Poems Every Child Should Know / The What-Every-Child-Should-Know-Library

by Unknown

Heaven is not reached at a single bound, But we build the ladder by which we rise From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies, And we mount to its summit round by round. I count this thing to be grandly true: That a noble deed is a step toward God,— Lifting the soul from the common clod To a purer air and a broader view.

J. G. Holland.

The Battle of Blenheim.

Have you been to Woodstock, near Oxford, England? If so, you have seen the palace of the Duke of Marlborough, who won the battle of Blenheim. The main point of the poem is the doubtful honour in killing in our great wars. Southey, the poet, lived from 1774 to 1843.

It was a summer’s evening, Old Kaspar’s work was done, And he before his cottage door Was sitting in the sun; And by him sported on the green His little grandchild Wilhelmine. She saw her brother Peterkin Roll something large and round, Which he, beside the rivulet, In playing there, had found. He came to ask what he had found, That was so large, and smooth, and round. Old Kaspar took it from the boy, Who stood expectant by; And then the old man shook his head, And, with a natural sigh, “’Tis some poor fellow’s skull,” said he, “Who fell in the great victory! “I find them in the garden, For there’s many hereabout; And often when I go to plow, The plowshare turns them out; For many thousand men,” said he, “Were slain in that great victory!” “Now tell us what ’twas all about,” Young Peterkin he cries; And little Wilhelmine looks up With wonder-waiting eyes; “Now tell us all about the war, And what they killed each other for.” “It was the English,” Kaspar cried, “Who put the French to rout; But what they killed each other for I could not well make out. But everybody said,” quoth he, “That ’twas a famous victory! “My father lived at Blenheim then, Yon little stream hard by: They burned his dwelling to the ground And he was forced to fly; So with his wife and child he fled, Nor had he where to rest his head. “With fire and sword the country round Was wasted far and wide; And many a childing mother then And new-born baby died. But things like that, you know, must be At every famous victory. “They say it was a shocking sight After the field was won; For many thousand bodies here Lay rotting in the sun. But things like that, you know, must be After a famous victory. “Great praise the Duke of Marlborough won, And our good Prince Eugene.” “Why, ’twas a very wicked thing!” Said little Wilhelmine. “Nay, nay, my little girl,” quoth he, “It was a famous victory! “And everybody praised the Duke Who this great fight did win.” “But what good came of it at last?” Quoth little Peterkin. “Why, that I cannot tell,” said he, “But ’twas a famous victory.”

Robert Southey.

Fidelity.

“Fidelity,” by William Wordsworth (1770-1850), is placed here out of respect to a boy of eleven years who liked the poem well enough to recite it frequently. The scene is laid on Helvellyn, to me the most impressive mountain of the Lake District of England. Wordsworth is a part of this country. I once heard John Burroughs say: “I went to the Lake District to see what kind of a country it could be that would produce a Wordsworth.”

A barking sound the Shepherd hears, A cry as of a dog or fox; He halts—and searches with his eyes Among the scattered rocks; And now at distance can discern A stirring in a brake of fern; And instantly a Dog is seen, Glancing through that covert green. The Dog is not of mountain breed; Its motions, too, are wild and shy; With something, as the Shepherd thinks, Unusual in its cry: Nor is there any one in sight All round, in hollow or on height; Nor shout, nor whistle strikes his ear; What is the Creature doing here? It was a cove, a huge recess, That keeps, till June, December’s snow. A lofty precipice in front, A silent tarn below! Far in the bosom of Helvellyn, Remote from public road or dwelling, Pathway, or cultivated land; From trace of human foot or hand. There sometimes doth a leaping fish Send through the tarn a lonely cheer; The crags repeat the raven’s croak, In symphony austere; Thither the rainbow comes—the cloud— And mists that spread the flying shroud; And sunbeams; and the sounding blast, That, if it could, would hurry past, But that enormous barrier binds it fast. Not free from boding thoughts, a while The Shepherd stood: then makes his way Toward the Dog, o’er rocks and stones, As quickly as he may; Nor far had gone, before he found A human skeleton on the ground; The appalled discoverer with a sigh Looks round, to learn the history. From those abrupt and perilous rocks The Man had fallen, that place of fear! At length upon the Shepherd’s mind It breaks, and all is clear: He instantly recalled the name, And who he was, and whence he came; Remembered, too, the very day On which the traveller passed this way. But hear a wonder, for whose sake This lamentable tale I tell! A lasting monument of words This wonder merits well. The Dog, which still was hovering nigh, Repeating the same timid cry, This Dog had been through three months space A dweller in that savage place. Yes, proof was plain that, since the day When this ill-fated traveller died, The Dog had watched about the spot, Or by his master’s side: How nourished here through such long time He knows, who gave that love sublime; And gave that strength of feeling, great Above all human estimate.

William Wordsworth.