages past |
| From present rights to bar him out. |
| This is the land where hate should die— |
| This is the land where strife should cease, |
| Where foul, suspicious fear should fly |
| Before the light of love and peace. |
| Then let us purge from poisoned thought |
| That service to the state we give, |
| And so be worthy as we ought |
| Of this great land in which we live. |
| Denis A. McCarthy. |
| 'Twas a stylish congregation, that of Theophrastus Brown, |
| And its organ was the finest and the biggest in the town, |
| And the chorus—all the papers favorably commented on it, |
| For 'twas said each female member had a forty-dollar bonnet. |
| Now in the "amen corner" of the church sat Brother Eyer, |
| Who persisted every Sabbath-day in singing with the choir; |
| He was poor but genteel-looking, and his heart as snow was white, |
| And his old face beamed with sweetness when he sang with all his might. |
| His voice was cracked and broken, age had touched his vocal chords, |
| And nearly every Sunday he would mispronounce the words |
| Of the hymns, and 'twas no wonder, he was old and nearly blind, |
| And the choir rattling onward always left him far behind. |
| The chorus stormed and blustered, Brother Eyer sang too slow, |
| And then he used the tunes in vogue a hundred years ago; |
| [Pg 18]At last the storm-cloud burst, and the church was told, in fine, |
| That the brother must stop singing, or the choir would resign. |
| Then the pastor called together in the vestry-room one day |
| Seven influential members who subscribe more than they pay, |
| And having asked God's guidance in a printed pray'r or two, |
| They put their heads together to determine what to do. |
| They debated, thought, suggested, till at last "dear Brother York," |
| Who last winter made a million on a sudden rise in pork, |
| Rose and moved that a committee wait at once on Brother Eyer, |
| And proceed to rake him lively "for disturbin' of the choir." |
| Said he: "In that 'ere organ I've invested quite a pile, |
| And we'll sell it if we cannot worship in the latest style; |
| Our Philadelphy tenor tells me 'tis the hardest thing |
| Fer to make God understand him when the brother tries to sing. |
| "We've got the biggest organ, the best-dressed choir in town, |
| We pay the steepest sal'ry to our pastor, Brother Brown; |
| But if we must humor ignorance because it's blind and old— |
| If the choir's to be pestered, I will seek another fold." |
| Of course the motion carried, and one day a coach and four, |
| With the latest style of driver, rattled up to Eyer's door; |
| And the sleek, well-dress'd committee, Brothers Sharkey, York and Lamb, |
| As they crossed the humble portal took good care to miss the jamb. |
| They found the choir's great trouble sitting in his old arm chair, |
| And the Summer's golden sunbeams lay upon his thin white hair; |
| He was singing "Rock of Ages" in a cracked voice and low |
| But the angels understood him, 'twas all he cared to know. |
| Said York: "We're here, dear brother, with the vestry's approbation |
| To discuss a little matter that affects the congregation"; |
| "And the choir, too," said Sharkey, giving Brother York a nudge, |
| "And the choir, too!" he echoed with the graveness of a judge. |
| "It was the understanding when we bargained for the chorus |
| That it was to relieve us, that is, do the singing for us; |
| If we rupture the agreement, it is very plain, dear brother, |
| It will leave our congregation and be gobbled by another. |
| "We don't want any singing except that what we've bought! |
| The latest tunes are all the rage; the old ones stand for naught; |
| And so we have decided—are you list'ning, Brother Eyer?— |
| That you'll have to stop your singin' for it flurrytates the choir." |
| The old man slowly raised his head, a sign that he did hear, |
| And on his cheek the trio caught the glitter of a tear; |
| His feeble hands pushed back the locks white as the silky snow, |
| As he answered the committee in a voice both sweet and low: |
| [Pg 19] |
| "I've sung the psalms of David nearly eighty years," said he; |
| "They've been my staff and comfort all along life's dreary way; |
| I'm sorry I disturb the choir, perhaps I'm doing wrong; |
| But when my heart is filled with praise, I can't keep back a song. |
| "I wonder if beyond the tide that's breaking at my feet, |
| In the far-off heav'nly temple, where the Master I shall greet— |
| Yes, I wonder when I try to sing the songs of God up high'r, |
| If the angel band will church me for disturbing heaven's choir." |
| A silence filled the little room; the old man bowed his head; |
| The carriage rattled on again, but Brother Eyer was dead! |
| Yes, dead! his hand had raised the veil the future hangs before us, |
| And the Master dear had called him to the everlasting chorus. |
| The choir missed him for a while, but he was soon forgot, |
| A few church-goers watched the door; the old man entered not. |
| Far away, his voice no longer cracked, he sang his heart's desires, |
| Where there are no church committees and no fashionable choirs! |
| T.C. Harbaugh. |
| The sweetest lives are those to duty wed, |
| Whose deeds, both great and small, |
| Are close knit strands of an unbroken thread, |
| Whose love ennobles all. |
| The world may sound no trumpet, ring no bells; |
| The book of life, the shining record tells. |
| Thy love shall chant its own beatitudes, |
| After its own life-working. A child's kiss |
| Set on thy singing lips shall make thee glad; |
| A poor man served by thee shall make thee rich; |
| A sick man helped by thee shall make thee strong; |
| Thou shalt be served thyself by every sense |
| Of service thou renderest. |
| Robert Browning. |
| I saw him once before, |
| As he passed by the door, |
| And again |
| The pavement stones resound, |
| As he totters o'er the ground |
| With his cane. |
| They say that in his prime, |
| Ere the pruning-knife of Time |
| Cut him down, |
| Not a better man was found |
| By the Crier on his round |
| Through the town. |
| But now he walks the streets, |
| And he looks at all he meets |
| Sad and wan, |
| And he shakes his feeble head, |
| That it seems as if he said |
| "They are gone." |
| The mossy marbles rest |
| On the lips that he has prest |
| In their bloom, |
| And the names he loved to hear |
| Have been carved for many a year |
| On the tomb. |
| [Pg 20] |
| My grandmamma has said,— |
| Poor old lady, she is dead |
| Long ago,— |
| That he had a Roman nose, |
| And his cheek was like a rose |
| In the snow. |
| But now his nose is thin, |
| And it rests upon his chin. |
| Like a staff, |
| And a crook is in his back, |
| And a melancholy crack |
| In his laugh. |
| I know it is a sin |
| For me to sit and grin |
| At him here; |
| But the old three-cornered hat, |
| And the breeches, and all that, |
| Are so queer! |
| And if I should live to be |
| The last leaf upon the tree |
| In the spring, |
| Let them smile, as I do now, |
| At the old forsaken bough |
| Where I cling. |
| Oliver Wendell Holmes. |
| She's up there—Old Glory—where lightnings are sped; |
| She dazzles the nations with ripples of red; |
| And she'll wave for us living, or droop o'er us dead,— |
| The flag of our country forever! |
| She's up there—Old Glory—how bright the stars stream! |
| And the stripes like red signals of liberty gleam! |
| And we dare for her, living, or dream the last dream, |
| 'Neath the flag of our country forever! |
| She's up there—Old Glory—no tyrant-dealt scars, |
| No blur on her brightness, no stain on her stars! |
| The brave blood of heroes hath crimsoned her bars. |
| She's the flag of our country forever! |
| Frank L. Stanton. |
| The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, |
| Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear. |
| Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the withered leaves lie dead; |
| They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. |
| The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrub the jay, |
| And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day. |
| Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood |
| In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? |
| Alas! they all are in their graves; the gentle race of flowers |
| Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. |
| The rain is falling where they lie; but the cold November rain |
| Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. |
| The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, |
| And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow; |
| But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, |
| And the yellow sun-flower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood, |
| Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, |
| [Pg 21]And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade and glen. |
| And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will come, |
| To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home, |
| When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, |
| And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, |
| The south wind searches for the flowers, whose fragrance late he bore, |
| And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. |
| And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, |
| The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side, |
| In the cold, moist earth we laid her when the forest cast the leaf, |
| And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief; |
| Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours, |
| So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. |
| W.C. Bryant. |
| The rich man's son inherits lands, |
| And piles of brick, and stone, and gold, |
| And he inherits soft white hands, |
| And tender flesh that fears the cold, |
| Nor dares to wear a garment old; |
| A heritage, it seems to me, |
| One scarce would wish to hold in fee. |
| The rich man's son inherits cares; |
| The bank may break, the factory burn, |
| A breath may burst his bubble shares, |
| And soft white hands could hardly earn |
| A living that would serve his turn; |
| A heritage, it seems to me, |
| One scarce would wish to hold in fee. |
| The rich man's son inherits wants, |
| His stomach craves for dainty fare; |
| With sated heart, he hears the pants |
| Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare, |
| And wearies in his easy-chair; |
| A heritage, it seems to me, |
| One scarce would wish to hold in fee. |
| What doth the poor man's son inherit? |
| Stout muscles and a sinewy heart, |
| A hardy frame, a hardier spirit; |
| King of two hands, he does his part |
| In every useful toil and art; |
| A heritage, it seems to me, |
| A king might wish to hold in fee. |
| What doth the poor man's son inherit? |
| Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things, |
| A rank, adjudged by toil-won merit, |
| Content that from employment springs, |
| A heart that in his labor sings; |
| A heritage, it seems to me, |
| A king might wish to hold in fee. |
| What doth the poor man's son inherit? |
| A patience learned of being poor, |
| Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it, |
| A fellow-feeling that is sure |
| To make the outcast bless his door; |
| A heritage, it seems to me, |
| A king might wish to hold in fee. |
| O rich man's son! there is a toil |
| Th |