Poems Teachers Ask For, Book Two

by Various

(Written in memory of Daniel Webster.)

Some die too late and some too soon,

At early morning, heat of noon,

Or the chill evening twilight. Thou,

Whom the rich heavens did so endow

With eyes of power and Jove's own brow,

With all the massive strength that fills

Thy home-horizon's granite hills,

With rarest gifts of heart and head

From manliest stock inherited—

New England's stateliest type of man,

In port and speech Olympian;

Whom no one met, at first, but took

A second awed and wondering look

(As turned, perchance, the eyes of Greece

On Phidias' unveiled masterpiece);

Whose words, in simplest home-spun clad,

The Saxon strength of Caedmon's had,

With power reserved at need to reach

The Roman forum's loftiest speech,

Sweet with persuasion, eloquent

In passion, cool in argument,

Or, ponderous, falling on thy foes

As fell the Norse god's hammer blows.

Crushing as if with Talus' flail

Through Error's logic-woven mail,

And failing only when they tried

The adamant of the righteous side,—

Thou, foiled in aim and hope, bereaved

Of old friends, by the new deceived,

Too soon for us, too soon for thee,

Beside thy lonely Northern sea,

Where long and low the marsh-lands spread,

Laid wearily down thy august head.

Thou shouldst have lived to feel below

Thy feet Disunion's fierce upthrow,—

The late-sprung mine that underlaid

Thy sad concessions vainly made.

Thou shouldst have seen from Sumter's wall

The star-flag of the Union fall,

And armed Rebellion pressing on

The broken lines of Washington!

No stronger voice than thine had then

Called out the utmost might of men,

To make the Union's charter free

And strengthen law by liberty.

How had that stern arbitrament

To thy gray age youth's vigor lent,

Shaming ambition's paltry prize

Before thy disillusioned eyes;

Breaking the spell about thee wound

Like the green withes that Samson bound;

Redeeming, in one effort grand,

Thyself and thy imperiled land!

Ah cruel fate, that closed to thee,

O sleeper by the Northern sea,

The gates of opportunity!

God fills the gaps of human need,

Each crisis brings its word and deed.

Wise men and strong we did not lack;

But still, with memory turning back,

In the dark hours we thought of thee,

And thy lone grave beside the sea.

Above that grave the east winds blow,

And from the marsh-lands drifting slow

The sea-fog comes, with evermore

The wave-wash of a lonely shore,

And sea-bird's melancholy cry,

As Nature fain would typify

The sadness of a closing scene,

The loss of that which should have been.

But, where thy native mountains bare

Their foreheads to diviner air,

Fit emblem of enduring fame,

One lofty summit keeps thy name.

For thee the cosmic forces did

The rearing of that pyramid,

The prescient ages shaping with

Fire, flood, and frost thy monolith.

Sunrise and sunset lay thereon

With hands of light their benison,

The stars of midnight pause to set

Their jewels in its coronet.

And evermore that mountain mass

Seems climbing from the shadowy pass

To light, as if to manifest

Thy nobler self, they life at best!

John G. Whittier.

---

The Flower of Liberty

What flower is this that greets the morn,

Its hues from Heaven so freshly born?

With burning star and flaming band

It kindles all the sunset land:

O tell us what its name may be,—

Is this the Flower of Liberty?

It is the banner of the free,

The starry Flower of Liberty!

In savage Nature's far abode

Its tender seed our fathers sowed;

The storm-winds rocked its swelling bud,

Its opening leaves were streaked with blood,

Till lo! earth's tyrants shook to see

The full-blown Flower of Liberty!

Then hail the banner of the free,

The starry Flower of Liberty!

Behold its streaming rays unite,

One mingling flood of braided light—

The red that fires the Southern rose,

With spotless white from Northern snows,

And, spangled o'er its azure, see

The sister Stars of Liberty!

Then hail the banner of the free,

The starry Flower of Liberty!

The blades of heroes fence it round,

Where'er it springs is holy ground;

From tower and dome its glories spread;

It waves where lonely sentries tread;

It makes the land as ocean free,

And plants an empire on the sea!

Then hail the banner of the free,

The starry Flower of Liberty!

Thy sacred leaves, fair Freedom's flower,

Shall ever float on dome and tower,

To all their heavenly colors true,

In blackening frost or crimson dew,—

And God love us as we love thee,

Thrice holy Flower of Liberty!

Then hail the banner of the free,

The starry Flower of Liberty!

Oliver Wendell Holmes.

---

The Lamb

Little lamb, who made thee?

Dost thou know who made thee,

Gave thee life, and made thee feed

By the stream and o'er the mead?

Gave thee clothing of delight,—

Softest clothing, woolly, bright?

Gave thee such a tender voice,

Making all the vales rejoice?

Little lamb, who made thee?

Dost thou know who made thee?

Little lamb, I'll tell thee;

Little lamb, I'll tell thee;

He is called by thy name,

For he calls himself a lamb.

He is meek and He is mild;

He became a little child:

I a child, and thou a lamb,

We are called by His name.

Little lamb, God bless thee!

Little lamb, God bless thee!

William Blake.

---

The Roll Call

"Corporal Green!" the orderly cried;

"Here!" was the answer, loud and clear,

From the lips of the soldier standing near,

And "Here" was the answer the next replied.

"Cyrus Drew!"—then a silence fell—

This time no answer followed the call,

Only the rear man had seen him fall,

Killed or wounded he could not tell.

There they stood in the failing light,

These men of battle, with grave dark looks,

As plain to be read as open books,

While slowly gathered the shades of night.

The fern on the hillside was splashed with blood,

And down in the corn, where the poppies grew

Were redder stains than the poppies knew

And crimson-dyed was the river's flood.

"Herbert Kline!" At the call there came

Two stalwart soldiers into the line,

Bearing between them Herbert Kline,

Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name.

"Ezra Kerr!"—and a voice said "Here!"

"Hiram Kerr!"—but no man replied.

They were brothers, these two; the sad winds sighed,

And a shudder crept through the cornfield near.

"Ephraim Deane!" then a soldier spoke;

"Deane carried our regiment's colors," he said;

"Where our ensign was shot, I left him dead,

Just after the enemy wavered and broke.

"Close by the roadside his body lies;

I paused a moment and gave him a drink,

He murmured his mother's name I think,

And Death came with it and closed his eyes."

'Twas a victory; yes, but it cost us dear—

For that company's roll when called that night,

Of a hundred men who went into the fight,

Numbered but twenty that answered "Here!"

N.G. Shepherd.

---

A Prayer for a Little Home

God send us a little home

To come back to when we roam—

Low walls and fluted tiles,

Wide windows, a view for miles;

Red firelight and deep chairs;

Small white beds upstairs;

Great talk in little nooks;

Dim colors, rows of books;

One picture on each wall;

Not many things at all.

God send us a little ground—

Tall trees standing round,

Homely flowers in brown sod,

Overhead, Thy stars, O God!

God bless, when winds blow,

Our home and all we know.

London "Spectator."

---

I Have Drank My Last Glass

No, comrades, I thank you—not any for me;

My last chain is riven—henceforward I'm free!

I will go to my home and my children to-night

With no fumes of liquor their spirits to blight;

And, with tears in my eyes, I will beg my poor wife

To forgive me the wreck I have made of her life.

I have never refused you before? Let that pass,

For I've drank my last glass, boys,

I have drank my last glass.

Just look at me now, boys, in rags and disgrace,

With my bleared, haggard eyes, and my red, bloated face;

Mark my faltering step and my weak, palsied hand,

And the mark on my brow that is worse than Cain's brand;

See my crownless old hat, and my elbows and knees,

Alike, warmed by the sun, or chilled by the breeze.

Why, even the children will hoot as I pass;—

But I've drank my last glass, boys,

I have drank my last glass.

You would hardly believe, boys, to look at me now

That a mother's soft hand was pressed on my brow—

When she kissed me, and blessed me, her darling, her pride,

Ere she lay down to rest by my dead father's side;

But with love in her eyes, she looked up to the sky

Bidding me meet her there and whispered "Good-bye."

And I'll do it, God helping! Your smile I let pass,

For I've drank my last glass, boys,

I have drank my last glass.

Ah! I reeled home last night, it was not very late,

For I'd spent my last sixpence, and landlords won't wait

On a fellow who's left every cent in their till,

And has pawned his last bed, their coffers to fill.

Oh, the torments I felt, and the pangs I endured!

And I begged for one glass—just one would have cured,—

But they kicked me out doors! I let that, too, pass,

For I've drank my last glass, boys,

I have drank my last glass.

At home, my pet Susie, with her rich golden hair,

I saw through the window, just kneeling in prayer;

From her pale, bony hands, her torn sleeves hung down,

And her feet, cold and bare, shrank beneath her scant gown,

And she prayed—prayed for bread, just a poor crust of bread,

For one crust, on her knees my pet darling plead!

And I heard, with no penny to buy one, alas!

For I've drank my last glass, boys,

I have drank my last glass.

For Susie, my darling, my wee six-year-old,

Though fainting with hunger and shivering with cold,

There, on the bare floor, asked God to bless me!

And she said, "Don't cry, mamma! He will; for you see,

I believe what I ask for!" Then sobered, I crept

Away from the house; and that night, when I slept,

Next my heart lay the PLEDGE! You smile! let it pass,

For I've drank my last glass, boys

I have drank my last glass.

My darling child saved me! Her faith and her love

Are akin to my dear sainted mother's above!

I will make my words true, or I'll die in the race,

And sober I'll go to my last resting place;

And she shall kneel there, and, weeping, thank God

No drunkard lies under the daisy-strewn sod!

Not a drop more of poison my lips shall e'er pass,

For I've drank my last glass, boys,

I have drank my last glass.

---

Highland Mary

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around

The castle o' Montgomery,

Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,

Your waters never drumlie!

There simmer first unfauld her robes,

And there the langest tarry;

For there I took the last fareweel

O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,

How rich the hawthorn's blossom,

As, underneath their fragrant shade,

I clasp'd her to my bosom!

The golden hours, on angel wings,

Flew o'er me and my dearie;

For dear to me as light and life

Was my sweet Highland Mary!

Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace,

Our parting was fu' tender;

And, pledging aft to meet again,

We tore oursels asunder;

But, oh, fell death's untimely frost,

That nipp'd my flower sae early!

Now green's the sod and cauld's the clay,

That wraps my Highland Mary!

Oh, pale, pale now, those rosy lips,

I aft ha'e kiss'd, sae fondly!

And closed for aye the sparkling glance

That dwalt on me sae kindly!

And mouldering now in silent dust,

That heart that lo'ed me dearly;

But still within my bosom's core

Shall live my Highland Mary!

Robert Burns.

---

A Night with a Wolf

Little one, come to my knee!

Hark, how the rain is pouring

Over the roof, in the pitch-black night,

And the wind in the woods a-roaring!

Hush, my darling, and listen,

Then pay for the story with kisses;

Father was lost in the pitch-black night,

In just such a storm as this is!

High up on the lonely mountains,

Where the wild men watched and waited

Wolves in the forest, and bears in the bush,

And I on my path belated.

The rain and the night together

Came down, and the wind came after,

Bending the props of the pine-tree roof,

And snapping many a rafter.

I crept along in the darkness,

Stunned, and bruised, and blinded,—

Crept to a fir with thick-set boughs,

And a sheltering rock behind it.

There, from the blowing and raining

Crouching, I sought to hide me:

Something rustled, two green eyes shone,

And a wolf lay down beside me.

Little one, be not frightened;

I and the wolf together,

Side by side, through the long, long night

Hid from the awful weather.

His wet fur pressed against me;

Each of us warmed the other;

Each of us felt, in the stormy dark,

That beast and man was brother.

And when the falling forest

No longer crashed in warning,

Each of us went from our hiding-place

Forth in the wild, wet morning.

Darling, kiss me in payment!

Hark, how the wind is roaring;

Father's house is a better place

When the stormy rain is pouring!

Bayard Taylor.

---

She Was a Phantom of Delight

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 way-lay.

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 Traveler 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.

---

The Rhodora

(On Being Asked Whence Is The Flower)

In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,

I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,

Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,

To please the desert and the sluggish brook.

The purple petals, fallen in the pool,

Made the black water with their beauty gay;

Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,

And court the flower that cheapens his array.

Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why

This charm is wasted on the earth and sky,

Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing,

Then Beauty is its own excuse for being:

Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!

I never thought to ask, I never knew:

But, in my simple ignorance, suppose

The self-same Power that brought me there brought you.

Ralph Waldo Emerson.

---

There Was a Boy

There was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs

And islands of Winander!—many a time,

At evening, when the earliest stars began

To move along the edges of the hills,

Rising or setting, would he stand alone,

Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake;

And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands

Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth

Uplifted, he, as through an instrument,

Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls,

That they might answer him,—And they would shout

Across the watery vale, and shout again,

Responsive to his call,—with quivering peals,

And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud

Redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild

Of jocund din! and, when there came a pause

Of silence such as baffled his best skill,

Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung

Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise

Has carried far into his heart the voice

Of mountain-torrents; or the visible scene

Would enter unawares into his mind

With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,

Its woods, and that uncertain heaven received

Into the bosom of the steady lake.

This boy was taken from his mates, and died

In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old.

Pre-eminent in beauty is the vale

Where he was born and bred: the church-yard hangs

Upon a slope above the village-school;

And through that church-yard when my way has led

On Summer-evenings, I believe, that there

A long half-hour together I have stood

Mute—looking at the grave in which he lies!

William Wordsworth.

---

The Quangle Wangle's Hat

On the top of the Crumpetty Tree

The Quangle Wangle sat,

But his face you could not see,

On account of his Beaver Hat.

For his hat was a hundred and two feet wide,

With ribbons and bibbons on every side,

And bells, and buttons, and loops, and lace,

So that nobody ever could see the face

Of the Quangle Wangle Quee.

The Quangle Wangle said

To himself on the Crumpetty Tree,

"Jam, and jelly, and bread

Are the best of food for me!

But the longer I live on this Crumpetty Tree

The plainer than ever it seems to me

That very few people come this way

And that life on the whole is far from gay!"

Said the Quangle Wangle Quee.

But there came to the Crumpetty Tree

Mr. and Mrs. Canary;

And they said, "Did ever you see

Any spot so charmingly airy?

May we build a nest on your lovely Hat?

Mr. Quangle Wangle, grant us that!

Oh, please let us come and build a nest

Of whatever material suits you best,

Mr. Quangle Wangle Quee!"

And besides, to the Crumpetty Tree

Came the Stork, the Duck, and the Owl;

The Snail and the Bumblebee,

The Frog and the Fimble Fowl

(The Fimble Fowl, with a corkscrew leg);

And all of them said, "We humbly beg

We may build our homes on your lovely Hat,—

Mr. Quangle Wangle, grant us that!

Mr. Quangle Wangle Quee!"

And the Golden Grouse came there,

And the Pobble who has no toes,

And the small Olympian bear,

And the Dong with a luminous nose.

And the Blue Baboon who played the flute,

And the Orient Calf from the Land of Tute,

And the Attery Squash, and the Bisky Bat,—

All came and built on the lovely Hat

Of the Quangle Wangle Quee.

And the Quangle Wangle said

To himself on the Crumpetty Tree,

"When all these creatures move

What a wonderful noise there'll be!"

And at night by the light of the Mulberry Moon

They danced to the Flute of the Blue Baboon,

On the broad green leaves of the Crumpetty Tree,

And all were as happy as happy could be,

With the Quangle Wangle Quee.

Edward Lear.

---

The Singing Leaves

I

"What fairings will ye that I bring?"

Said the King to his daughters three;

"For I to Vanity Fair am boun,

Now say what shall they be?"

Then up and spake the eldest daughter,

That lady tall and grand:

"Oh, bring me pearls and diamonds great,

And gold rings for my hand."

Thereafter spake the second daughter,

That was both white and red:

"For me bring silks that will stand alone,

And a gold comb for my head."

Then came the turn of the least daughter,

That was whiter than thistle-down,

And among the gold of her blithesome hair

Dim shone the golden crown.

"There came a bird this morning,

And sang 'neath my bower eaves,

Till I dreamed, as his music made me,

'Ask thou for the Singing Leaves.'"

Then the brow of the King swelled crimson

With a flush of angry scorn:

"Well have ye spoken, my two eldest,

And chosen as ye were born,

"But she, like a thing of peasant race,

That is happy binding the sheaves";

Then he saw her dead mother in her face,

And said, "Thou shalt have thy leaves."

II

He mounted and rode three days and nights

Till he came to Vanity Fair,

And 'twas easy to buy the gems and the silk,

But no Singing Leaves were there.

Then deep in the greenwood rode he,

And asked of every tree,

"Oh, if you have, ever a Singing Leaf,

I pray you give it me!"

But the trees all kept their counsel,

And never a word said they,

Only there sighed from the pine-tops

A music of seas far away.

Only the pattering aspen

Made a sound of growing rain,

That fell ever faster and faster.

Then faltered to silence again.

"Oh, where shall I find a little foot-page

That would win both hose and shoon,

And will bring to me the Singing Leaves

If they grow under the moon?"

Then lightly turned him Walter the page,

By the stirrup as he ran:

"Now pledge you me the truesome word

Of a king and gentleman,

"That you will give me the first, first thing

You meet at your castle-gate,

And the Princess shall get the Singing Leaves,

Or mine be a traitor's fate."

The King's head dropt upon his breast

A moment, as it might be;

'Twill be my dog, he thought, and said,

"My faith I plight to thee."

Then Walter took from next his heart

A packet small and thin,

"Now give you this to the Princess Anne,

The Singing Leaves are therein."

III

As the King rode in at his castle-gate,

A maiden to meet him ran,

And "Welcome, father!" she laughed and cried

Together, the Princess Anne.

"Lo, here the Singing Leaves," quoth he,

"And woe, but they cost me dear!"

She took the packet, and the smile

Deepened down beneath the tear.

It deepened down till it reached her heart,

And then gushed up again,

And lighted her tears as the sudden sun

Transfigures the summer rain.

And the first Leaf, when it was opened,

Sang: "I am Walter the page,

And the songs I sing 'neath thy window

Are my only heritage."

And the second Leaf sang: "But in the land

That is neither on earth nor sea,

My lute and I are lords of more

Than thrice this kingdom's fee."

And the third Leaf sang, "Be mine! Be mine!"

And ever it sang, "Be mine!"

Then sweeter it sang and ever sweeter,

And said, "I am thine, thine, thine!"

At the first Leaf she grew pale enough,

At the second she turned aside,

At the third,'twas as if a lily flushed

With a rose's red heart's tide.

"Good counsel gave the bird," said she,

"I have my hope thrice o'er,

For they sing to my very heart," she said,

"And it sings to them evermore."

She brought to him her beauty and truth,

But and broad earldoms three,

And he made her queen of the broader lands

He held of his lute in fee.

James Russell Lowell.

---

Awakening

Never yet was a springtime,

Late though lingered the snow,

That the sap stirred not at the whisper

Of the south wind, sweet and low;

Never yet was a springtime

When the buds forgot to blow.

Ever the wings of the summer

Are folded under the mold;

Life that has known no dying

Is Love's to have and to hold,

Till sudden, the burgeoning Easter!

The song! the green and the gold!

Margaret E. Sangster.

---

Wolsey's Farewell to His Greatness

(From "King Henry VIII")

Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness!

This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth

The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms,

And bears his blushing honours thick upon him:

The third day comes a frost, a killing frost,

And,—when he thinks, good easy man, full surely

His greatness is a-ripening,—nips his root,

And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,

Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,

This many summers in a sea of glory,

But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride

At length broke under me, and now has left me

Weary, and old with service, to the mercy

Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.

Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye:

I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched

Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours!

There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,

That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,

More pangs and fears than wars or women have;

And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,

Never to hope again.

William Shakespeare.

---

The Newsboy

Want any papers, Mister?

Wish you'd buy 'em of me—

Ten year old, an' a fam'ly,

An' bizness dull, you see.

Fact, Boss! There's Tom, an' Tibby,

An' Dad, an' Mam, an' Mam's cat,

None on 'em earning money—

What do you think of that?

Couldn't Dad work? Why yes, Boss,

He's workin' for Gov'ment now—

They give him his board for nothin',

All along of a drunken row,

An' Mam? well, she's in the poor-house,

Been there a year or so,

So I'm taking care of the others,

Doing as well as I know.

Tibby my sister? Not much, Boss,

She's a kitten, a real Maltee;

I picked her up last summer—

Some boys was a drownin' of she;

Throw'd her inter a hogshead;

But a p'liceman came along,

So I jest grabbed up the kitten

And put for home, right strong.

And Tom's my dog; he an' Tibby

Hain't never quarreled yet—

They sleep in my bed in winter

An' keeps me warm—you bet!

Mam's cat sleeps in the corner,

With a piller made of her paw—

Can't she growl like a tiger

If anyone comes to our straw!

Oughtn't to live so? Why, Mister,

What's a feller to do?

Some nights, when I'm tired an' hungry,

Seems as if each on 'em knew—

They'll all three cuddle around me,

Till I get cheery, and say:

Well, p'raps I'll have sisters an' brothers,

An' money an' clothes, too, some day.

But if I do git rich, Boss,

(An' a lecturin' chap one night

Said newsboys could be Presidents

If only they acted right);

So, if I was President, Mister,

The very first thing I'd do,

I'd buy poor Tom an' Tibby

A dinner—an' Mam's cat, too!

None o' your scraps an' leavin's,

But a good square meal for all three;

If you think I'd skimp my friends, Boss,

That shows you don't know me.

So 'ere's your papers—come take one,

Gimme a lift if you can—

For now you've heard my story,

You see I'm a fam'ly man!

E.T. Corbett.

---

Parting of Marmion and Douglas

Not far advanced was morning day,

When Marmion did his troop array

To Surrey's camp to ride;

He had safe conduct for his band,

Beneath the royal seal and hand,

And Douglas gave a guide:

The ancient Earl, with stately grace,

Would Clara on her palfrey place,

And whispered in an undertone,

"Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown."

The train from out the castle drew,

But Marmion stopped to bid adieu.—

"Though something I might plain," he said,

"Of cold respect to stranger guest,

Sent hither by your king's behest,

While in Tantallon's towers I stayed,

Part we in friendship from your land,

And, noble Earl, receive my hand."—

But Douglas round him drew his cloak,

Folded his arms, and thus he spoke:—

"My manors, halls, and bowers shall still

Be open, at my sovereign's will,

To each one whom he lists, howe'er

Unmeet to be the owner's peer.

My castles are my king's alone,

From turret to foundation-stone,—

The hand of Douglas is his own;

And never shall in friendly grasp

The hand of such as Marmion clasp."

Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire,

And shook his very frame for ire,

And—"This to me!" he said,—

"An't were not for thy hoary beard,

Such hand as Marmion's had not spared

To cleave the Douglas' head!

And, first, I tell thee, haughty Peer,

He who does England's message here,

Even in thy pitch of pride,

Here in thy hold, thy vassals near,

(Nay, never look upon your lord,

And lay your hands upon your sword,)

I tell thee thou'rt defied!

And if thou said'st I am not peer

To any lord in Scotland here,

Lowland or Highland, far or near,

Lord Angus, thou hast lied!"—

On the Earl's cheek the flush of rage

O'ercame the ashen hue of age:

Fierce he broke forth,—"And dar'st thou then

To beard the lion in his den,

The Douglas in his hall?

And hop'st thou hence unscathed to go?

No, by St. Bride of Bothwell, no!

Up drawbridge, grooms,—what, warder, ho!

Let the portcullis fall."—

Lord Marmion turned,—well was his need!—

And dashed the rowels in his steed;

Like arrow through the archway sprung;

The ponderous grate behind him rung;

To pass there was such scanty room,

The bars, descending, razed his plume.

The steed along the drawbridge flies.

Just as it trembled on the rise;

Not lighter does the swallow skim

Along the smooth lake's level brim;

And when Lord Marmion reached his band,

He halts, and turns with clenched hand,

And shout of loud defiance pours,

And shook his gauntlet at the towers,

"Horse! horse!" the Douglas cried, "and chase!"

But soon he reined his fury's pace:

"A royal messenger he came,

Though most unworthy of the name.

St. Mary, mend my fiery mood!

Old age ne'er cools the Douglas blood,

I thought to slay him where he stood.

'Tis pity of him too," he cried;

"Bold can he speak, and fairly ride:

I warrant him a warrior tried."

With this his mandate he recalls,

And slowly seeks his castle halls.

Sir Walter Scott.

---

The Engineer's Story

Han'som, stranger? Yes, she's purty an' ez peart ez she kin be.

Clever? W'y! she ain't no chicken, but she's good enough for me.

What's her name? 'Tis kind o' common, yit I ain't ashamed to tell,

She's ole "Fiddler" Filkin's daughter, an' her dad he calls her "Nell."

I wuz drivin' on the "Central" jist about a year ago

On the run from Winnemucca up to Reno in Washoe.

There's no end o' skeery places. 'Taint a road fur one who dreams,

With its curves an' awful tres'les over rocks an' mountain streams.

'Twuz an afternoon in August, we hed got behind an hour,

An' wuz tearin' up the mountain like a summer thunder-shower,

Round the bends an' by the ledges, 'bout ez fast ez we could go,

With the mountain peaks above us an' the river down below.

Ez we come nigh to a tres'le 'crost a holler, deep an' wild,

Suddenly I saw a baby, 'twuz the station-keeper's child,

Toddlin' right along the timbers with a bold an' fearless tread,

Right afore the locomotive, not a hundred rods ahead.

I jist jumped an' grabbed the throttle an' I fa'rly held my breath,

Fur I felt I couldn't stop her till the child wuz crushed to death,

When a woman sprang afore me, like a sudden streak o' light.

Caught the boy, an' 'twixt the timbers in a second sank from sight.

I jist whis'l'd all the brakes on. An' we worked with might an' main,

Till the fire flew from the drivers, but we couldn't stop the train,

An' it rumbled on above her. How she screamed ez we rolled by,

An' the river roared below us—I shall hear her till I die!

Then we stopt; the sun wuz shinin'; I ran back along the ridge

An' I found her—dead? No! livin'! She wuz hangin' to the bridge

Where she dropt down thro' the crossties, with one arm about a sill,

An' the other round the baby, who wuz yellin' fur to kill!

So we saved 'em. She wuz gritty. She's ez peart ez she kin be—

Now we're married—she's no chicken, but she's good enough for me.

An' ef eny ask who owns her, w'y, I ain't ashamed to tell—

She's my wife. Ther' ain't none better than ole Filkin's daughter "Nell."

Eugene J. Hall.

---

Small Beginnings

A traveler on the 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 his early vows;

And age was pleased, in heats 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 at the brink;

He thought not of the deed he did,

But judged that all might drink.

He paused again, and lo! the well,

By summer never dried,

Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues

And saved a life beside.

A dreamer dropped a random thought;

'Twas old, and yet 'twas new;

A simple fancy of the brain,

But strong in being true.

It shone upon a genial mind,

And, lo! its light became

A lamp of life, a beacon ray,

A monitory flame;

The thought was small, its issue great;

A watch-fire on the hill;

It shed its radiance far adown,

And cheers the valley still.

A nameless man, amid a 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.

---

Rain on the Roof

When the humid showers gather over all the starry spheres,

And the melancholy darkness gently weeps in rainy tears,

'Tis a joy to press the pillow of a cottage chamber bed,

And listen to the patter of the soft rain overhead.

Every tinkle on the shingles has an echo in the heart,

And a thousand dreamy fancies into busy being start;

And a thousand recollections weave their bright hues into woof,

As I listen to the patter of the soft rain on the roof.

There in fancy comes my mother, as she used to years agone,

To survey the infant sleepers ere she left them till the dawn.

I can see her bending o'er me, as I listen to the strain

Which is played upon the shingles by the patter of the rain.

Then my little seraph sister, with her wings and waving hair,

And her bright-eyed, cherub brother—a serene, angelic pair—

Glide around my wakeful pillow with their praise or mild reproof,

As I listen to the murmur of the soft rain on the roof.

And another comes to thrill me with her eyes' delicious blue,

I forget, as gazing on her, that her heart was all untrue,

I remember that I loved her as I ne'er may love again,

And my heart's quick pulses vibrate to the patter of the rain.

There is naught in art's bravuras that can work with such a spell,

In the spirit's pure, deep fountains, whence the holy passions swell,

As that melody of nature, that subdued, subduing strain,

Which is played upon the shingles by the patter of the rain!

Coates Kinney.

---

Gunga Din

The "bhisti," or water-carriers attached to regiments in India, is often one of the most

devoted subjects of the British crown, and he is much appreciated by the men.

You may talk o' gin an' beer

When you're quartered safe out 'ere,

An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it;

But if it comes to slaughter

You will do your work on water,

An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it.

Now in Injia's sunny clime,

Where I used to spend my time

A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen,

Of all them black-faced crew

The finest man I knew

Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.

He was "Din! Din! Din!

You limping lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din!

Hi! Slippy hitherao!

Water, get it! Panee lao!

You squidgy-nosed, old idol, Gunga Din!"

The uniform 'e wore

Was nothin' much before,

An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind,

For a twisty piece o' rag

An' a goatskin water bag

Was all the field-equipment 'e could find,

When the sweatin' troop-train lay

In a sidin' through the day,

Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl,

We shouted "Harry By!"

Till our throats were bricky-dry,

Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all,

It was "Din! Din! Din!

You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been?

You put some juldee in it,

Or I'll marrow you this minute

If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!"

'E would dot an' carry one

Till the longest day was done,

An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear.

If we charged or broke or cut,

You could bet your bloomin' nut,

'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear.

With 'is mussick on 'is back,

'E would skip with our attack,

An' watch us till the bugles made "Retire."

An' for all 'is dirty 'ide

'E was white, clear white, inside

When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire!

It was "Din! Din! Din!"

With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green.

When the cartridges ran out,

You could 'ear the front-files shout:

"Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!"

I sha'n't forgit the night

When I dropped be'ind the fight

With a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been.

I was chokin' mad with thirst,

An' the man that spied me first

Was our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din.

'E lifted up my 'ead,

An' 'e plugged me where I bled,

An' 'e guv me arf-a-pint o' water—green:

It was crawlin' and it stunk,

But of all the drinks I've drunk,

I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.

It was "Din! Din! Din!

'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen;

'E's chawin' up the ground an' 'e's kickin' all around:

For Gawd's sake git the water, Gunga Din!"

'E carried me away

To where a dooli lay,

An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean.

'E put me safe inside,

An', just before 'e died:

"I 'ope you liked your drink," sez Gunga Din.

So I'll meet 'im later on

In the place where 'e is gone—

Where it's always double drill and no canteen;

'E'll be squattin' on the coals

Givin' drink to pore damned souls,

An' I'll get a swig in Hell from Gunga Din!

Din! Din! Din!

You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!

Tho' I've belted you an' flayed you,

By the livin' Gawd that made you,

You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!

Rudyard Kipling.

"Panee lao"—Bring water swiftly.

"Harry Ry"—The British soldier's equivalent of "O Brother!"

"Put some juldee in it"—Be quick.

"Marrow you"—Hit you.

"Mussick"—Water-skin.

---

Warren's Address to the American Soldiers

(Bunker Hill, June 17, 1775)

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.

---

Mad River