Poems Teachers Ask For, Book Two

by Various

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When Papa Was a Boy

When papa was a little boy you really couldn't find

In all the country round about a child so quick to mind.

His mother never called but once, and he was always there;

He never made the baby cry or pulled his sister's hair.

He never slid down banisters or made the slightest noise,

And never in his life was known to fight with other boys.

He always rose at six o'clock and went to bed at eight,

And never lay abed till noon; and never sat up late.

He finished Latin, French and Greek when he was ten year old,

And knew the Spanish alphabet as soon as he was told.

He never, never thought of play until his work was done,

He labored hard from break of day until the set of sun.

He never scraped his muddy shoes upon the parlor floor,

And never answered, back his ma, and never banged the door.

"But, truly, I could never see," said little Dick Molloy,

"How he could never do these things and really be a boy."

E.A. Brininstool.

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Which Shall It Be?

"Which shall it be? which shall it be?"

I looked at John,—John looked at me,

(Dear, patient John, who loves me yet

As well as though my locks were jet.)

And when I found that I must speak,

My voice seemed strangely low and weak;

"Tell me again what Robert said";

And then I listening bent my head.

"This is his letter:

'I will give

A house and land while you shall live,

If, in return, from out your seven,

One child to me for aye is given.'"

I looked at John's old garments worn,

I thought of all that John had borne

Of poverty, and work, and care,

Which I, though willing, could not share;

Of seven hungry mouths to feed,

Of seven little children's need,

And then of this.

"Come John," said I,

"We'll choose among them as they lie

Asleep"; so walking hand in hand,

Dear John and I surveyed our band.

First to the cradle lightly stepped,

Where Lilian, the baby, slept;

Her damp curls lay, like gold alight,

A glory 'gainst the pillow white;

Softly her father stooped to lay

His rough hand down in loving way,

When dream or whisper made her stir,

And huskily he said, "Not her."

We stooped beside the trundle-bed,

And one long ray of lamp-light shed

Athwart the boyish faces there,

In sleep so pitiful and fair.

I saw on Jamie's rough red cheek

A tear undried; ere John could speak,

"He's but a baby too," said I,

And kissed him as we hurried by.

Pale, patient Robby's angel face

Still in his sleep bore suffering's trace;

"No, for a thousand crowns not him,"

He whispered, while our eyes were dim.

Poor Dick! sad Dick! our wayward son,

Turbulent, reckless, idle one,—

Could he be spared? "Nay, He who gave

Bids us befriend him to the grave;

Only a mother's heart can be

Patient enough for such as he;

And so," said John, "I would not dare

To send him from her bedside prayer."

Then stole we softly up above,

And knelt by Mary, child of love;

"Perhaps for her 'twould better be,"

I said to John. Quite silently

He lifted up a curl, that lay

Across her cheek in wilful way,

And shook his head; "Nay, love, not thee";

The while my heart beat audibly.

Only one more, our eldest lad,

Trusty and truthful, good and glad,—

So like his father: "No, John, no;

I cannot, will not, let him go!"

And so we wrote, in courteous way,

We could not give one child away;

And afterward toil lighter seemed,

Thinking of that of which we dreamed;

Happy, in truth, that not one face

We missed from its accustomed place;

Thankful to work for all the seven,

Trusting then to One in heaven.

Ethel Lynn Beers.

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The Battle of Bunker's Hill

It was a starry night in June, the air was soft and still,

When the "minute-men" from Cambridge came, and gathered on the hill;

Beneath us lay the sleeping town, around us frowned the fleet,

But the pulse of freemen, not of slaves, within our bosoms beat;

And every heart rose high with hope, as fearlessly we said,

"We will be numbered with the free, or numbered with the dead!"

"Bring out the line to mark the trench, and stretch it on the sward!"

The trench is marked, the tools are brought, we utter not a word,

But stack our guns, then fall to work with mattock and with spade,

A thousand men with sinewy arms, and not a sound is made;

So still were we, the stars beneath, that scarce a whisper fell;

We heard the red-coat's musket click, and heard him cry, "All's well!"

See how the morn, is breaking; the red is in the sky!

The mist is creeping from the stream that floats in silence by;

The "Lively's" hall looms through the fog, and they our works have spied,

For the ruddy flash and round-shot part in thunder from her side;

And the "Falcon" and the "Cerberus" make every bosom thrill,

With gun and shell, and drum and bell, and boatswain's whistle shrill;

But deep and wider grows the trench, as spade and mattock ply,

For we have to cope with fearful odds, and the time is drawing nigh!

Up with the pine-tree banner! Our gallant Prescott stands

Amid the plunging shells and shot, and plants it with his hands;

Up with the shout! for Putnam comes upon his reeking bay,

With bloody spur and foaming bit, in haste to join the fray.

But thou whose soul is glowing in the summer of thy years,

Unvanquishable Warren, thou, the youngest of thy peers,

Wert born and bred, and shaped and made, to act a patriot's part,

And dear to us thy presence is as heart's blood to the heart!

Hark! from the town a trumpet! The barges at the wharf

Are crowded with the living freight; and now they're pushing off;

With clash and glitter, trump and drum, in all its bright array,

Behold the splendid sacrifice move slowly o'er the bay!

And still and still the barges fill, and still across the deep,

Like thunder clouds along the sky, the hostile transports sweep.

And now they're forming at the Point; and now the lines advance:

We see beneath the sultry sun their polished bayonets glance;

We hear anear the throbbing drum, the bugle-challenge ring;

Quick bursts and loud the flashing cloud, and rolls from wing to wing;

But on the height our bulwark stands, tremendous in its gloom,—

As sullen as a tropic sky, and silent as a tomb.

And so we waited till we saw, at scarce ten rifles' length,

The old vindictive Saxon spite, in all its stubborn strength;

When sudden, flash on flash, around the jagged rampart burst

From every gun the livid light upon the foe accursed.

Then quailed a monarch's might before a free-born people's ire;

Then drank the sward the veteran's life, where swept the yeoman's fire.

Then, staggered by the shot, he saw their serried columns reel,

And fall, as falls the bearded rye beneath the reaper's steel;

And then arose a mighty shout that might have waked the dead,—

"Hurrah! they run! the field is won! Hurrah! the foe is fled!"

And every man hath dropped his gun to clutch a neighbor's hand,

As his heart kept praying all the while for home and native land.

Thrice on that day we stood the shock of thrice a thousand foes,

And thrice that day within our lines the shout of victory rose;

And though our swift fire slackened then, and, reddening in the skies,

We saw from Charlestown's roofs and walls the flamy columns rise,

Yet while we had a cartridge left, we still maintained the fight,

Nor gained the foe one foot of ground upon that blood-stained height.

What though for us no laurels bloom, and o'er the nameless brave

No sculptured trophy, scroll, nor hatch records a warrior grave!

What though the day to us was lost!—upon that deathless page

The everlasting charter stands for every land and age!

For man hath broke his felon bonds, and cast them in the dust,

And claimed his heritage divine, and justified the trust;

While through his rifted prison-bars the hues of freedom pour,

O'er every nation, race and clime, on every sea and shore,

Such glories as the patriarch viewed, when, mid the darkest skies,

He saw above a ruined world the Bow of Promise rise.

F.S. Cozzens.

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