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:
W.B. CONKEY COMPANY—Solitude, from "Poems of Passion," and How Salvator Won, from "Kingdom of Love," both by Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
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.
CHARLES H.L. JOHNSTON—The President.
RUDYARD KIPLING and DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY (A.P. WATT & SON, London, England)—Mother o' Mine.
FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY—Our Flag, by Margaret E. Sangster.
THE PUBLISHERS.
| 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? |
|
| |
| 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. |
|
| |
| 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, |
| 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. |
| 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. |
|
| 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. |
|
| "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. |
| 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, |
| 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. |
| 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, |
| 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. |
| '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; |
| 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: |
| |
|
| "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 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 |
| That with all others level stands; |
| Large charity doth never soil, |
| But only whiten, soft white hands,— |
| This is the best crop from thy lands; |
| A heritage it seems to me, |
| Worth being rich to hold in fee. |
|
| |
| O poor man's son! scorn not thy state; |
| There is worse weariness than thine, |
| In merely being rich and great; |
| Toil only gives the soul to shine |
| And makes rest fragrant and benign; |
| A heritage, it seems to me, |
| Worth being poor to hold in fee. |
| |
| Both heirs to some six feet of sod, |
| Are equal in the earth at last; |
| Both, children of the same dear God, |
| Prove title to your heirship vast |
| By record of a well-filled past; |
| A heritage, it seems to me, |
| Well worth a life to hold in fee. |
| |
| James Russell Lowell. |
| Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet, |
| Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat; |
| But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth, |
| When two strong men stand face to face, tho' they come from the ends of the earth! |
| |
| Kamal is out with twenty men to raise the Border side, |
| And he has lifted the Colonel's mare that is the Colonel's pride: |
| He has lifted her out of the stable-door between the dawn and the day, |
| And turned the calkins upon her feet, and ridden her far away. |
| Then up and spoke the Colonel's son that led a troop of the Guides: |
| "Is there never a man of all my men can say where Kamal hides?" |
| Then up and spoke Mahommed Khan, the son of the Ressaldar, |
| "If ye know the track of the morning-mist, ye know where his pickets are. |
| At dust he harries the Abazai—at dawn he is into Bonair, |
| But he must go by Fort Bukloh to his own place to fare, |
| So if ye gallop to Fort Bukloh as fast as a bird can fly, |
| By the favor of God ye may cut him off ere he win to the Tongue of Jagai, |
| But if he be passed the Tongue of Jagai, right swiftly turn ye then, |
| For the length and the breadth of that grisly plain is sown with Kamal's men. |
| There is rock to the left, and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between, |
| And ye may hear a breech-bolt snick where never a man is seen." |
| The Colonel's son has taken a horse, and a raw rough dun was he, |
| With the mouth of a bell and the heart of Hell, and the head of the gallows-tree. |
| The Colonel's son to the Fort has won, they bid him stay to eat— |
| Who rides at the tail of a Border thief, he sits not long at his meat. |
| He's up and away from Fort Bukloh as fast as he can fly, |
| Till he was aware of his father's mare in the gut of the Tongue of Jagai, |
| Till he was aware of his father's mare with Kamal upon her back, |
| And when he could spy the white of her eye, he made the pistol crack. |
| He has fired once, he has fired twice, but the whistling ball went wide. |
| "Ye shoot like a soldier," Kamal said. "Show now if ye can ride." |
| It's up and over the Tongue of Jagai, as blown dust-devils go, |
| The dun he fled like a stag of ten, but the mare like a barren doe. |
| The dun he leaned against the bit and slugged his head above, |
| But the red mare played with the snaffle-bars, as a maiden plays with a glove. |
| There was rock to the left and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between, |
| And thrice he heard a breech-bolt snick tho' never a man was seen. |
| They have ridden the low moon out of the sky, their hoofs drum up the dawn, |
| The dun he went like a wounded bull, but the mare like a new-roused fawn. |
| The dun he fell at a water-course—in a woful heap fell he, |
| And Kamal has turned the red mare back, and pulled the rider free. |
| He has knocked the pistol out of his hand—small room was there to strive, |
| "'Twas only by favor of mine," quoth he, "ye rode so long alive: |
| There was not a rock of twenty mile, there was not a clump of tree, |
| But covered a man of my own men with his rifle cocked on his knee. |
| If I had raised my bridle-hand, as I have held it low, |
| The little jackals that flee so fast, were feasting all in a row: |
| If I had bowed my head on my breast, as I have held it high, |
| The kite that whistles above us now were gorged till she could not fly." |
| Lightly answered the Colonel's son: "Do good to bird and beast, |
| But count who come for the broken meats before thou makest a feast. |
| If there should follow a thousand swords to carry my bones away, |
| Belike the price of a jackal's meal were more than a thief could pay. |
| They will feed their horse on the standing crop, their men on the garnered grain, |
| The thatch of the byres will serve their fires when all the cattle are slain. |
| But if thou thinkest the price be fair,—thy brethren wait to sup. |
| The hound is kin to the jackal-spawn, howl, dog, and call them up! |
| And if thou thinkest the price be high, in steer and gear and stack, |
| Give me my father's mare again, and I'll fight my own way back!" |
| Kamal has gripped him by the hand and set him upon his feet. |
| "No talk shall be of dogs," said he, "when wolf and gray wolf meet. |
| May I eat dirt if thou hast hurt of me in deed or breath; |
| What dam of lances brought thee forth to jest at the dawn with Death?" |
| Lightly answered the Colonel's son: "I hold by the blood of my clan: |
| Take up the mare of my father's gift—by God, she has carried a man!" |
| The red mare ran to the Colonel's son, and nuzzled against his breast, |
| "We be two strong men," said Kamal then, "but she loveth the younger best. |
| So she shall go with a lifter's dower, my turquoise-studded rein, |
| My broidered saddle and saddle-cloth, and silver stirrups twain." |
| The Colonel's son a pistol drew and held it muzzle-end, |
| "Ye have taken the one from a foe," said he; "will ye take the mate from a friend?" |
| "A gift for a gift," said Kamal straight; "a limb for the risk of a limb. |
| Thy father has sent his son to me, I'll send my son to him!" |
| With that he whistled his only son, that dropped from a mountain-crest— |
| He trod the ling like a buck in spring, and he looked like a lance in rest. |
| "Now here is thy master," Kamal said, "who leads a troop of the Guides, |
| And thou must ride at his left side as shield on shoulder rides. |
| Till Death or I cut loose the tie, at camp and board and bed, |
| Thy life is his—thy fate is to guard him with thy head. |
| So thou must eat the White Queen's meat, and all her foes are thine, |
| And thou must harry thy father's hold for the peace of the Border-line, |
| And thou must make a trooper tough and hack thy way to power— |
| Belike they will raise thee to Ressaldar when I am hanged in Peshawur." |
| They have looked each other between the eyes, and there they found no fault, |
| They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on leavened bread and salt: |
| They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on fire and fresh-cut sod, |
| On the hilt and the haft of the Khyber knife, and the wondrous Names of God. |
| The Colonel's son he rides the mare and Kamal's boy the dun, |
| And two have come back to Fort Bukloh where there went forth but one. |
| And when they drew to the Quarter-Guard, full twenty swords flew clear— |
| There was not a man but carried his feud with the blood of the mountaineer. |
| "Ha' done! ha' done!" said the Colonel's son. "Put up the steel at your sides! |
| Last night ye had struck at a Border thief—to-night 'tis a man of the Guides!" |
| |
| Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the two shall meet, |
| Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat; |
| But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth, |
| When two strong men stand face to face, tho' they come from the ends of the earth. |
| |
| Rudyard Kipling. |
| Has there any old fellow got mixed with the boys? |
| If there has take him out, without making a noise. |
| Hang the Almanac's cheat and the Catalogue's spite! |
| Old Time is a liar! We're twenty tonight! |
| |
| We're twenty! We're twenty! Who says we are more? |
| He's tipsy—young jackanapes!—show him the door! |
| "Gray temples at twenty?"—Yes! white if we please; |
| Where the snowflakes fall thickest there's nothing can freeze! |
| |
| Was it snowing I spoke of? Excuse the mistake! |
| Look close—you will see not a sign of a flake! |
| We want some new garlands for those we have shed, |
| And these are white roses in place of the red. |
| |
| We've a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told. |
| Of talking (in public) as if we were old; |
| That boy we call "Doctor," and this we call "Judge"; |
| It's a neat little fiction—of course it's all fudge. |
| |
| That fellow's the "Speaker"—the one on the right; |
| "Mr. Mayor," my young one, how are you to-night? |
| That's our "Member of Congress," we say when we chaff; |
| There's the "Reverend" What's-his-name?—don't make me laugh. |
| |
| That boy with the grave mathematical look |
| Made believe he had written a wonderful book, |
| And the ROYAL SOCIETY thought it was true! |
| So they chose him right in; a good joke it was, too! |
| |
| There's a boy, we pretend, with a three-decker brain, |
| That could harness a team with a logical chain; |
| When he spoke for our manhood in syllabled fire, |
| We called him "The Justice," but now he's "The Squire." |
| |
| And there's a nice youngster of excellent pith: |
| Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith; |
| But he shouted a song for the brave and the free— |
| Just read on his medal, "My country," "of thee!" |
| |
| You hear that boy laughing? You think he's all fun; |
| But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done. |
| The children laugh loud as they troop to his call, |
| And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all! |
| |
| Yes, we're boys—always playing with tongue or with pen; |
| And I sometimes have asked, Shall we ever be men? |
| Shall we always be youthful and laughing and gay, |
| Till the last dear companion drops smiling away? |
| |
| Then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray! |
| The stars of its winter, the dews of its May! |
| And when we have done with our life-lasting toys, |
| Dear Father, take care of Thy children, THE BOYS! |
| |
| Oliver Wendell Holmes. |
| It was an old, old, old, old lady, |
| And a boy that was half past three; |
| And the way that they played together |
| Was beautiful to see. |
| |
| She couldn't go running and jumping, |
| And the boy, no more could he; |
| For he was a thin little fellow, |
| With a thin little twisted knee, |
| |
| They sat in the yellow sunlight, |
| Out under the maple-tree; |
| And the game that they played I'll tell you, |
| Just as it was told to me. |
| |
| It was Hide-and-Go-Seek they were playing, |
| Though you'd never have known it to be— |
| With an old, old, old, old lady, |
| And a boy with a twisted knee. |
| |
| The boy would bend his face down |
| On his one little sound right knee, |
| And he'd guess where she was hiding, |
| In guesses One, Two, Three! |
| |
| "You are in the china-closet!" |
| He would cry, and laugh with glee— |
| It wasn't the china-closet; |
| But he still had Two and Three. |
| |
| "You are up in Papa's big bedroom, |
| In the chest with the queer old key!" |
| And she said: "You are warm and warmer; |
| But you're not quite right," said she. |
| |
| "It can't be the little cupboard |
| Where Mamma's things used to be— |
| So it must be the clothes-press, Gran'ma!" |
| And he found her with his Three. |
| |
| Then she covered her face with her fingers, |
| That were wrinkled and white and wee, |
| And she guessed where the boy was hiding, |
| With a One and a Two and a Three. |
| |
| And they never had stirred from their places, |
| Right under the maple-tree— |
| This old, old, old, old lady, |
| And the boy with the lame little knee— |
| This dear, dear, dear old lady, |
| And the boy who was half past three. |
| |
| Henry Cuyler Bunner. |
| They said, "The Master is coming |
| To honor the town to-day, |
| And none can tell at what house or home |
| The Master will choose to stay." |
| And I thought while my heart beat wildly, |
| What if He should come to mine, |
| How would I strive to entertain |
| And honor the Guest Divine! |
| |
| And straight I turned to toiling |
| To make my house more neat; |
| I swept, and polished, and garnished. |
| And decked it with blossoms sweet. |
| I was troubled for fear the Master |
| Might come ere my work was done, |
| And I hasted and worked the faster, |
| And watched the hurrying sun. |
| |
| But right in the midst of my duties |
| A woman came to my door; |
| She had come to tell me her sorrows |
| And my comfort and aid to implore, |
| And I said, "I cannot listen |
| Nor help you any, to-day; |
| I have greater things to attend to." |
| And the pleader turned away. |
| |
| But soon there came another— |
| A cripple, thin, pale and gray— |
| And said, "Oh, let me stop and rest |
| A while in your house, I pray! |
| I have traveled far since morning, |
| I am hungry, and faint, and weak; |
| My heart is full of misery, |
| And comfort and help I seek." |
| |
| And I cried, "I am grieved and sorry, |
| But I cannot help you to-day. |
| I look for a great and noble Guest," |
| And the cripple went away; |
| And the day wore onward swiftly— |
| And my task was nearly done, |
| And a prayer was ever in my heart |
| That the Master to me might come. |
| |
| And I thought I would spring to meet Him, |
| And serve him with utmost care, |
| When a little child stood by me |
| With a face so sweet and fair— |
| Sweet, but with marks of teardrops— |
| And his clothes were tattered and old; |
| A finger was bruised and bleeding, |
| And his little bare feet were cold. |
| |
| And I said, "I'm sorry for you— |
| You are sorely in need of care; |
| But I cannot stop to give it, |
| You must hasten otherwhere." |
| And at the words, a shadow |
| Swept o'er his blue-veined brow,— |
| "Someone will feed and clothe you, dear, |
| But I am too busy now." |
| |
| At last the day was ended, |
| And my toil was over and done; |
| My house was swept and garnished— |
| And I watched in the dark—alone. |
| Watched—but no footfall sounded, |
| No one paused at my gate; |
| No one entered my cottage door; |
| I could only pray—and wait. |
| |
| I waited till night had deepened, |
| And the Master had not come. |
| "He has entered some other door," I said, |
| "And gladdened some other home!" |
| My labor had been for nothing, |
| And I bowed my head and I wept, |
| My heart was sore with longing— |
| Yet—in spite of it all—I slept. |
| |
| Then the Master stood before me, |
| And his face was grave and fair; |
| "Three times to-day I came to your door, |
| And craved your pity and care; |
| Three times you sent me onward, |
| Unhelped and uncomforted; |
| And the blessing you might have had was lost, |
| And your chance to serve has fled." |
| |
| "O Lord, dear Lord, forgive me! |
| How could I know it was Thee?" |
| My very soul was shamed and bowed |
| In the depths of humility. |
| And He said, "The sin is pardoned, |
| But the blessing is lost to thee; |
| For comforting not the least of Mine |
| You have failed to comfort Me." |
| |
| Emma A. Lent. |
| Prop yer eyes wide open, Joey, |
| Fur I've brought you sumpin' great. |
| Apples? No, a derned sight better! |
| Don't you take no int'rest? Wait! |
| Flowers, Joe—I know'd you'd like 'em— |
| Ain't them scrumptious? Ain't them high? |
| Tears, my boy? Wot's them fur, Joey? |
| There—poor little Joe—don't cry! |
| |
| I was skippin' past a winder |
| W'ere a bang-up lady sot, |
| All amongst a lot of bushes— |
| Each one climbin' from a pot; |
| Every bush had flowers on it— |
| Pretty? Mebbe not! Oh, no! |
| Wish you could 'a seen 'em growin', |
| It was such a stunnin' show. |
| |
| Well, I thought of you, poor feller, |
| Lyin' here so sick and weak, |
| Never knowin' any comfort, |
| And I puts on lots o' cheek. |
| "Missus," says I, "if you please, mum, |
| Could I ax you for a rose? |
| For my little brother, missus— |
| Never seed one, I suppose." |
|
| |
| Then I told her all about you— |
| How I bringed you up—poor Joe! |
| (Lackin' women folks to do it) |
| Sich a imp you was, you know— |
| Till you got that awful tumble, |
| Jist as I had broke yer in |
| (Hard work, too), to earn your livin' |
| Blackin' boots for honest tin. |
| |
| How that tumble crippled of you, |
| So's you couldn't hyper much— |
| Joe, it hurted when I seen you |
| Fur the first time with yer crutch. |
| "But," I says, "he's laid up now, mum, |
| 'Pears to weaken every day"; |
| Joe, she up and went to cuttin'— |
| That's the how of this bokay. |
| |
| Say! it seems to me, ole feller, |
| You is quite yourself to-night— |
| Kind o' chirk—it's been a fortnit |
| Sense yer eyes has been so bright. |
| Better? Well, I'm glad to hear it! |
| Yes, they're mighty pretty, Joe. |
| Smellin' of 'em's made you happy? |
| Well, I thought it would, you know. |
| |
| Never see the country, did you? |
| Flowers growin' everywhere! |
| Some time when you're better, Joey, |
| Mebbe I kin take you there. |
| Flowers in heaven? 'M—I s'pose so; |
| Dunno much about it, though; |
| Ain't as fly as wot I might be |
| On them topics, little Joe. |
| |
| But I've heerd it hinted somewheres |
| That in heaven's golden gates |
| Things is everlastin' cheerful— |
| B'lieve that's what the Bible states. |
| Likewise, there folks don't git hungry: |
| So good people, w'en they dies, |
| Finds themselves well fixed forever— |
| Joe my boy, wot ails yer eyes? |
| |
| Thought they looked a little sing'ler. |
| Oh, no! Don't you have no fear; |
| Heaven was made fur such as you is— |
| Joe, wot makes you look so queer? |
| Here—wake up! Oh, don't look that way! |
| Joe! My boy! Hold up yer head! |
| Here's yer flowers—you dropped em, Joey. |
| Oh, my God, can Joe be dead? |
| |
| David L. Proudfit (Peleg Arkwright). |
| Saint Augustine! well hast thou said, |
| That of our vices we can frame |
| A ladder, if we will but tread |
| Beneath our feet each deed of shame! |
| |
| All common things, each day's events, |
| That with the hour begin and end, |
| Our pleasures and our discontents, |
| Are rounds by which we may ascend. |
| |
| The low desire, the base design, |
| That makes another's virtues less; |
| The revel of the ruddy wine, |
| And all occasions of excess; |
| |
| The longing for ignoble things; |
| The strife for triumph more than truth; |
| The hardening of the heart, that brings |
| Irreverence for the dreams of youth; |
| |
| All thoughts of ill; all evil deeds, |
| That have their root in thoughts of ill; |
| Whatever hinders or impedes |
| The action of the nobler will;— |
| |
| All these must first be trampled down |
| Beneath our feet, if we would gain |
| In the bright fields of fair renown |
| The right of eminent domain. |
| |
| We have not wings, we cannot soar; |
| But we have feet to scale and climb |
| By slow degrees, by more and more, |
| The cloudy summits of our time. |
| |
|
| The mighty pyramids of stone |
| That wedge-like cleave the desert airs, |
| When nearer seen, and better known, |
| Are but gigantic flights of stairs, |
| |
| The distant mountains, that uprear |
| Their solid bastions to the skies, |
| Are crossed by pathways, that appear |
| As we to higher levels rise. |
| |
| The heights by great men reached and kept |
| Were not attained by sudden flight. |
| But they, while their companions slept, |
| Were toiling upward in the night. |
| |
| Standing on what too long we bore |
| With shoulders bent and downcast eyes, |
| We may discern—unseen before— |
| A path to higher destinies. |
| |
| Nor deem the irrevocable Past |
| As wholly wasted, wholly vain, |
| If, rising on its wrecks, at last |
| To something nobler we attain. |
| |
| H.W. Longfellow. |
| A fellow near Kentucky's clime |
| Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry, |
| And I'll give thee a silver dime |
| To row us o'er the ferry." |
| |
| "Now, who would cross the Ohio, |
| This dark and stormy water?" |
| "Oh, I am this young lady's beau, |
| And she John Thompson's daughter. |
| |
| "We've fled before her father's spite |
| With great precipitation, |
| And should he find us here to-night, |
| I'd lose my reputation. |
| |
| "They've missed the girl and purse beside, |
| His horsemen hard have pressed me. |
| And who will cheer my bonny bride, |
| If yet they shall arrest me?" |
| |
| Out spoke the boatman then in time, |
| "You shall not fail, don't fear it; |
| I'll go not for your silver dime, |
| But—for your manly spirit. |
| |
| "And by my word, the bonny bird |
| In danger shall not tarry; |
| For though a storm is coming on, |
| I'll row you o'er the ferry." |
| |
| By this the wind more fiercely rose, |
| The boat was at the landing, |
| And with the drenching rain their clothes |
| Grew wet where they were standing. |
| |
| But still, as wilder rose the wind, |
| And as the night grew drearer, |
| Just back a piece came the police, |
| Their tramping sounded nearer. |
| |
| "Oh, haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, |
| "It's anything but funny; |
| I'll leave the light of loving eyes, |
| But not my father's money!" |
|
| |
| And still they hurried in the race |
| Of wind and rain unsparing; |
| John Thompson reached the landing-place, |
| His wrath was turned to swearing. |
| |
| For by the lightning's angry flash, |
| His child he did discover; |
| One lovely hand held all the cash, |
| And one was round her lover! |
| |
| "Come back, come back," he cried in woe, |
| Across the stormy water; |
| "But leave the purse, and you may go, |
| My daughter, oh, my daughter!" |
| |
| 'Twas vain; they reached the other shore, |
| (Such dooms the Fates assign us), |
| The gold he piled went with his child, |
| And he was left there, minus. |
| |
| Phoebe Cary. |
| Hush! my dear, lie still and slumber, |
| Holy angels guard thy bed! |
| Heavenly blessings without number |
| Gently falling on thy head. |
| |
| Sleep, my babe; thy food and raiment, |
| House and home, thy friends provide; |
| All without thy care or payment: |
| All thy wants are well supplied. |
| |
| How much better thou'rt attended |
| Than the Son of God could be, |
| When from heaven He descended |
| And became a child like thee! |
| |
| Soft and easy is thy cradle: |
| Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay, |
| When His birthplace was a stable |
| And His softest bed was hay. |
| |
| Blessed babe! what glorious features— |
| Spotless fair, divinely bright! |
| Must He dwell with brutal creatures? |
| How could angels bear the sight? |
| |
| Was there nothing but a manger |
| Cursed sinners could afford |
| To receive the heavenly stranger? |
| Did they thus affront their Lord? |
|
| |
| Soft, my child: I did not chide thee, |
| Though my song might sound too hard; |
| 'Tis thy mother sits beside thee, |
| And her arm shall be thy guard. |
|
| See the kinder shepherds round Him, |
| Telling wonders from the sky! |
| Where they sought Him, there they found Him, |
| With His Virgin mother by. |
| |
| See the lovely babe a-dressing; |
| Lovely infant, how He smiled! |
| When He wept, His mother's blessing |
| Soothed and hush'd the holy Child, |
| |
| Lo, He slumbers in a manger, |
| Where the hornèd oxen fed:— |
| Peace, my darling, here's no danger; |
| There's no ox anear thy bed. |
|
| May'st thou live to know and fear Him, |
| Trust and love Him all thy days; |
| Then go dwell forever near Him, |
| See His face, and sing His praise! |
| |
| Isaac Watts. |
| Slow the Kansas sun was setting, |
| O'er the wheat fields far away, |
| Streaking all the air with cobwebs |
| At the close of one hot day; |
| And the last rays kissed the forehead |
| Of a man and maiden fair, |
| He with whiskers short and frowsy, |
| She with red and glistening hair, |
| He with shut jaws stern and silent; |
| She, with lips all cold and white, |
| Struggled to keep back the murmur, |
| "Towser shall be tied to-night." |
|
| |
| "Papa," slowly spoke the daughter, |
| "I am almost seventeen, |
| And I have a real lover, |
| Though he's rather young and green; |
| But he has a horse and buggy |
| And a cow and thirty hens,— |
| Boys that start out poor, dear Papa, |
| Make the best of honest men, |
| But if Towser sees and bites him, |
| Fills his eyes with misty light, |
| He will never come again, Pa; |
| Towser must be tied to-night." |
| |
| "Daughter," firmly spoke the farmer, |
| (Every word pierced her young heart |
| Like a carving knife through chicken |
| As it hunts the tender part)— |
| "I've a patch of early melons, |
| Two of them are ripe to-day; |
| Towser must be loose to watch them |
| Or they'll all be stole away. |
| I have hoed them late and early |
| In dim morn and evening light; |
| Now they're grown I must not lose them; |
| Towser'll not be tied to-night." |
| |
| Then the old man ambled forward, |
| Opened wide the kennel-door, |
| Towser bounded forth to meet him |
| As he oft had done before. |
| And the farmer stooped and loosed him |
| From the dog-chain short and stout; |
| To himself he softly chuckled, |
| "Bessie's feller must look out." |
| But the maiden at the window |
| Saw the cruel teeth show white; |
| In an undertone she murmured,— |
| "Towser must be tied to-night." |
| |
| Then the maiden's brow grew thoughtful |
| And her breath came short and quick, |
| Till she spied the family clothesline, |
| And she whispered, "That's the trick." |
| From the kitchen door she glided |
| With a plate of meat and bread; |
| Towser wagged his tail in greeting, |
| Knowing well he would be fed. |
| In his well-worn leather collar, |
| Tied she then the clothesline tight, |
| All the time her white lips saying: |
| "Towser shall be tied to-night," |
| |
| "There, old doggie," spoke the maiden, |
| "You can watch the melon patch, |
| But the front gate's free and open, |
| When John Henry lifts the latch. |
| For the clothesline tight is fastened |
| To the harvest apple tree, |
| You can run and watch the melons, |
| But the front gate you can't see." |
| Then her glad ears hear a buggy, |
| And her eyes grow big and bright, |
| While her young heart says in gladness, |
| "Towser dog is tied to-night." |
| |
| Up the path the young man saunters |
| With his eye and cheek aglow; |
| For he loves the red-haired maiden |
| And he aims to tell her so. |
| Bessie's roguish little brother, |
| In a fit of boyish glee, |
| Had untied the slender clothesline, |
| From the harvest apple tree. |
| Then old Towser heard the footsteps, |
| Raised his bristles, fixed for fight,— |
| "Bark away," the maiden whispers; |
| "Towser, you are tied to-night." |
| |
| Then old Towser bounded forward, |
| Passed the open kitchen door; |
| Bessie screamed and quickly followed, |
| But John Henry's gone before. |
| Down the path he speeds most quickly, |
| For old Towser sets the pace; |
| And the maiden close behind them |
| Shows them she is in the race. |
| Then the clothesline, can she get it? |
| And her eyes grow big and bright; |
| And she springs and grasps it firmly: |
| "Towser shall be tied to-night." |
| |
| Oftentimes a little minute |
| Forms the destiny of men. |
| You can change the fate of nations |
| By the stroke of one small pen. |
| Towser made one last long effort, |
| Caught John Henry by the pants, |
| But John Henry kept on running |
| For he thought that his last chance. |
| But the maiden held on firmly, |
| And the rope was drawn up tight. |
| But old Towser kept the garments, |
| For he was not tied that night. |
| |
| Then the father hears the racket; |
| With long strides he soon is there, |
| When John Henry and the maiden, |
| Crouching, for the worst prepare. |
| At his feet John tells his story, |
| Shows his clothing soiled and torn; |
| And his face so sad and pleading, |
| Yet so white and scared and worn, |
| Touched the old man's heart with pity, |
| Filled his eyes with misty light. |
| "Take her, boy, and make her happy,— |
| Towser shall be tied to-night." |
| I was sitting in my study, |
| Writing letters when I heard, |
| "Please, dear mamma, Mary told me |
| Mamma mustn't be 'isturbed. |
| |
| "But I'se tired of the kitty, |
| Want some ozzer fing to do. |
| Witing letters, is 'ou, mamma? |
| Tan't I wite a letter too?" |
| |
| "Not now, darling, mamma's busy; |
| Run and play with kitty, now." |
| "No, no, mamma, me wite letter; |
| Tan if 'ou will show me how." |
| |
| I would paint my darling's portrait |
| As his sweet eyes searched my face— |
| Hair of gold and eyes of azure, |
| Form of childish, witching grace. |
| |
| But the eager face was clouded, |
| As I slowly shook my head, |
| Till I said, "I'll make a letter |
| Of you, darling boy, instead." |
| |
| So I parted back the tresses |
| From his forehead high and white, |
| And a stamp in sport I pasted |
| 'Mid its waves of golden light. |
| |
| Then I said, "Now, little letter, |
| Go away and bear good news." |
| And I smiled as down the staircase |
| Clattered loud the little shoes. |
| |
|
| Leaving me, the darling hurried |
| Down to Mary in his glee, |
| "Mamma's witing lots of letters; |
| I'se a letter, Mary—see!" |
| |
| No one heard the little prattler, |
| As once more he climbed the stair, |
| Reached his little cap and tippet, |
| Standing on the entry stair. |
| |
| No one heard the front door open, |
| No one saw the golden hair, |
| As it floated o'er his shoulders |
| In the crisp October air. |
| |
| Down the street the baby hastened |
| Till he reached the office door. |
| "I'se a letter, Mr. Postman; |
| Is there room for any more? |
| |
| "'Cause dis letter's doin' to papa, |
| Papa lives with God, 'ou know, |
| Mamma sent me for a letter, |
| Does 'ou fink 'at I tan go?" |
| |
| But the clerk in wonder answered, |
| "Not to-day, my little man." |
| "Den I'll find anozzer office, |
| 'Cause I must go if I tan." |
| |
| Fain the clerk would have detained him, |
| But the pleading face was gone, |
| And the little feet were hastening— |
| By the busy crowd swept on. |
| |
| Suddenly the crowd was parted, |
| People fled to left and right, |
| As a pair of maddened horses |
| At the moment dashed in sight. |
| |
| No one saw the baby figure— |
| No one saw the golden hair, |
| Till a voice of frightened sweetness |
| Rang out on the autumn air. |
| |
| 'Twas too late—a moment only |
| Stood the beauteous vision there, |
| Then the little face lay lifeless, |
| Covered o'er with golden hair. |
| |
| Reverently they raised my darling, |
| Brushed away the curls of gold, |
| Saw the stamp upon the forehead, |
| Growing now so icy cold. |
| |
| Not a mark the face disfigured, |
| Showing where a hoof had trod; |
| But the little life was ended— |
| "Papa's letter" was with God. |
| I, who was always counted, they say, |
| Rather a bad stick anyway, |
| Splintered all over with dodges and tricks, |
| Known as "the worst of the Deacon's six"; |
| I, the truant, saucy and bold, |
| The one black sheep in my father's fold, |
| "Once on a time," as the stories say, |
| Went over the hill on a winter's day— |
| Over the hill to the poor-house. |
| |
| Tom could save what twenty could earn; |
| But givin' was somethin' he ne'er would learn; |
| Isaac could half o' the Scriptur's speak— |
| Committed a hundred verses a week; |
| Never forgot, an' never slipped; |
| But "Honor thy father and mother," he skipped; |
| So over the hill to the poor-house! |
| |
| As for Susan, her heart was kind |
| An' good—what there was of it, mind; |
| Nothin' too big, an' nothin' too nice, |
| Nothin' she wouldn't sacrifice |
| For one she loved; an' that 'ere one |
| Was herself, when all was said an' done; |
| An' Charley an' 'Becca meant well, no doubt, |
| But anyone could pull 'em about; |
| An' all o' our folks ranked well, you see, |
| Save one poor fellow, an' that was me; |
| An' when, one dark an' rainy night, |
| A neighbor's horse went out o' sight, |
| They hitched on me, as the guilty chap |
| That carried one end o' the halter-strap. |
| An' I think, myself, that view of the case |
| Wasn't altogether out o' place; |
| My mother denied it, as mothers do, |
| But I am inclined to believe 'twas true. |
| Though for me one thing might be said— |
| That I, as well as the horse, was led; |
| And the worst of whisky spurred me on, |
| Or else the deed would have never been done. |
| But the keenest grief I ever felt |
| Was when my mother beside me knelt, |
| An' cried, an' prayed, till I melted down, |
| As I wouldn't for half the horses in town. |
| I kissed her fondly, then an' there, |
| An' swore henceforth to be honest and square. |
|
| I served my sentence—a bitter pill |
| Some fellows should take who never will; |
| And then I decided to go "out West," |
| Concludin' 'twould suit my health the best; |
| Where, how I prospered, I never could tell, |
| But Fortune seemed to like me well; |
| An' somehow every vein I struck |
| Was always bubbling over with luck. |
| An', better than that, I was steady an' true, |
| An' put my good resolutions through. |
| But I wrote to a trusty old neighbor, an' said, |
| "You tell 'em, old fellow, that I am dead, |
| An' died a Christian; 'twill please 'em more, |
| Than if I had lived the same as before." |
| |
| But when this neighbor he wrote to me, |
| "Your mother's in the poor-house," says he, |
| I had a resurrection straightway, |
| An' started for her that very day. |
| And when I arrived where I was grown, |
| I took good care that I shouldn't be known; |
| But I bought the old cottage, through and through, |
| Of someone Charley had sold it to; |
| And held back neither work nor gold |
| To fix it up as it was of old. |
| The same big fire-place, wide and high, |
| Flung up its cinders toward the sky; |
| The old clock ticked on the corner-shelf— |
| I wound it an' set it a-goin' myself; |
| An' if everything wasn't just the same, |
| Neither I nor money was to blame; |
| Then—over the hill to the poor-house! |
| |
| One blowin', blusterin' winter's day, |
| With a team an' cutter I started away; |
| My fiery nags was as black as coal; |
| (They some'at resembled the horse I stole;) |
| I hitched, an' entered the poor-house door— |
| A poor old woman was scrubbin' the floor; |
| She rose to her feet in great surprise, |
| And looked, quite startled, into my eyes; |
| I saw the whole of her trouble's trace |
| In the lines that marred her dear old face; |
| "Mother!" I shouted, "your sorrows is done! |
| You're adopted along o' your horse thief son, |
| Come over the hill from the poor-house!" |
| |
| She didn't faint; she knelt by my side, |
| An' thanked the Lord, till I fairly cried. |
| An' maybe our ride wasn't pleasant an' gay, |
| An' maybe she wasn't wrapped up that day; |
| An' maybe our cottage wasn't warm an' bright, |
| An' maybe it wasn't a pleasant sight, |
| To see her a-gettin' the evenin's tea, |
| An' frequently stoppin' an' kissin' me; |
| An' maybe we didn't live happy for years, |
| In spite of my brothers' and sisters' sneers, |
| Who often said, as I have heard, |
| That they wouldn't own a prison-bird; |
| (Though they're gettin' over that, I guess, |
| For all of 'em owe me more or less;) |
| But I've learned one thing; an' it cheers a man |
| In always a-doin' the best he can; |
| That whether on the big book, a blot |
| Gets over a fellow's name or not, |
| Whenever he does a deed that's white, |
| It's credited to him fair and right. |
| An' when you hear the great bugle's notes, |
| An' the Lord divides his sheep and goats, |
| However they may settle my case, |
| Wherever they may fix my place, |
| My good old Christian mother, you'll see, |
| Will be sure to stand right up for me, |
| With over the hill from the poor-house! |
| |
| Will Carleton. |
| O'Grady lived in Shanty row, |
| The neighbors often said |
| They wished that Tim would move away |
| Or that his goat was dead. |
| He kept the neighborhood in fear, |
| And the children always vexed; |
| They couldn't tell jist whin or where |
| The goat would pop up next. |
| |
| Ould Missis Casey stood wan day |
| The dirty clothes to rub |
| Upon the washboard, when she dived |
| Headforemosht o'er the tub; |
| She lit upon her back an' yelled, |
| As she was lying flat: |
| "Go git your goon an' kill the bashte." |
| O'Grady's goat doon that. |
| |
| Pat Doolan's woife hung out the wash |
| Upon the line to dry. |
| She wint to take it in at night, |
| But stopped to have a cry. |
| The sleeves av two red flannel shirts, |
| That once were worn by Pat, |
| Were chewed off almost to the neck. |
| O'Grady's goat doon that. |
| |
| They had a party at McCune's, |
| An' they wor having foon, |
| Whin suddinly there was a crash |
| An' ivrybody roon. |
| The iseter soup fell on the floor |
| An' nearly drowned the cat; |
| The stove was knocked to smithereens. |
| O'Grady's goat doon that. |
| |
| Moike Dyle was coortin' Biddy Shea, |
| Both standin' at the gate, |
| An' they wor just about to kiss |
| Aich oother sly and shwate. |
| They coom togither loike two rams. |
| An' mashed their noses flat. |
| They niver shpake whin they goes by. |
| O'Grady's goat doon that. |
|
| |
| O'Hoolerhan brought home a keg |
| Av dannymite wan day |
| To blow a cistern in his yard |
| An' hid the stuff away. |
| But suddinly an airthquake coom, |
| O'Hoolerhan, house an' hat, |
| An' ivrything in sight wint up. |
| O'Grady's goat doon that. |
| |
| An' there was Dooley's Savhin's Bank, |
| That held the byes' sphare cash. |
| One day the news came doon the sthreet |
| The bank had gone to smash. |
| An' ivrybody 'round was dum |
| Wid anger and wid fear, |
| Fer on the dhoor they red the whords, |
| "O'Grady's goat sthruck here." |
| |
| The folks in Grady's naborhood |
| All live in fear and fright; |
| They think it's certain death to go |
| Around there after night. |
| An' in their shlape they see a ghost |
| Upon the air afloat, |
| An' wake thimselves by shoutin' out: |
| "Luck out for Grady's goat." |
| |
| Will S. Hays. |
| By Nebo's lonely mountain, |
| On this side Jordan's wave, |
| In a vale in the land of Moab |
| There lies a lonely grave, |
| And no man knows that sepulchre, |
| And no man saw it e'er, |
| For the angels of God upturn'd the sod |
| And laid the dead man there. |
| |
| That was the grandest funeral |
| That ever pass'd on earth; |
| But no man heard the trampling, |
| Or saw the train go forth— |
| Noiselessly as the daylight |
| Comes back when night is done, |
| And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek |
| Grows into the great sun. |
| |
| Noiselessly as the springtime |
| Her crown of verdure weaves, |
| And all the trees on all the hills |
| Open their thousand leaves; |
| So without sound of music, |
| Or voice of them that wept, |
| Silently down from the mountain's crown |
| The great procession swept. |
| |
| Perchance the bald old eagle |
| On gray Beth-peor's height, |
| Out of his lonely eyrie |
| Look'd on the wondrous sight; |
| Perchance the lion, stalking, |
| Still shuns that hallow'd spot, |
| For beast and bird have seen and heard |
| That which man knoweth not. |
| |
| But when the warrior dieth, |
| His comrades in the war, |
| With arms reversed and muffled drum, |
| Follow his funeral car; |
| They show the banners taken, |
| They tell his battles won, |
| And after him lead his masterless steed, |
| While peals the minute gun. |
| |
| Amid the noblest of the land |
| We lay the sage to rest, |
| And give the bard an honor'd place, |
| With costly marble drest, |
| In the great minster transept |
| Where lights like glories fall, |
| And the organ rings, and the sweet choir sings |
| Along the emblazon'd wall. |
| |
| This was the truest warrior |
| That ever buckled sword, |
| This was the most gifted poet |
| That ever breathed a word; |
| And never earth's philosopher |
| Traced with his golden pen, |
| On the deathless page, truths half so sage |
| As he wrote down for men. |
| |
| And had he not high honor,— |
| The hillside for a pall, |
| To lie in state while angels wait |
| With stars for tapers tall, |
| And the dark rock-pines like tossing plumes, |
| Over his bier to wave, |
| And God's own hand, in that lonely land, |
| To lay him in the grave? |
| |
| In that strange grave without a name, |
| Whence his uncoffin'd clay |
| Shall break again, O wondrous thought! |
| Before the judgment day, |
| And stand with glory wrapt around |
| On the hills he never trod, |
| And speak of the strife that won our life |
| With the Incarnate Son of God. |
| |
| O lonely grave in Moab's land |
| O dark Beth-peor's hill, |
| Speak to these curious hearts of ours, |
| And teach them to be still. |
| God hath His mysteries of grace, |
| Ways that we cannot tell; |
| He hides them deep like the hidden sleep |
| Of him He loved so well. |
| |
| Cecil F. Alexander. |
| Alone in the dreary, pitiless street, |
| With my torn old dress, and bare, cold feet, |
| All day have I wandered to and fro, |
| Hungry and shivering, and nowhere to go; |
| The night's coming on in darkness and dread, |
| And the chill sleet beating upon my bare head. |
| Oh! why does the wind blow upon me so wild? |
| Is it because I am nobody's child? |
| |
| Just over the way there's a flood of light, |
| And warmth, and beauty, and all things bright; |
| Beautiful children, in robes so fair, |
| Are caroling songs in their rapture there. |
| I wonder if they, in their blissful glee, |
| Would pity a poor little beggar like me, |
| Wandering alone in the merciless street, |
| Naked and shivering, and nothing to eat? |
| |
| Oh! what shall I do when the night comes down |
| In its terrible blackness all over the town? |
| Shall I lay me down 'neath the angry sky, |
| On the cold, hard pavement, alone to die, |
| When the beautiful children their prayers have said, |
| And their mammas have tucked them up snugly in bed? |
| For no dear mother on me ever smiled. |
| Why is it, I wonder, I'm nobody's child? |
| |
| No father, no mother, no sister, not one |
| In all the world loves me—e'en the little dogs run |
| When I wander too near them; 'tis wondrous to see |
| How everything shrinks from a beggar like me! |
| Perhaps 'tis a dream; but sometimes, when I lie |
| Gazing far up in the dark blue sky, |
| Watching for hours some large bright star, |
| I fancy the beautiful gates are ajar, |
| |
| And a host of white-robed, nameless things |
| Come fluttering o'er me on gilded wings; |
| A hand that is strangely soft and fair |
| Caresses gently my tangled hair, |
| And a voice like the carol of some wild bird— |
| The sweetest voice that was ever heard— |
| Calls me many a dear, pet name, |
| Till my heart and spirit are all aflame. |
| |
| They tell me of such unbounded love, |
| And bid me come to their home above; |
| And then with such pitiful, sad surprise |
| They look at me with their sweet, tender eyes, |
| And it seems to me, out of the dreary night |
| I am going up to that world of light, |
| And away from the hunger and storm so wild; |
| I am sure I shall then be somebody's child. |
| |
| Phila H. Case. |
| Grandma told me all about it, |
| Told me so I could not doubt it, |
| How she danced, my grandma danced, long ago! |
| How she held her pretty head, |
| How her dainty skirts she spread, |
| How she turned her little toes, |
| Smiling little human rose! |
| |
| Grandma's hair was bright and shining, |
| Dimpled cheeks, too! ah! how funny! |
| Bless me, now she wears a cap, |
| My grandma does, and takes a nap every single day; |
| Yet she danced the minuet long ago; |
| Now she sits there rocking, rocking, |
| Always knitting grandpa's stocking— |
| Every girl was taught to knit long ago— |
| But her figure is so neat, |
| And her ways so staid and sweet, |
| I can almost see her now, |
| Bending to her partner's bow, long ago. |
| |
| Grandma says our modern jumping, |
| Rushing, whirling, dashing, bumping, |
| Would have shocked the gentle people long ago. |
| No, they moved with stately grace, |
| Everything in proper place, |
| Gliding slowly forward, then |
| Slowly courtesying back again. |
| |
| Modern ways are quite alarming, grandma says, |
| But boys were charming— |
| Girls and boys I mean, of course—long ago, |
| Sweetly modest, bravely shy! |
| What if all of us should try just to feel |
| Like those who met in the stately minuet, long ago. |
| With the minuet in fashion, |
| Who could fly into a passion? |
| All would wear the calm they wore long ago, |
| And if in years to come, perchance, |
| I tell my grandchild of our dance, |
| I should really like to say, |
| We did it in some such way, long ago. |
| |
| Mary Mapes Dodge. |
| We are two travellers, Roger and I. |
| Roger's my dog—Come here, you scamp! |
| Jump for the gentleman—mind your eye! |
| Over the table—look out for the lamp!— |
| The rogue is growing a little old; |
| Five years we've tramped through wind and weather, |
| And slept outdoors when nights were cold, |
| And ate, and drank—and starved together. |
| |
| We've learned what comfort is, I tell you: |
| A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin, |
| A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow, |
| The paw he holds up there has been frozen), |
| Plenty of catgut for my fiddle, |
| (This outdoor business is bad for strings), |
| Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle, |
| And Roger and I set up for kings! |
| |
| No, thank you, Sir, I never drink. |
| Roger and I are exceedingly moral. |
| Aren't we, Roger? see him wink. |
| Well, something hot then, we won't quarrel. |
| He's thirsty, too—see him nod his head? |
| What a pity, Sir, that dogs can't talk; |
| He understands every word that's said, |
| And he knows good milk from water and chalk. |
| |
| The truth is, Sir, now I reflect, |
| I've been so sadly given to grog, |
| I wonder I've not lost the respect |
| (Here's to you, Sir!) even of my dog. |
| But he sticks by through thick and thin; |
| And this old coat with its empty pockets |
| And rags that smell of tobacco and gin, |
| He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets. |
| |
| There isn't another creature living |
| Would do it, and prove, through every disaster, |
| So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving, |
| To such a miserable, thankless master. |
| No, Sir! see him wag his tail and grin— |
| By George! it makes my old eyes water— |
| That is, there's something in this gin |
| That chokes a fellow, but no matter! |
| |
| We'll have some music, if you're willing. |
| And Roger (hem! what a plague a cough is, Sir!) |
| Shall march a little.—Start, you villain! |
| Paws up! eyes front! salute your officer! |
| 'Bout face! attention! take your rifle! |
| (Some dogs have arms, you see.) Now hold |
| Your cap while the gentleman gives a trifle |
| To aid a poor old patriot soldier! |
| |
| March! Halt! Now show how the Rebel shakes, |
| When he stands up to hear his sentence; |
| Now tell me how many drams it takes |
| To honor a jolly new acquaintance. |
| Five yelps—that's five; he's mighty knowing; |
| The night's before us, fill the glasses;— |
| Quick, Sir! I'm ill, my brain is going!— |
| Some brandy,—thank you;—there,—it passes! |
| |
| Why not reform? That's easily said; |
| But I've gone through such wretched treatment, |
| Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread, |
| And scarce remembering what meat meant, |
| That my poor stomach's past reform; |
| And there are times when, mad with thinking, |
| I'd sell out heaven for something warm |
| To prop a horrible inward sinking. |
| |
| Is there a way to forget to think? |
| At your age, Sir, home, fortune, friends, |
| A dear girl's love,—but I took to drink;— |
| The same old story; you know how it ends. |
| If you could have seen these classic features,— |
| You needn't laugh, Sir; I was not then |
| Such a burning libel on God's creatures; |
| I was one of your handsome men— |
| |
| If you had seen her, so fair, so young, |
| Whose head was happy on this breast; |
| If you could have heard the songs I sung |
| When the wine went round, you wouldn't have guess'd |
| That ever I, Sir, should be straying |
| From door to door, with fiddle and dog, |
| Ragged and penniless, and playing |
| To you to-night for a glass of grog. |
| |
| She's married since,—a parson's wife, |
| 'Twas better for her that we should part; |
| Better the soberest, prosiest life |
| Than a blasted home and a broken heart. |
| I have seen her—once; I was weak and spent |
| On the dusty road; a carriage stopped, |
| But little she dreamed as on she went, |
| Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped. |
| |
| You've set me talking, Sir; I'm sorry; |
| It makes me wild to think of the change! |
| What do you care for a beggar's story? |
| Is it amusing? you find it strange? |
| I had a mother so proud of me! |
| 'Twas well she died before—Do you know |
| If the happy spirits in heaven can see |
| The ruin and wretchedness here below? |
| |
| Another glass, and strong, to deaden |
| This pain; then Roger and I will start. |
| I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden, |
| Aching thing, in place of a heart? |
| He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if he could, |
| No doubt, remembering things that were,— |
| A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food, |
| And himself a sober, respectable cur. |
| |
| I'm better now; that glass was warming— |
| You rascal! limber your lazy feet! |
| We must be fiddling and performing |
| For supper and bed, or starve in the street.— |
| Not a very gay life to lead, you think. |
| But soon we shall go where lodgings are free, |
| And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink;— |
| The sooner, the better for Roger and me. |
| |
| J.T. Trowbridge. |
| In an attic bare and cheerless, Jim the newsboy dying lay |
| On a rough but clean straw pallet, at the fading of the day; |
| Scant the furniture about him but bright flowers were in the room, |
| Crimson phloxes, waxen lilies, roses laden with perfume. |
| On a table by the bedside open at a well-worn page, |
| Where the mother had been reading lay a Bible stained by age, |
| Now he could not hear the verses; he was flighty, and she wept |
| With her arms around her youngest, who close to her side had crept. |
| |
| Blacking boots and selling papers, in all weathers day by day, |
| Brought upon poor Jim consumption, which was eating life away, |
| And this cry came with his anguish for each breath a struggle cost, |
| "'Ere's the morning Sun and 'Erald—latest news of steamship lost. |
| Papers, mister? Morning papers?" Then the cry fell to a moan, |
| Which was changed a moment later to another frenzied tone: |
| "Black yer boots, sir? Just a nickel! Shine 'em like an evening star. |
| It grows late, Jack! Night is coming. Evening papers, here they are!" |
| |
| Soon a mission teacher entered, and approached the humble bed; |
| Then poor Jim's mind cleared an instant, with his cool hand on his head, |
| "Teacher," cried he, "I remember what you said the other day, |
| Ma's been reading of the Saviour, and through Him I see my way. |
| He is with me! Jack, I charge you of our mother take good care |
| When Jim's gone! Hark! boots or papers, which will I be over there? |
| Black yer boots, sir? Shine 'em right up! Papers! Read God's book instead, |
| Better'n papers that to die on! Jack—" one gasp, and Jim was dead! |
| |
| Floating from that attic chamber came the teacher's voice in prayer, |
| And it soothed the bitter sorrow of the mourners kneeling there, |
| He commended them to Heaven, while the tears rolled down his face, |
| Thanking God that Jim had listened to sweet words of peace and grace, |
| Ever 'mid the want and squalor of the wretched and the poor, |
| Kind hearts find a ready welcome, and an always open door; |
| For the sick are in strange places, mourning hearts are everywhere, |
| And such need the voice of kindness, need sweet sympathy and prayer. |
| |
| Emily Thornton. |
| Our band is few, but true and tried, |
| Our leader frank and bold; |
| The British soldier trembles |
| When Marion's name is told. |
| Our fortress is the good green wood, |
| Our tent the cypress tree; |
| We know the forest round us |
| As seamen know the sea; |
| We know its walls of thorny vines, |
| Its glades of reedy grass, |
| Its safe and silent islands |
| Within the dark morass. |
| |
| Woe to the English soldiery |
| That little dread us near! |
| On them shall light at midnight |
| A strange and sudden fear: |
| When, waking to their tents on fire, |
| They grasp their arms in vain, |
| And they who stand to face us |
| Are beat to earth again; |
| And they who fly in terror deem |
| A mighty host behind, |
| And hear the tramp of thousands |
| Upon the hollow wind. |
| |
| Then sweet the hour that brings release |
| From danger and from toil; |
| We talk the battle over |
| And share the battle's spoil. |
| The woodland rings with laugh and shout |
| As if a hunt were up, |
| And woodland flowers are gathered |
| To crown the soldier's cup. |
| With merry songs we mock the wind |
| That in the pine-top grieves, |
| And slumber long and sweetly |
| On beds of oaken leaves. |
| |
| Well knows the fair and friendly moon |
| The band that Marion leads— |
| The glitter of their rifles, |
| The scampering of their steeds. |
| 'Tis life our fiery barbs to guide |
| Across the moonlight plains; |
| 'Tis life to feel the night wind |
| That lifts their tossing manes. |
| A moment in the British camp— |
| A moment—and away— |
| Back to the pathless forest |
| Before the peep of day. |
| |
| Grave men there are by broad Santee, |
| Grave men with hoary hairs; |
| Their hearts are all with Marion, |
| For Marion are their prayers. |
| And lovely ladies greet our band |
| With kindliest welcoming, |
| With smiles like those of summer, |
| And tears like those of spring. |
| For them we wear these trusty arms, |
| And lay them down no more |
| Till we have driven the Briton |
| Forever from our shore. |
| |
| William Cullen Bryant. |
| The feast is o'er! Now brimming wine |
| In lordly cup is seen to shine |
| Before each eager guest; |
| And silence fills the crowded hall, |
| As deep as when the herald's call |
| Thrills in the loyal breast. |
| |
| Then up arose the noble host, |
| And, smiling, cried: "A toast! a toast! |
| To all our ladies fair! |
| Here before all, I pledge the name |
| Of Staunton's proud and beauteous dame, |
| The Ladye Gundamere!" |
| |
| Then to his feet each gallant sprung, |
| And joyous was the shout that rung, |
| As Stanley gave the word; |
| And every cup was raised on high, |
| Nor ceased the loud and gladsome cry |
| Till Stanley's voice was heard. |
| |
| "Enough, enough," he, smiling, said, |
| And lowly bent his haughty head; |
| "That all may have their due, |
| Now each in turn must play his part, |
| And pledge the lady of his heart, |
| Like gallant knight and true!" |
| |
| Then one by one each guest sprang up, |
| And drained in turn the brimming cup, |
| And named the loved one's name; |
| And each, as hand on high he raised, |
| His lady's grace or beauty praised, |
| Her constancy and fame. |
| |
| 'Tis now St. Leon's turn to rise; |
| On him are fixed those countless eyes;— |
| A gallant knight is he; |
| Envied by some, admired by all, |
| Far famed in lady's bower and hall,— |
| The flower of chivalry. |
| |
| St. Leon raised his kindling eye, |
| And lifts the sparkling cup on high: |
| "I drink to one," he said, |
| "Whose image never may depart, |
| Deep graven on this grateful heart, |
| Till memory be dead. |
| |
| "To one, whose love for me shall last |
| When lighter passions long have past,— |
| So holy 'tis and true; |
| To one, whose love hath longer dwelt, |
| More deeply fixed, more keenly felt, |
| Than any pledged by you." |
| |
| Each guest upstarted at the word, |
| And laid a hand upon his sword, |
| With fury flashing eye; |
| And Stanley said: "We crave the name, |
| Proud knight, of this most peerless dame, |
| Whose love you count so high." |
| |
| St. Leon paused, as if he would |
| Not breathe her name in careless mood, |
| Thus lightly to another; |
| Then bent his noble head, as though |
| To give that word the reverence due, |
| And gently said: "My Mother!" |
| |
| Sir Walter Scott. |
| God makes sech nights, all white an' still |
| Fur 'z you can look or listen, |
| Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, |
| All silence an' all glisten. |
| |
| Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown |
| An' peeked in thru the winder. |
| An' there sot Huldy all alone, |
| 'ith no one nigh to hender. |
| |
| A fireplace filled the room's one side |
| With half a cord o' wood in— |
| There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died) |
| To bake ye to a puddin'. |
| |
| The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out |
| Towards the pootiest, bless her, |
| An' leetle flames danced all about |
| The chiny on the dresser. |
| |
| Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, |
| An' in amongst 'em rusted |
| The ole queen's-arm thet gran'ther Young |
| Fetched back from Concord busted. |
| |
| The very room, coz she was in, |
| Seemed warm from floor to ceilin', |
| An' she looked full ez rosy agin |
| Ez the apples she was peelin'. |
| |
| 'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look |
| On sech a blessed cretur, |
| A dogrose blushin' to a brook |
| Ain't modester nor sweeter. |
| |
| He was six foot o' man, A 1, |
| Clear grit an' human natur'; |
| None couldn't quicker pitch a ton |
| Nor dror a furrer straighter, |
| |
| He'd sparked it with full twenty gals, |
| Hed squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, |
| Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells— |
| All is, he couldn't love 'em, |
| |
| But long o' her his veins 'ould run |
| All crinkly like curled maple, |
| The side she breshed felt full o' sun |
| Ez a south slope in Ap'il. |
| |
| She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing |
| Ez hisn in the choir; |
| My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring, |
| She knowed the Lord was nigher. |
| |
| An' she'd blush scarlet, right in prayer, |
| When her new meetin'-bunnit |
| Felt somehow thru its crown a pair |
| O' blue eyes sot upun it. |
| |
| Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some! |
| She seemed to 've gut a new soul, |
| For she felt sartin-sure he'd come, |
| Down to her very shoe-sole. |
| |
| She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu, |
| A-raspin' on the scraper,— |
| All ways to once her feelin's flew |
| Like sparks in burnt-up paper. |
| |
| He kin' o' l'itered on the mat, |
| Some doubtfle o' the sekle, |
| His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, |
| But hern went pity Zekle. |
| |
| An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk |
| Ez though she wished him furder, |
| An' on her apples kep' to work, |
| Parin' away like murder. |
| |
| "You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?" |
| "Wal—no—I come dasignin'"— |
| "To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es |
| Agin to-morrer's i'nin'." |
| |
| To say why gals acts so or so, |
| Or don't, 'ould be presumin'; |
| Mebby to mean yes an' say no |
| Comes nateral to women. |
| |
| He stood a spell on one foot fust, |
| Then stood a spell on t'other, |
| An' on which one he felt the wust |
| He couldn't ha' told ye nuther. |
| |
| Says he, "I'd better call agin"; |
| Says she, "Think likely, Mister"; |
| Thet last work pricked him like a pin, |
| An'—Wal, he up an' kist her. |
| |
| When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, |
| Huldy sot pale ez ashes, |
| All kin' o' smily roun' the lips |
| An' teary roun' the lashes. |
| |
| For she was jes' the quiet kind |
| Whose naturs never vary, |
| Like streams that keep a summer mind |
| Snowhid in Jenooary. |
| |
| The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued |
| Too tight for all expressin', |
| Tell mother see how metters stood, |
| An' gin 'em both her blessin'. |
| |
| Then her red come back like the tide |
| Down to the Bay o' Fundy. |
| An' all I know is they was cried |
| In meetin' come nex' Sunday. |
| |
| James Russell Lowell. |
| It was the twilight hour; |
| Behind the western hill the sun had sunk, |
| Leaving the evening sky aglow with crimson light. |
| The air is filled with fragrance and with sound; |
| High in the tops of shadowy vine-wreathed trees, |
| Grave parent-birds were twittering good-night songs, |
| To still their restless brood. |
| Across the way |
| A noisy little brook made pleasant |
| Music on the summer air, |
| And farther on, the sweet, faint sound |
| Of Whippoorwill Falls rose on the air, and fell |
| Like some sweet chant at vespers. |
| The air is heavy |
| With the scent of mignonette and rose, |
| And from the beds of flowers the tall |
| White lilies point like angel fingers upward, |
| Casting on the air an incense sweet, |
| That brings to mind the old, old story |
| Of the alabaster box that loving Mary |
| Broke upon the Master's feet. |
| |
| Upon his vine-wreathed porch |
| An old white-headed man sits dreaming |
| Happy, happy dreams of days that are no more; |
| And listening to the quaint old song |
| With which his daughter lulled her child to rest: |
| |
| "Abide with me," she says; |
| "Fast falls the eventide; |
| The darkness deepens,— |
| Lord, with me abide." |
| |
| And as he listens to the sounds that fill the |
| Summer air, sweet, dreamy thoughts |
| Of his "lost youth" come crowding thickly up; |
| And, for a while, he seems a boy again. |
| With feet all bare |
| He wades the rippling brook, and with a boyish shout |
| Gathers the violets blue, and nodding ferns, |
| That wave a welcome from the other side. |
| With those he wreathes |
| The sunny head of little Nell, a neighbor's child, |
| Companion of his sorrows and his joys. |
| Sweet, dainty Nell, whose baby life |
| Seemed early linked with his, |
| And whom he loved with all a boy's devotion. |
| |
| Long years have flown. |
| No longer boy and girl, but man and woman grown, |
| They stand again beside the brook, that murmurs |
| Ever in its course, nor stays for time nor man, |
| And tell the old, old story, |
| And promise to be true till life for them shall end. |
| |
| Again the years roll on, |
| And they are old. The frost of age |
| Has touched the once-brown hair, |
| And left it white as are the chaliced lilies. |
| Children, whose rosy lips once claimed |
| A father's blessing and a mother's love, |
| Have grown to man's estate, save two |
| Whom God called early home to wait |
| For them in heaven. |
| |
| And then the old man thinks |
| How on a night like this, when faint |
| And sweet as half-remembered dreams |
| Old Whippoorwill Falls did murmur soft |
| Its evening psalms, when fragrant lilies |
| Pointed up the way her Christ had gone, |
| God called the wife and mother home, |
| And bade him wait. |
| Oh! why is it so hard for |
| Man to wait? to sit with folded hands, |
| Apart, amid the busy throng, |
| And hear the buzz and hum of toil around; |
| To see men reap and bind the golden sheaves |
| Of earthly fruits, while he looks idly on, |
| And knows he may not join, |
| But only wait till God has said, "Enough!" |
| And calls him home! |
| |
| And thus the old man dreams, |
| And then awakes; awakes to hear |
| The sweet old song just dying |
| On the pulsing evening air: |
| |
| "When other helpers fail, |
| And comforts flee, |
| Lord of the helpless, |
| Oh, abide with me!" |
| |
| Eliza M. Sherman. |
| Out of the hills of Habersham, |
| Down the valleys of Hall, |
| I hurry amain to reach the plain, |
| Run the rapid and leap the fall, |
| Split at the rock and together again, |
| Accept my bed, or narrow or wide, |
| And flee from folly on every side |
| With a lover's pain to attain the plain |
| Far from the hills of Habersham, |
| Far from the valleys of Hall. |
| |
| All down the hills of Habersham, |
| All through the valleys of Hall, |
| The rushes cried "Abide, abide," |
| The wilful waterweeds held me thrall, |
| The laving laurel turned my tide, |
| The ferns and the fondling grass said "Stay," |
| The dewberry dipped for to work delay, |
| And the little reeds sighed "Abide, abide |
| Here in the hills of Habersham, |
| Here in the valleys of Hall." |
| |
| High o'er the hills of Habersham, |
| Veiling the valleys of Hall, |
| The hickory told me manifold |
| Fair tales of shade, the poplar tall |
| Wrought me her shadowy self to hold, |
| The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine, |
| O'erleaning, with flickering meaning and sign, |
| Said, "Pass not, so cold, these manifold |
| Deep shades of the hills of Habersham, |
| These glades in the valleys of Hall." |
| |
| And oft in the hills of Habersham, |
| And oft in the valleys of Hall, |
| The white quartz shone, and the smooth brookstone |
| Did bar me of passage with friendly brawl, |
| And many a luminous jewel lone |
| —Crystals clear or a-cloud with mist, |
| Ruby, garnet, and amethyst— |
| Made lures with the lights of streaming stone, |
| In the clefts of the hills of Habersham, |
| In the beds of the valleys of Hall. |
| |
| But oh, not the hills of Habersham, |
| And oh, not the valleys of Hall |
| Avail: I am fain for to water the plain. |
| Downward the voices of Duty call— |
| Downward, to toil and be mixed with the main. |
| The dry fields burn, and the mills are to turn, |
| And a myriad flowers mortally yearn, |
| And the lordly main from beyond the plain |
| Calls o'er the hills of Habersham, |
| Calls through the valleys of Hall. |
| |
| Sidney Lanier. |
| I |
| The district school-master was sitting behind his great book-laden desk, |
| Close-watching the motions of scholars, pathetic and gay and grotesque. |
| As whisper the half-leafless branches, when autumn's brisk breezes have come, |
| His little scrub-thicket of pupils sent upward a half-smothered hum. |
| There was little Tom Timms on the front seat, whose face was withstanding a drouth. |
| And jolly Jack Gibbs just behind him, with a rainy new moon for a mouth; |
| There were both of the Smith boys, as studious as if they bore names that could bloom, |
| And Jim Jones, a heaven-built mechanic, the slyest young knave in the room, |
| With a countenance grave as a horse's, and his honest eyes fixed on a pin, |
| Queer-bent on a deeply-laid project to tunnel Joe Hawkins's skin. |
| There were anxious young novices, drilling their spelling-books into their brain, |
| Loud-puffing each half-whispered letter, like an engine just starting its train; |
| There was one fiercely muscular fellow, who scowled at the sums on his slate, |
| And leered at the innocent figures a look of unspeakable hate; |
| And set his white teeth close together, and gave his thin lips a short twist, |
| As to say, "I could whip you, confound you! could such things be done with the fist!" |
| There were two knowing girls in the corner, each one with some beauty possessed, |
| In a whisper discussing the problem which one the young master likes best; |
| A class in the front, with their readers, were telling, with difficult pains, |
| How perished brave Marco Bozzaris while bleeding at all of his veins; |
| And a boy on the floor to be punished, a statue of idleness stood, |
| Making faces at all of the others, and enjoying the scene all he could. |
| |
| II |
| Around were the walls, gray and dingy, which every old school-sanctum hath, |
| With many a break on their surface, where grinned a wood-grating of lath. |
| A patch of thick plaster, just over the school-master's rickety chair, |
| Seemed threat'ningly o'er him suspended, like Damocles' sword, by a hair. |
| There were tracks on the desks where the knife-blades had wandered in search of their prey; |
| Their tops were as duskily spattered as if they drank ink every day. |
| The square stove it puffed and it crackled, and broke out in red flaming sores, |
| Till the great iron quadruped trembled like a dog fierce to rush out-o'-doors. |
| White snowflakes looked in at the windows; the gale pressed its lips to the cracks; |
| And the children's hot faces were streaming, the while they were freezing their backs. |
| |
| III |
| Now Marco Bozzaris had fallen, and all of his suff'rings were o'er, |
| And the class to their seats were retreating, when footsteps were heard at the door; |
| And five of the good district fathers marched into the room in a row, |
| And stood themselves up by the fire, and shook off their white cloaks of snow. |
| And the spokesman, a grave squire of sixty, with countenance solemnly sad, |
| Spoke thus, while the children all listened, with all of the ears that they had: |
| "We've come here, school-master, in-tendin' to cast an inquirin' eye 'round, |
| Concernin' complaints that's been entered, an' fault that has lately been found; |
| To pace off the width of your doin's, an' witness what you've been about, |
| An' see if it's paying to keep you, or whether we'd best turn ye out. |
| "The first thing I'm bid for to mention is, when the class gets up to read |
| You give 'em too tight of a reinin', an' touch 'em up more than they need; |
| You're nicer than wise in the matter of holdin' the book in one han', |
| An' you turn a stray g in their doin's, an' tack an odd d on their an'; |
| There ain't no great good comes of speakin' the words so polite, as I see, |
| Providin' you know what the facts is, an' tell 'em off jest as they be. |
| An' then there's that readin' in corncert, is censured from first unto last; |
| It kicks up a heap of a racket, when folks is a-travelin' past. |
| Whatever is done as to readin', providin' things go to my say, |
| Shan't hang on no new-fangled hinges, but swing in the old-fashioned way." |
| And the other four good district fathers gave quick the consent that was due, |
| And nodded obliquely, and muttered: "Them 'ere is my sentiments tew." |
| "Then as to your spellin': I've heern tell, by the mas has looked into this, |
| That you turn the u out o' your labour, an' make the word shorter than 'tis; |
| An' clip the k off yer musick, which makes my son Ephraim perplexed, |
| An' when he spells out as he ought'r, you pass the word on to the next. |
| They say there's some new-grafted books here that don't take them letters along; |
| But if it is so, just depend on 't, them new-grafted books is made wrong. |
| You might just as well say that Jackson didn't know all there was about war, |
| As to say that old Spellin'-book Webster didn't know what them letters was for." |
| And the other four good district fathers gave quick the consent that was due, |
| And scratched their heads slyly and softly, and said: "Them's my sentiments tew." |
| "Then, also, your 'rithmetic doin's, as they are reported to me, |
| Is that you have left Tare an' Tret out, an' also the old Rule o' Three; |
| An' likewise brought in a new study, some high-steppin' scholars to please, |
| With saw-bucks an' crosses and pothooks, an' w's, x's, y's an' z's. |
| We ain't got no time for such foolin'; there ain't no great good to be reached |
| By tiptoein' childr'n up higher than ever their fathers was teached." |
| And the other four good district fathers gave quick the consent that was due, |
| And cocked one eye up to the ceiling, and said: "Them's my sentiments tew." |
| "Another thing, I must here mention, comes into the question to-day, |
| Concernin' some things in the grammar you're teachin' our gals for to say. |
| My gals is as steady as clockwork, and never give cause for much fear, |
| But they come home from school t'other evenin' a-talking such stuff as this here: |
| 'I love,' an' 'Thou lovest,' an' 'He loves,' an' 'We love,' an' 'You love,' an' 'They—' |
| An' they answered my questions: 'It's grammar'—'twas all I could get 'em to say. |
| Now if, 'stead of doin' your duty, you're carryin' matters on so |
| As to make the gals say that they love you, it's just all that I want to know." |
| |
| IV |
| Now Jim, the young heaven-built mechanic, in the dusk of the evening before, |
| Had well-nigh unjointed the stovepipe, to make it come down on the floor; |
| And the squire bringing smartly his foot down, as a clincher to what he had said, |
| A joint of the pipe fell upon him, and larruped him square on the head. |
| The soot flew in clouds all about him, and blotted with black all the place |
| And the squire and the other four fathers were peppered with black in the face. |
| The school, ever sharp for amusement, laid down all their cumbersome books |
| And, spite of the teacher's endeavors, laughed loud at their visitors' looks. |
| And the squire, as he stalked to the doorway, swore oaths of a violet hue; |
| And the four district fathers, who followed, seemed to say: "Them's my sentiments tew." |
| |
| Will Carleton. |
| Who dat knockin' at de do'? |
| Why, Ike Johnson—yes, fu' sho'! |
| Come in, Ike. I's mighty glad |
| You come down. I t'ought you's mad |
| At me 'bout de othah night, |
| An' was stayin' 'way fu' spite. |
| Say, now, was you mad fu' true |
| W'en I kin' o' laughed at you? |
| Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f. |
| |
| 'Tain't no use a-lookin' sad, |
| An' a-mekin' out you's mad; |
| Ef you's gwine to be so glum, |
| Wondah why you evah come. |
| I don't lak nobidy 'roun' |
| Dat jes' shet dey mouf an' frown— |
| Oh, now, man, don't act a dunce! |
| Cain't you talk? I tol' you once, |
| Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f. |
| |
| Wha'd you come hyeah fu' to-night? |
| Body'd t'ink yo' haid ain't right. |
| I's done all dat I kin do— |
| Dressed perticler, jes' fu' you; |
| Reckon I'd a' bettah wo' |
| My ol' ragged calico. |
| Aftah all de pains I's took, |
| Cain't you tell me how I look? |
| Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f. |
| |
| Bless my soul! I 'mos' fu'got |
| Tellin' you 'bout Tildy Scott. |
| Don't you know, come Thu'sday night, |
| She gwine ma'y Lucius White? |
| Miss Lize say I allus wuh |
| Heap sight laklier 'n huh; |
| An' she'll git me somep'n new, |
| Ef I wants to ma'y too. |
| Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f. |
| |
| I could ma'y in a week, |
| If de man I wants 'ud speak. |
| Tildy's presents 'll be fine, |
| But dey wouldn't ekal mine. |
| Him whut gits me fu' a wife |
| 'll be proud, you bet yo' life. |
| I's had offers, some ain't quit; |
| But I hasn't ma'ied yit! |
| Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f. |
| |
| Ike, I loves you—yes, I does; |
| You's my choice, and allus was. |
| Laffin' at you ain't no harm— |
| Go 'way, dahky, whah's yo' arm? |
| Hug me closer—dah, da's right! |
| Wasn't you a awful sight, |
| Havin' me to baig you so? |
| Now ax whut you want to know— |
| Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f. |
| |
| Paul Laurence Dunbar. |
| At Paris it was, at the opera there;— |
| And she looked like a queen in a book that night, |
| With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair, |
| And the brooch on her breast so bright. |
| |
| Of all the operas that Verdi wrote, |
| The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore; |
| And Mario can soothe, with a tenor note, |
| The souls in purgatory. |
| |
| The moon on the tower slept soft as snow; |
| And who was not thrilled in the strangest way, |
| As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low, |
| [Non ti scordar di me?*] |
| |
| The emperor there, in his box of state, |
| Looked grave, as if he had just then seen |
| The red flag wave from the city gate, |
| Where his eagles in bronze had been. |
| |
| The empress, too, had a tear in her eye, |
| You'd have said that her fancy had gone back again, |
| For one moment, under the old blue sky, |
| To the old glad life in Spain. |
| |
| Well, there in our front-row box we sat |
| Together, my bride betrothed and I; |
| My gaze was fixed on my opera hat, |
| And hers on the stage hard by. |
| |
| And both were silent, and both were sad. |
| Like a queen she leaned on her full white arm, |
| With that regal, indolent air she had; |
| So confident of her charm! |
| |
| I have not a doubt she was thinking then |
| Of her former lord, good soul that he was! |
| Who died the richest and roundest of men. |
| The Marquis of Carabas. |
| |
| I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven, |
| Through a needle's eye he had not to pass; |
| I wish him well, for the jointure given |
| To my Lady of Carabas. |
| |
| Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love, |
| As I had not been thinking of aught for years, |
| Till over my eyes there began to move |
| Something that felt like tears. |
| |
| I thought of the dress that she wore last time, |
| When we stood 'neath the cypress trees together, |
| In that lost land, in that soft clime, |
| In the crimson evening weather: |
| |
| Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot); |
| And her warm white neck in its golden chain; |
| And her full soft hair, just tied in a knot, |
| And falling loose again; |
| |
| And the jasmine flower in her fair young breast; |
| (Oh, the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine flower!) |
| And the one bird singing alone to his nest; |
| And the one star over the tower. |
| |
| I thought of our little quarrels and strife, |
| And the letter that brought me back my ring; |
| And it all seemed then, in the waste of life, |
| Such a very little thing! |
| |
| For I thought of her grave below the hill, |
| Which the sentinel cypress tree stands over; |
| And I thought, "Were she only living still, |
| How I could forgive her and love her!" |
| |
| And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in that hour, |
| And of how, after all, old things are best, |
| That I smelt the smell of that jasmine flower |
| Which she used to wear in her breast. |
| |
| It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet, |
| It made me creep, and it made me cold; |
| Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet |
| Where a mummy is half unrolled. |
| |
| And I turned and looked: she was sitting there, |
| In a dim box over the stage, and drest |
| In that muslin dress, with that full, soft hair, |
| And that jasmine in her breast! |
| |
| I was here, and she was there; |
| And the glittering horse-shoe curved between:— |
| From my bride betrothed, with her raven hair, |
| And her sumptuous, scornful mien, |
| |
| To my early love, with her eyes downcast, |
| And over her primrose face the shade, |
| (In short, from the future back to the past,) |
| There was but a step to be made. |
| |
| To my early love from my future bride |
| One moment I looked. Then I stole to the door, |
| I traversed the passage; and down at her side |
| I was sitting, a moment more. |
| |
| My thinking of her or the music's strain, |
| Or something which never will be exprest, |
| Had brought her back from the grave again, |
| With the jasmine in her breast. |
| |
| She is not dead, and she is not wed! |
| But she loves me now, and she loved me then! |
| And the very first word that her sweet lips said, |
| My heart grew youthful again. |
| |
| The marchioness there, of Carabas, |
| She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still; |
| And but for her—well, we'll let that pass; |
| She may marry whomever she will. |
| |
| But I will marry my own first love, |
| With her primrose face, for old things are best; |
| And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above |
| The brooch in my lady's breast. |
| |
| The world is filled with folly and sin, |
| And love must cling where it can, I say: |
| For beauty is easy enough to win; |
| But one isn't loved every day, |
| |
| And I think in the lives of most women and men, |
| There's a moment when all would go smooth and even, |
| If only the dead could find out when |
| To come back, and be forgiven. |
| |
| But oh the smell of that jasmine flower! |
| And oh, that music! and oh, the way |
| That voice rang out from the donjon tower, |
| Non ti scordar di me, |
| Non ti scordar di me! |
| |
| Robert Bulwer Lytton. |
| |
| The night was dark when Sam set out |
| To court old Jones's daughter; |
| He kinder felt as if he must, |
| And kinder hadn't oughter. |
| His heart against his waistcoat throbbed, |
| His feelings had a tussle, |
| Which nearly conquered him despite |
| Six feet of bone and muscle. |
| |
| The candle in the window shone |
| With a most doleful glimmer, |
| And Sam he felt his courage ooze, |
| And through his fingers simmer. |
| Says he: "Now, Sam, don't be a fool, |
| Take courage, shaking doubter, |
| Go on, and pop the question right, |
| For you can't live without her." |
| |
| But still, as he drew near the house, |
| His knees got in a tremble, |
| The beating of his heart ne'er beat |
| His efforts to dissemble. |
| Says he: "Now, Sam, don't be a goose, |
| And let the female wimmin |
| Knock all your thoughts a-skelter so, |
| And set your heart a-swimmin'." |
| |
| So Sam, he kinder raised the latch, |
| His courage also raising, |
| And in a moment he sat inside, |
| Cid Jones's crops a-praising. |
| He tried awhile to talk the farm |
| In words half dull, half witty, |
| Not knowing that old Jones well knew |
| His only thought was—Kitty. |
| |
| At last the old folks went to bed— |
| The Joneses were but human; |
| Old Jones was something of a man, |
| And Mrs. Jones—a woman. |
| And Kitty she the pitcher took, |
| And started for the cellar; |
| It wasn't often that she had |
| So promising a feller. |
| |
| And somehow when she came upstairs, |
| And Sam had drank his cider, |
| There seemed a difference in the chairs, |
| And Sam was close beside her; |
| His stalwart arm dropped round her waist, |
| Her head dropped on his shoulder, |
| And Sam—well, he had changed his tune |
| And grown a trifle bolder. |
| |
| But this, if you live long enough, |
| You surely will discover, |
| There's nothing in this world of ours |
| Except the loved and lover. |
| The morning sky was growing gray |
| As Sam the farm was leaving, |
| His face was surely not the face |
| Of one half grieved, or grieving. |
| |
| And Kitty she walked smiling back, |
| With blushing face, and slowly; |
| There's something in the humblest love |
| That makes it pure and holy. |
| And did he marry her, you ask? |
| She stands there with the ladle |
| A-skimming of the morning's milk— |
| That's Sam who rocks the cradle. |
| 'Tis a cold, bleak night! with angry roar |
| The north winds beat and clamor at the door; |
| The drifted snow lies heaped along the street, |
| Swept by a blinding storm of hail and sleet; |
| The clouded heavens no guiding starlight lend |
| But o'er the earth in gloom and darkness bend; |
| Gigantic shadows, by the night lamps thrown, |
| Dance their weird revels fitfully alone. |
| |
| In lofty halls, where fortune takes its ease, |
| Sunk in the treasures of all lands and seas; |
| In happy homes, where warmth and comfort meet |
| The weary traveler with their smiles to greet; |
| In lowly dwellings, where the needy swarm |
| Round starving embers, chilling limbs to warm, |
| Rises the prayer that makes the sad heart light— |
| "Thank God for home, this bitter, bitter night!" |
| |
| But hark! above the beating of the storm |
| Peals on the startled ear the fire alarm. |
| Yon gloomy heaven's aflame with sudden light, |
| And heart-beats quicken with a strange affright; |
| From tranquil slumbers springs, at duty's call, |
| The ready friend no danger can appall; |
| Fierce for the conflict, sturdy, true, and brave, |
| He hurries forth to battle and to save. |
| |
| From yonder dwelling, fiercely shooting out, |
| Devouring all they coil themselves about, |
| The flaming furies, mounting high and higher, |
| Wrap the frail structure in a cloak of fire. |
| Strong arms are battling with the stubborn foe |
| In vain attempts their power to overthrow; |
| With mocking glee they revel with their prey, |
| Defying human skill to check their way. |
| |
| And see! far up above the flame's hot breath, |
| Something that's human waits a horrid death; |
| A little child, with waving golden hair, |
| Stands, like a phantom, 'mid the horrid glare,— |
| Her pale, sweet face against the window pressed, |
| While sobs of terror shake her tender breast. |
| And from the crowd beneath, in accents wild, |
| A mother screams, "O God! my child! my child!" |
| |
| Up goes a ladder. Through the startled throng |
| A hardy fireman swiftly moves along; |
| Mounts sure and fast along the slender way, |
| Fearing no danger, dreading but delay. |
| The stifling smoke-clouds lower in his path, |
| Sharp tongues of flame assail him in their wrath; |
| But up, still up he goes! the goal is won! |
| His strong arm beats the sash, and he is gone! |
| |
| Gone to his death. The wily flames surround |
| And burn and beat his ladder to the ground, |
| In flaming columns move with quickened beat |
| To rear a massive wall 'gainst his retreat. |
| Courageous heart, thy mission was so pure, |
| Suffering humanity must thy loss deplore; |
| Henceforth with martyred heroes thou shalt live, |
| Crowned with all honors nobleness can give. |
| |
| Nay, not so fast; subdue these gloomy fears; |
| Behold! he quickly on the roof appears, |
| Bearing the tender child, his jacket warm |
| Flung round her shrinking form to guard from harm, |
| Up with your ladders! Quick! 'tis but a chance! |
| Behold, how fast the roaring flames advance! |
| Quick! quick! brave spirits, to his rescue fly; |
| Up! up! by heavens, this hero must not die! |
| |
| Silence! he comes along the burning road, |
| Bearing, with tender care, his living load; |
| Aha! he totters! Heaven in mercy save |
| The good, true heart that can so nobly brave! |
| He's up again! and now he's coming fast— |
| One moment, and the fiery ordeal's passed— |
| And now he's safe! Bold flames, ye fought in vain. |
| A happy mother clasps her child again. |
| |
| George M. Baker. |
| 'Twas on Lake Erie's broad expanse |
| One bright midsummer day, |
| The gallant steamer Ocean Queen |
| Swept proudly on her way. |
| Bright faces clustered on the deck, |
| Or, leaning o'er the side, |
| Watched carelessly the feathery foam |
| That flecked the rippling tide. |
| |
| Ah, who beneath that cloudless sky, |
| That smiling bends serene, |
| Could dream that danger, awful, vast, |
| Impended o'er the scene; |
| Could dream that ere an hour had sped |
| That frame of sturdy oak |
| Would sink beneath the lake's blue waves, |
| Blackened with fire and smoke? |
| |
| A seaman sought the captain's side, |
| A moment whispered low; |
| The captain's swarthy face grew pale; |
| He hurried down below. |
| Alas, too late! Though quick, and sharp, |
| And clear his orders came, |
| No human efforts could avail |
| To quench th' insidious flame. |
| |
| The bad news quickly reached the deck, |
| It sped from lip to lip, |
| And ghastly faces everywhere |
| Looked from the doomed ship. |
| "Is there no hope, no chance of life?" |
| A hundred lips implore; |
| "But one," the captain made reply, |
| "To run the ship on shore." |
| |
| A sailor, whose heroic soul |
| That hour should yet reveal, |
| By name John Maynard, eastern-born, |
| Stood calmly at the wheel. |
| "Head her southeast!" the captain shouts, |
| Above the smothered roar, |
| "Head her southeast without delay! |
| Make for the nearest shore!" |
| |
| No terror pales the helmsman's cheek, |
| Or clouds his dauntless eye, |
| As, in a sailor's measured tone, |
| His voice responds, "Ay! ay!" |
| Three hundred souls, the steamer's freight, |
| Crowd forward wild with fear, |
| While at the stern the dreaded flames |
| Above the deck appear. |
| |
| John Maynard watched the nearing flames, |
| But still with steady hand |
| He grasped the wheel, and steadfastly |
| He steered the ship to land. |
| "John Maynard, can you still hold out?" |
| He heard the captain cry; |
| A voice from out the stifling smoke |
| Faintly responds, "Ay! ay!" |
| |
| But half a mile! a hundred hands |
| Stretch eagerly to shore. |
| But half a mile! That distance sped |
| Peril shall all be o'er. |
| But half a mile! Yet stay, the flames |
| No longer slowly creep, |
| But gather round that helmsman bold, |
| With fierce, impetuous sweep. |
| |
| "John Maynard!" with an anxious voice |
| The captain cries once more, |
| "Stand by the wheel five minutes yet, |
| And we shall reach the shore." |
| Through flame and smoke that dauntless heart |
| Responded firmly still, |
| Unawed, though face to face with death, |
| "With God's good help I will!" |
| |
| The flames approach with giant strides, |
| They scorch his hand and brow; |
| One arm, disabled, seeks his side, |
| Ah! he is conquered now. |
| But no, his teeth are firmly set, |
| He crushes down his pain, |
| His knee upon the stanchion pressed, |
| He guides the ship again. |
| |
| One moment yet! one moment yet! |
| Brave heart, thy task is o'er, |
| The pebbles grate beneath the keel, |
| The steamer touches shore. |
| Three hundred grateful voices rise |
| In praise to God that He |
| Hath saved them from the fearful fire, |
| And from the engulfing sea. |
| |
| But where is he, that helmsman bold? |
| The captain saw him reel, |
| His nerveless hands released their task, |
| He sank beside the wheel. |
| The wave received his lifeless corse, |
| Blackened with smoke and fire. |
| God rest him! Never hero had |
| A nobler funeral pyre! |
| |
| Horatio Alger, Jr. |
| Piller fights is fun, I tell you; |
| There isn't anything I'd rather do |
| Than get a big piller and hold it tight, |
| Stand up in bed and then just fight. |
| |
| Us boys allers have our piller fights |
| And the best night of all is Pa's lodge night. |
| Soon as ever he goes, we say "Good night," |
| Then go right upstairs for a piller fight. |
| |
| Sometimes maybe Ma comes to the stairs |
| And hollers up, "Boys, have you said your prayers?" |
| And then George will holler "Yes, Mamma," for he always has; |
| Good deal of preacher about George, Pa says. |
| |
| Ma says "Pleasant dreams," and shuts the door; |
| If she's a-listenin' both of us snore, |
| But as soon as ever she goes we light a light |
| And pitch right into our piller fight. |
| |
| We play that the bed is Bunker Hill |
| And George is Americans, so he stands still. |
| But I am the British, so I must hit |
| As hard as ever I can to make him git. |
| We played Buena Vista one night— |
| Tell you, that was an awful hard fight! |
| |
| Held up our pillers like they was a flag, |
| An' hollered, "Little more grape-juice, Captain Bragg!" |
| That was the night that George hit the nail— |
| You just ought to have seen those feathers sail! |
| |
| I was covered as white as flour, |
| Me and him picked them up for 'most an hour; |
| Next day when our ma saw that there mess |
| She was pretty mad, you better guess; |
| |
| And she told our pa, and he just said, |
| "Come right on out to this here shed." |
| Tell you, he whipped us till we were sore |
| And made us both promise to do it no more. |
| |
| That was a long time ago, and now lodge nights |
| Or when Pa's away we have piller fights, |
| But in Buena Vista George is bound |
| To see there aren't any nails anywhere 'round. |
| |
| Piller fights is fun, I tell you; |
| There isn't anything I'd rather do |
| Than get a big piller and hold it tight, |
| Stand up in bed, and then just fight. |
| |
| D.A. Ellsworth. |
| I sat alone with my conscience, |
| In a place where time had ceased, |
| And we talked of my former living |
| In the land where the years increased; |
| And I felt I should have to answer |
| The question it might put to me, |
| And to face the question and answer |
| Throughout an eternity. |
| |
| The ghosts of forgotten actions |
| Came floating before my sight, |
| And things that I thought had perished |
| Were alive with a terrible might; |
| And the vision of life's dark record |
| Was an awful thing to face— |
| Alone with my conscience sitting |
| In that solemnly silent place. |
| |
| And I thought of a far-away warning, |
| Of a sorrow that was to be mine, |
| In a land that then was the future, |
| But now is the present time; |
| And I thought of my former thinking |
| Of the judgment day to be; |
| But sitting alone with my conscience |
| Seemed judgment enough for me. |
| |
| And I wondered if there was a future |
| To this land beyond the grave; |
| But no one gave me an answer |
| And no one came to save. |
| Then I felt that the future was present, |
| And the present would never go by, |
| For it was but the thought of a future |
| Become an eternity. |
| |
| Then I woke from my timely dreaming, |
| And the vision passed away; |
| And I knew the far-away warning |
| Was a warning of yesterday. |
| And I pray that I may not forget it |
| In this land before the grave, |
| That I may not cry out in the future, |
| And no one come to save. |
| |
| I have learned a solemn lesson |
| Which I ought to have known before, |
| And which, though I learned it dreaming, |
| I hope to forget no more. |
| |
| So I sit alone with my conscience |
| In the place where the years increase, |
| And I try to fathom the future, |
| In the land where time shall cease. |
| And I know of the future judgment, |
| How dreadful soe'er it be, |
| That to sit alone with my conscience |
| Will be judgment enough for me. |
| It's easy to talk of the patience of Job, Humph! Job hed nothin' to try him! |
| Ef he'd been married to 'Bijah Brown, folks wouldn't have dared come nigh him. |
| Trials, indeed! Now I'll tell you what—ef you want to be sick of your life, |
| Jest come and change places with me a spell—for I'm an inventor's wife. |
| And such inventions! I'm never sure, when I take up my coffee-pot, |
| That 'Bijah hain't been "improvin'" it and it mayn't go off like a shot. |
| Why, didn't he make me a cradle once, that would keep itself a-rockin'; |
| And didn't it pitch the baby out, and wasn't his head bruised shockin'? |
| And there was his "Patent Peeler," too—a wonderful thing, I'll say; |
| But it hed one fault-it never stopped till the apple was peeled away. |
| As for locks and clocks, and mowin' machines and reapers, and all such trash, |
| Why, 'Bijah's invented heaps of 'em but they don't bring in no cash. |
| Law! that don't worry him—not at all; he's the most aggravatin'est man— |
| He'll set in his little workshop there, and whistle, and think, and plan, |
| Inventin' a jew's-harp to go by steam, or a new-fangled powder-horn, |
| While the children's goin' barefoot to school and the weeds is chokin' our corn. |
| When 'Bijah and me kep' company, he warn't like this, you know; |
| Our folks all thought he was dreadful smart—but that was years ago. |
| He was handsome as any pictur then, and he had such a glib, bright way— |
| I never thought that a time would come when I'd rue my weddin' day; |
| But when I've been forced to chop wood, and tend to the farm beside, |
| And look at Bijah a-settin' there, I've jest dropped down and cried. |
| We lost the hull of our turnip crop while he was inventin' a gun |
| But I counted it one of my marcies when it bu'st before 'twas done. |
| So he turned it into a "burglar alarm." It ought to give thieves a fright— |
| 'Twould scare an honest man out of his wits, ef he sot it off at night. |
| Sometimes I wonder if 'Bijah's crazy, he does sech cur'ous things. |
| Hev I told you about his bedstead yit?—'Twas full of wheels and springs; |
| It hed a key to wind it up, and a clock face at the head; |
| All you did was to turn them hands, and at any hour you said, |
| That bed got up and shook itself, and bounced you on the floor, |
| And then shet up, jest like a box, so you couldn't sleep any more. |
| Wa'al, 'Bijah he fixed it all complete, and he sot it at half-past five, |
| But he hadn't mor'n got into it when—dear me! sakes alive! |
| Them wheels began to whiz and whir! I heered a fearful snap! |
| And there was that bedstead, with 'Bijah inside, shet up jest like a trap! |
| I screamed, of course, but 'twan't no use, then I worked that hull long night |
| A-trying to open the pesky thing. At last I got in a fright; |
| I couldn't hear his voice inside, and I thought he might be dyin'; |
| So I took a crow-bar and smashed it in.—There was 'Bijah peacefully lyin', |
| Inventin' a way to git out agin. That was all very well to say, |
| But I don't b'lieve he'd have found it out if I'd left him in all day. |
| Now, sence I've told you my story, do you wonder I'm tired of life? |
| Or think it strange I often wish I warn't an inventor's wife? |
| |
| Mrs. E.T. Corbett. |
| 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. |
| 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. |
| 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. |
| 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. |
| 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. |
| 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. |
| |
| 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. |
| Traveler |
| Why dost thou wildly rush and roar, |
| Mad River, O Mad River? |
| Wilt thou not pause and cease to pour |
| Thy hurrying, headlong waters o'er |
| This rocky shelf forever? |
| |
| What secret trouble stirs thy breast? |
| Why all this fret and flurry? |
| Dost thou not know that what is best |
| In this too restless world is rest |
| From overwork and worry? |
| |
| The River |
| What wouldst thou in these mountains seek, |
| O stranger from the city? |
| Is it perhaps some foolish freak |
| Of thine, to put the words I speak |
| Into a plaintive ditty? |
| |
| Traveler |
| Yes; I would learn of thee thy song, |
| With all its flowing numbers, |
| And in a voice as fresh and strong |
| As thine is, sing it all day long, |
| And hear it in my slumbers. |
| |
| The River |
| A brooklet nameless and unknown |
| Was I at first, resembling |
| A little child, that all alone |
| Comes venturing down the stairs of stone, |
| Irresolute and trembling. |
| |
| Later, by wayward fancies led, |
| For the wide world I panted; |
| Out of the forest dark and dread |
| Across the open fields I fled, |
| Like one pursued and haunted. |
| |
| I tossed my arms, I sang aloud, |
| My voice exultant blending |
| With thunder from the passing cloud, |
| The wind, the forest bent and bowed, |
| The rush of rain descending. |
| |
| I heard the distant ocean call, |
| Imploring and entreating; |
| Drawn onward, o'er this rocky wall |
| I plunged, and the loud waterfall |
| Made answer to the greeting. |
| |
| And now, beset with many ills, |
| A toilsome life I follow; |
| Compelled to carry from the hills |
| These logs to the impatient mills |
| Below there in the hollow. |
| |
| Yet something ever cheers and charms |
| The rudeness of my labors; |
| Daily I water with these arms |
| The cattle of a hundred farms, |
| And have the birds for neighbors. |
| |
| Men call me Mad, and well they may, |
| When, full of rage and trouble, |
| I burst my banks of sand and clay, |
| And sweep their wooden bridge away, |
| Like withered reeds or stubble. |
| |
| Now go and write thy little rhyme, |
| As of thine own creating. |
| Thou seest the day is past its prime; |
| I can no longer waste my time; |
| The mills are tired of waiting. |
| |
| Henry W. Longfellow. |
| "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. |
| 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. |
| Billy's dead, and gone to glory—so is Billy's sister Nell: |
| There's a tale I know about them, were I poet I would tell; |
| Soft it comes, with perfume laden, like a breath of country air |
| Wafted down the filthy alley, bringing fragrant odors there. |
| |
| In that vile and filthy alley, long ago one winter's day, |
| Dying quick of want and fever, hapless, patient Billy lay, |
| While beside him sat his sister, in the garret's dismal gloom, |
| Cheering with her gentle presence Billy's pathway to the tomb. |
| |
| Many a tale of elf and fairy did she tell the dying child, |
| Till his eyes lost half their anguish, and his worn, wan features smiled; |
| Tales herself had heard haphazard, caught amid the Babel roar, |
| Lisped about by tiny gossips playing round their mothers' door. |
| |
| Then she felt his wasted fingers tighten feebly as she told |
| How beyond this dismal alley lay a land of shining gold, |
| Where, when all the pain was over,—where, when all the tears were shed,— |
| He would be a white-frocked angel, with a gold thing on his head. |
| |
| Then she told some garbled story of a kind-eyed Saviour's love, |
| How He'd built for little children great big playgrounds up above, |
| Where they sang and played at hopscotch and at horses all the day, |
| And where beadles and policemen never frightened them away. |
| |
| This was Nell's idea of heaven,—just a bit of what she'd heard, |
| With a little bit invented, and a little bit inferred. |
| But her brother lay and listened, and he seemed to understand, |
| For he closed his eyes and murmured he could see the promised land. |
| |
| "Yes," he whispered, "I can see it, I can see it, sister Nell, |
| Oh, the children look so happy and they're all so strong and well; |
| I can see them there with Jesus—He is playing with them, too! |
| Let as run away and join them, if there's room for me and you." |
| |
| She was eight, this little maiden, and her life had all been spent |
| In the garret and the alley, where they starved to pay the rent; |
| Where a drunken father's curses and a drunken mother's blows |
| Drove her forth into the gutter from the day's dawn to its close. |
| |
| But she knew enough, this outcast, just to tell this sinking boy, |
| "You must die before you're able all the blessings to enjoy. |
| You must die," she whispered, "Billy, and I am not even ill; |
| But I'll come to you, dear brother,—yes, I promise that I will. |
| |
| "You are dying, little brother, you are dying, oh, so fast; |
| I heard father say to mother that he knew you couldn't last. |
| They will put you in a coffin, then you'll wake and be up there, |
| While I'm left alone to suffer in this garret bleak and bare." |
| |
| "Yes, I know it," answered Billy. "Ah, but, sister, I don't mind, |
| Gentle Jesus will not beat me; He's not cruel or unkind. |
| But I can't help thinking, Nelly, I should like to take away |
| Something, sister, that you gave me, I might look at every day. |
| |
| "In the summer you remember how the mission took us out |
| To a great green lovely meadow, where we played and ran about, |
| And the van that took us halted by a sweet bright patch of land, |
| Where the fine red blossoms grew, dear, half as big as mother's hand. |
| |
| "Nell, I asked the good kind teacher what they called such flowers as those, |
| And he told me, I remember, that the pretty name was rose. |
| I have never seen them since, dear—how I wish that I had one! |
| Just to keep and think of you, Nell, when I'm up beyond the sun." |
| |
| Not a word said little Nelly; but at night, when Billy slept, |
| On she flung her scanty garments and then down the stairs she crept. |
| Through the silent streets of London she ran nimbly as a fawn, |
| Running on and running ever till the night had changed to dawn. |
| |
| When the foggy sun had risen, and the mist had cleared away, |
| All around her, wrapped in snowdrift, there the open country lay. |
| She was tired, her limbs were frozen, and the roads had cut her feet, |
| But there came no flowery gardens her poor tearful eyes to greet. |
| |
| She had traced the road by asking, she had learnt the way to go; |
| She had found the famous meadow—it was wrapped in cruel snow; |
| Not a buttercup or daisy, not a single verdant blade |
| Showed its head above its prison. Then she knelt her down and prayed; |
| |
| With her eyes upcast to heaven, down she sank upon the ground, |
| And she prayed to God to tell her where the roses might be found. |
| Then the cold blast numbed her senses, and her sight grew strangely dim; |
| And a sudden, awful tremor seemed to seize her every limb. |
| |
| "Oh, a rose!" she moaned, "good Jesus,—just a rose to take to Bill!" |
| And as she prayed a chariot came thundering down the hill; |
| And a lady sat there, toying with a red rose, rare and sweet; |
| As she passed she flung it from her, and it fell at Nelly's feet. |
| |
| Just a word her lord had spoken caused her ladyship to fret, |
| And the rose had been his present, so she flung it in a pet; |
| But the poor, half-blinded Nelly thought it fallen from the skies, |
| And she murmured, "Thank you, Jesus!" as she clasped the dainty prize. |
| |
| Lo! that night from but the alley did a child's soul pass away, |
| From dirt and sin and misery up to where God's children play. |
| Lo! that night a wild, fierce snowstorm burst in fury o'er the land, |
| And at morn they found Nell frozen, with the red rose in her hand. |
| |
|
| Billy's dead, and gone to glory—so is Billy's sister Nell; |
| Am I bold to say this happened in the land where angels dwell,— |
| That the children met in heaven, after all their earthly woes, |
| And that Nelly kissed her brother, and said, "Billy, here's your rose"? |
| |
| George R. Sims. |
| Mine is a wild, strange story,—the strangest you ever heard; |
| There are many who won't believe it, but it's gospel, every word; |
| It's the biggest drama of any in a long, adventurous life; |
| The scene was a ship, and the actors—were myself and my new-wed wife. |
| |
| You musn't mind if I ramble, and lose the thread now and then; |
| I'm old, you know, and I wander—it's a way with old women and men, |
| For their lives lie all behind them, and their thoughts go far away, |
| And are tempted afield, like children lost on a summer day. |
| |
| The years must be five-and-twenty that have passed since that awful night, |
| But I see it again this evening, I can never shut out the sight. |
| We were only a few weeks married, I and the wife, you know, |
| When we had an offer for Melbourne, and made up our minds to go. |
| |
| We'd acted together in England, traveling up and down |
| With a strolling band of players, going from town to town; |
| We played the lovers together—we were leading lady and gent— |
| And at last we played in earnest, and straight to the church we went. |
| |
| The parson gave us his blessing, and I gave Nellie the ring, |
| And swore that I'd love and cherish, and endow her with everything. |
| How we smiled at that part of the service when I said "I thee endow"! |
| But as to the "love and cherish," I meant to keep that vow. |
| |
| We were only a couple of strollers; we had coin when the show was good, |
| When it wasn't we went without it, and we did the best we could. |
| We were happy, and loved each other, and laughed at the shifts we made,— |
| Where love makes plenty of sunshine, there poverty casts no shade. |
| |
| Well, at last we got to London, and did pretty well for a bit; |
| Then the business dropped to nothing, and the manager took a flit,— |
| Stepped off one Sunday morning, forgetting the treasury call; |
| But our luck was in, and we managed right on our feet to fall. |
| |
| We got an offer for Melbourne,—got it that very week. |
| Those were the days when thousands went over to fortune seek, |
| The days of the great gold fever, and a manager thought the spot |
| Good for a "spec," and took us as actors among his lot. |
| |
| We hadn't a friend in England—we'd only ourselves to please— |
| And we jumped at the chance of trying our fortune across the seas. |
| We went on a sailing vessel, and the journey was long and rough; |
| We hadn't been out a fortnight before we had had enough. |
| |
| But use is a second nature, and we'd got not to mind a storm, |
| When misery came upon us,—came in a hideous form. |
| My poor little wife fell ailing, grew worse, and at last so bad |
| That the doctor said she was dying,—I thought 'twould have sent me mad,— |
| |
| Dying where leagues of billows seemed to shriek for their prey, |
| And the nearest land was hundreds—aye, thousands—of miles away. |
| She raved one night in a fever, and the next lay still as death, |
| So still I'd to bend and listen for the faintest sign of breath. |
| |
| She seemed in a sleep, and sleeping, with a smile on her thin, wan face,— |
| She passed away one morning, while I prayed to the throne of grace. |
| I knelt in the little cabin, and prayer after prayer I said, |
| Till the surgeon came and told me it was useless—my wife was dead! |
| |
| Dead! I wouldn't believe it. They forced me away that night, |
| For I raved in my wild despairing, the shock sent me mad outright. |
| I was shut in the farthest cabin, and I beat my head on the side, |
| And all day long in my madness, "They've murdered her!" I cried. |
| |
| They locked me away from my fellows,—put me in cruel chains, |
| It seems I had seized a weapon to beat out the surgeon's brains. |
| I cried in my wild, mad fury, that he was a devil sent |
| To gloat o'er the frenzied anguish with which my heart was rent. |
| |
| I spent that night with the irons heavy upon my wrists, |
| And my wife lay dead quite near me. I beat with my fettered fists, |
| Beat at my prison panels, and then—O God!—and then |
| I heard the shrieks of women and the tramp of hurrying men. |
| |
| I heard the cry, "Ship afire!" caught up by a hundred throats, |
| And over the roar the captain shouting to lower the boats; |
| Then cry upon cry, and curses, and the crackle of burning wood, |
| And the place grew hot as a furnace, I could feel it where I stood. |
| |
| I beat at the door and shouted, but never a sound came back, |
| And the timbers above me started, till right through a yawning crack |
| I could see the flames shoot upward, seizing on mast and sail, |
| Fanned in their burning fury by the breath of the howling gale. |
| |
| I dashed at the door in fury, shrieking, "I will not die! |
| Die in this burning prison!"—but I caught no answering cry. |
| Then, suddenly, right upon me, the flames crept up with a roar, |
| And their fiery tongues shot forward, cracking my prison door. |
| |
| I was free—with the heavy iron door dragging me down to death; |
| I fought my way to the cabin, choked with the burning breath |
| Of the flames that danced around me like man-mocking fiends at play, |
| And then—O God! I can see it, and shall to my dying day. |
| |
|
| There lay my Nell as they'd left her, dead in her berth that night; |
| The flames flung a smile on her features,—a horrible, lurid light. |
| God knows how I reached and touched her, but I found myself by her side; |
| I thought she was living a moment, I forgot that my Nell had died. |
| |
| In the shock of those awful seconds reason came back to my brain; |
| I heard a sound as of breathing, and then a low cry of pain; |
| Oh, was there mercy in heaven? Was there a God in the skies? |
| The dead woman's lips were moving, the dead woman opened her eyes. |
| |
| I cursed like a madman raving—I cried to her, "Nell! my Nell!" |
| They had left us alone and helpless, alone in that burning hell; |
| They had left us alone to perish—forgotten me living—and she |
| Had been left for the fire to bear her to heaven, instead of the sea. |
| |
| I clutched at her, roused her shrieking, the stupor was on her still; |
| I seized her in spite of my fetters,—fear gave a giant's will. |
| God knows how I did it, but blindly I fought through the flames and the wreck |
| Up—up to the air, and brought her safe to the untouched deck. |
| |
| We'd a moment of life together,—a moment of life, the time |
| For one last word to each other,—'twas a moment supreme, sublime. |
| From the trance we'd for death mistaken, the heat had brought her to life, |
| And I was fettered and helpless, so we lay there, husband and wife! |
| |
| It was but a moment, but ages seemed to have passed away, |
| When a shout came over the water, and I looked, and lo, there lay, |
| Right away from the vessel, a boat that was standing by; |
| They had seen our forms on the vessel, as the flames lit up the sky. |
| |
| I shouted a prayer to Heaven, then called to my wife, and she |
| Tore with new strength at my fetters—God helped her, and I was free; |
| Then over the burning bulwarks we leaped for one chance of life. |
| Did they save us? Well, here I am, sir, and yonder's my dear old wife. |
| |
| We were out in the boat till daylight, when a great ship passing by |
| Took us on board, and at Melbourne landed us by and by. |
| We've played many parts in dramas since we went on that famous trip, |
| But ne'er such a scene together as we had on the burning ship! |
| |
| George B. Sims. |
| Yes, it's a quiet station, but it suits me well enough; |
| I want a bit of the smooth now, for I've had my share o' rough. |
| This berth that the company gave me, they gave as the work was light; |
| I was never fit for the signals after one awful night, |
| I'd been in the box from a younker, and I'd never felt the strain |
| Of the lives at my right hand's mercy in every passing train. |
| One day there was something happened, and it made my nerves go queer, |
| And it's all through that as you find me the station-master here. |
| |
| I was on at the box down yonder—that's where we turn the mails, |
| And specials, and fast expresses, on to the center rails; |
| The side's for the other traffic—the luggage and local slows. |
| It was rare hard work at Christmas, when double the traffic grows. |
| I've been in the box down yonder nigh sixteen hours a day, |
| Till my eyes grew dim and heavy, and my thoughts went all astray; |
| But I've worked the points half-sleeping—and once I slept outright, |
| Till the roar of the Limited woke me, and I nearly died with fright. |
| |
| Then I thought of the lives in peril, and what might have been their fate |
| Had I sprung to the points that evening a tenth of a tick too late; |
| And a cold and ghastly shiver ran icily through my frame |
| As I fancied the public clamor, the trial, and bitter shame. |
| I could see the bloody wreckage—I could see the mangled slain— |
| And the picture was seared for ever, blood-red, on my heated brain. |
| That moment my nerve was shattered, for I couldn't shut out the thought |
| Of the lives I held in my keeping, and the ruin that might be wrought. |
| |
| That night in our little cottage, as I kissed our sleeping child, |
| My wife looked up from her sewing, and told me, as she smiled, |
| That Johnny had made his mind up—he'd be a pointsman, too. |
| "He says when he's big, like daddy, he'll work in the box with you." |
| I frowned, for my heart was heavy, and my wife she saw the look; |
| Lord bless you! my little Alice could read me like a book. |
| I'd to tell her of what had happened, and I said that I must leave, |
| For a pointsman's arm ain't trusty when terror lurks in his sleeve. |
| |
| But she cheered me up in a minute, and that night, ere we went to sleep, |
| She made me give her a promise, which I swore that I'd always keep— |
| It was always to do my duty. "Do that, and then, come what will, |
| You'll have no worry." said Alice, "if things go well or ill. |
| There's something that always tells us the thing that we ought to do"— |
| My wife was a bit religious, and in with the chapel crew. |
| But I knew she was talking reason, and I said to myself, says I, |
| "I won't give in like a coward, it's a scare that'll soon go by." |
| |
| Now, the very next day the missus had to go to the market town; |
| She'd the Christmas things to see to, and she wanted to buy a gown. |
| She'd be gone for a spell, for the Parley didn't come back till eight, |
| And I knew, on a Christmas Eve, too, the trains would be extra late. |
| So she settled to leave me Johnny, and then she could turn the key— |
| For she'd have some parcels to carry, and the boy would be safe with me. |
| He was five, was our little Johnny, and quiet, and nice, and good— |
| He was mad to go with daddy, and I'd often promised he should. |
| |
| It was noon when the missus started,—her train went by my box; |
| She could see, as she passed my window, her darling's curly locks, |
| I lifted him up to mammy, and he kissed his little hand, |
| Then sat, like a mouse, in the corner, and thought it was fairyland. |
| But somehow I fell a-thinking of a scene that would not fade, |
| Of how I had slept on duty, until I grew afraid; |
| For the thought would weigh upon me, one day I might come to lie |
| In a felon's cell for the slaughter of those I had doomed to die. |
| |
| The fit that had come upon me, like a hideous nightmare seemed, |
| Till I rubbed my eyes and started like a sleeper who has dreamed. |
| For a time the box had vanished—I'd worked like a mere machine— |
| My mind had been on the wander, and I'd neither heard nor seen, |
| With a start I thought of Johnny, and I turned the boy to seek, |
| Then I uttered a groan of anguish, for my lips refused to speak; |
| There had flashed such a scene of horror swift on my startled sight |
| That it curdled my blood in terror and sent my red lips white. |
| |
| It was all in one awful moment—I saw that the boy was lost: |
| He had gone for a toy, I fancied, some child from a train had tossed; |
| The local was easing slowly to stop at the station here, |
| And the limited mail was coming, and I had the line to clear. |
| I could hear the roar of the engine, I could almost feel its breath, |
| And right on the center metals stood my boy in the jaws of death; |
| On came the fierce fiend, tearing straight for the center line, |
| And the hand that must wreck or save it, O merciful God, was mine! |
| |
| 'Twas a hundred lives or Johnny's. O Heaven! what could I do?— |
| Up to God's ear that moment a wild, fierce question flew— |
| "What shall I do, O Heaven?" and sudden and loud and clear |
| On the wind came the words, "Your duty," borne to my listening ear. |
| Then I set my teeth, and my breathing was fierce and short and quick. |
| "My boy!" I cried, but he heard not; and then I went blind and sick; |
| The hot black smoke of the engine came with a rush before, |
| I turned the mail to the center, and by it flew with a roar. |
| |
| Then I sank on my knees in horror, and hid my ashen face— |
| I had given my child to Heaven; his life was a hundred's grace. |
| Had I held my hand a moment, I had hurled the flying mail |
| To shatter the creeping local that stood on the other rail! |
| Where is my boy, my darling? O God! let me hide my eyes. |
| How can I look—his father—on that which there mangled lies? |
| That voice!—O merciful Heaven!—'tis the child's, and he calls my name! |
| I hear, but I cannot see him, for my eyes are filled with flame. |
| |
| I knew no more that night, sir, for I fell, as I heard the boy; |
| The place reeled round, and I fainted,—swooned with the sudden joy. |
| But I heard on the Christmas morning, when I woke in my own warm bed |
| With Alice's arms around me, and a strange wild dream in my head, |
| That she'd come by the early local, being anxious about the lad, |
| And had seen him there on the metals, and the sight nigh drove her mad— |
| She had seen him just as the engine of the Limited closed my view, |
| And she leapt on the line and saved him just as the mail dashed through. |
| She was back in the train in a second, and both were safe and sound; |
| The moment they stopped at the station she ran here, and I was found |
| With my eyes like a madman's glaring, and my face a ghastly white: |
| I heard the boy, and I fainted, and I hadn't my wits that night. |
| Who told me to do my duty? What voice was that on the wind? |
| Was it fancy that brought it to me? or were there God's lips behind? |
| If I hadn't 'a' done my duty—had I ventured to disobey— |
| My bonny boy and his mother might have died by my hand that day. |
| |
| George R. Sims. |
| In a dark and dismal alley where the sunshine never came, |
| Dwelt a little lad named Tommy, sickly, delicate, and lame; |
| He had never yet been healthy, but had lain since he was born |
| Dragging out his weak existence well nigh hopeless and forlorn. |
| |
| He was six, was little Tommy, 'twas just five years ago |
| Since his drunken mother dropped him, and the babe was crippled so. |
| He had never known the comfort of a mother's tender care, |
| But her cruel blows and curses made his pain still worse to bear. |
| |
| There he lay within the cellar, from the morning till the night, |
| Starved, neglected, cursed, ill-treated, nought to make his dull life |
| bright; |
| Not a single friend to love him, not a loving thing to love— |
| For he knew not of a Saviour, or a heaven up above. |
| |
| 'Twas a quiet, summer evening, and the alley, too, was still; |
| Tommy's little heart was sinking, and he felt so lonely, till, |
| Floating up the quiet alley, wafted inwards from the street, |
| Came the sound of some one singing, sounding, oh! so clear and sweet. |
| |
| Eagerly did Tommy listen as the singing came— |
| Oh! that he could see the singer! How he wished he wasn't lame. |
| Then he called and shouted loudly, till the singer heard the sound, |
| And on noting whence it issued, soon the little cripple found. |
| |
| 'Twas a maiden rough and rugged, hair unkempt, and naked feet, |
| All her garments torn and ragged, her appearance far from neat; |
| "So yer called me," said the maiden, "wonder wot yer wants o' me; |
| Most folks call me Singing Jessie; wot may your name chance to be?" |
| |
| "My name's Tommy; I'm a cripple, and I want to hear you sing, |
| For it makes me feel so happy—sing me something, anything," |
| Jessie laughed, and answered smiling, "I can't stay here very long, |
| But I'll sing a hymn to please you, wot I calls the 'Glory Song.'" |
| |
| Then she sang to him of heaven, pearly gates, and streets of gold, |
| Where the happy angel children are not starved or nipped with cold; |
| But where happiness and gladness never can decrease or end, |
| And where kind and loving Jesus is their Sovereign and their Friend. |
| |
| Oh! how Tommy's eyes did glisten as he drank in every word |
| As it fell from "Singing Jessie"—was it true, what he had heard? |
| And so anxiously he asked her, "Is there really such a place?" |
| And a tear began to trickle down his pallid little face. |
| |
| "Tommy, you're a little heathen; why, it's up beyond the sky, |
| And if yer will love the Saviour, yer shall go there when yer die." |
| "Then," said Tommy, "tell me, Jessie, how can I the Saviour love, |
| When I'm down in this 'ere cellar, and He's up in heaven above?" |
| |
| So the little ragged maiden who had heard at Sunday School |
| All about the way to heaven, and the Christian's golden rule, |
| Taught the little cripple Tommy how to love, and how to pray, |
| Then she sang a "Song of Jesus," kissed his cheek and went away. |
| |
| Tommy lay within the cellar which had grown so dark and cold, |
| Thinking all about the children in the streets of shining gold; |
| And he heeded not the darkness of that damp and chilly room, |
| For the joy in Tommy's bosom could disperse the deepest gloom. |
| |
| "Oh! if I could only see it," thought the cripple, as he lay, |
| "Jessie said that Jesus listens and I think I'll try and pray"; |
| So he put his hands together, and he closed his little eyes, |
| And in accents weak, yet earnest, sent this message to the skies:— |
| |
| "Gentle Jesus, please forgive me as I didn't know afore, |
| That yer cared for little cripples who is weak and very poor, |
| And I never heard of heaven till that Jessie came to-day |
| And told me all about it, so I wants to try and pray. |
| |
| "Yer can see me, can't yer, Jesus? Jessie told me that yer could, |
| And I somehow must believe it, for it seems so prime and good; |
| And she told me if I loved you, I should see yer when I die, |
| In the bright and happy heaven that is up beyond the sky. |
| |
| "Lord, I'm only just a cripple, and I'm no use here below, |
| For I heard my mother whisper, she'd be glad if I could go; |
| And I'm cold and hungry sometimes; and I feel so lonely, too, |
| Can't yer take me, gentle Jesus, up to heaven along o' you? |
| |
| "Oh! I'd be so good and patient, and I'd never cry or fret, |
| And your kindness to me, Jesus, I would surely not forget; |
| I would love you all I know of, and would never make a noise— |
| Can't you find me just a corner, where I'll watch the other boys? |
| |
| "Oh! I think yer'll do it, Jesus, something seems to tell me so, |
| For I feel so glad and happy, and I do so want to go, |
| How I long to see yer, Jesus, and the children all so bright! |
| Come and fetch me, won't yer, Jesus? Come and fetch me home tonight!" |
| |
| Tommy ceased his supplication, he had told his soul's desire, |
| And he waited for the answer till his head began to tire; |
| Then he turned towards his corner and lay huddled in a heap, |
| Closed his little eyes so gently, and was quickly fast asleep. |
| |
| Oh, I wish that every scoffer could have seen his little face |
| As he lay there in the corner, in that damp, and noisome place; |
| For his countenance was shining like an angel's, fair and bright, |
| And it seemed to fill the cellar with a holy, heavenly light. |
| |
| He had only heard of Jesus from a ragged singing girl, |
| He might well have wondered, pondered, till his brain began to whirl; |
| But he took it as she told it, and believed it then and there, |
| Simply trusting in the Saviour, and his kind and tender care. |
| |
| In the morning, when the mother came to wake her crippled boy, |
| She discovered that his features wore a look of sweetest joy, |
| And she shook him somewhat roughly, but the cripple's face was cold— |
| He had gone to join the children in the streets of shining gold. |
| |
| Tommy's prayer had soon been answered, and the Angel Death had come |
| To remove him from his cellar, to his bright and heavenly home |
| Where sweet comfort, joy, and gladness never can decrease or end, |
| And where Jesus reigns eternally, his Sovereign and his Friend. |
| |
| John F. Nicholls. |
| It was a bright and lovely summer's morn, |
| Fair bloomed the flowers, the birds sang softly sweet, |
| The air was redolent with perfumed balm, |
| And Nature scattered, with unsparing hand, |
| Her loveliest graces over hill and dale. |
| An artist, weary of his narrow room |
| Within the city's pent and heated walls, |
| Had wandered long amid the ripening fields, |
| Until, remembering his neglected themes, |
| He thought to turn his truant steps toward home. |
| These led him through a rustic, winding lane, |
| Lined with green hedge-rows spangled close with flowers, |
| And overarched by trees of noblest growth. |
| But when at last he reached the farther end |
| Of this sweet labyrinth, he there beheld |
| A vision of such pure, pathetic grace, |
| That weariness and haste were both obscured, |
| It was a child—a young and lovely child |
| With eyes of heavenly hue, bright golden hair, |
| And dimpled hands clasped in a morning prayer, |
| Kneeling beside its youthful mother's knee. |
| Upon that baby brow of spotless snow, |
| No single trace of guilt, or pain, or woe, |
| No line of bitter grief or dark despair, |
| Of envy, hatred, malice, worldly care, |
| Had ever yet been written. With bated breath, |
| And hand uplifted as in warning, swift, |
| The artist seized his pencil, and there traced |
| In soft and tender lines that image fair: |
| Then, when 'twas finished, wrote beneath one word, |
| A word of holiest import—Innocence. |
| |
| Years fled and brought with them a subtle change, |
| Scattering Time's snow upon the artist's brow, |
| But leaving there the laurel wreath of fame, |
| While all men spake in words of praise his name; |
| For he had traced full many a noble work |
| Upon the canvas that had touched men's souls, |
| And drawn them from the baser things of earth, |
| Toward the light and purity of heaven. |
| One day, in tossing o'er his folio's leaves, |
| He chanced upon the picture of the child, |
| Which he had sketched that bright morn long before, |
| And then forgotten. Now, as he paused to gaze, |
| A ray of inspiration seemed to dart |
| Straight from those eyes to his. He took the sketch, |
| Placed it before his easel, and with care |
| That seemed but pleasure, painted a fair theme, |
| Touching and still re-touching each bright lineament, |
| Until all seemed to glow with life divine— |
| 'Twas innocence personified. But still |
| The artist could not pause. He needs must have |
| A meet companion for his fairest theme; |
| And so he sought the wretched haunts of sin, |
| Through miry courts of misery and guilt, |
| Seeking a face which at the last was found. |
| Within a prison cell there crouched a man— |
| Nay, rather say a fiend—with countenance seamed |
| And marred by all the horrid lines of sin; |
| Each mark of degradation might be traced, |
| And every scene of horror he had known, |
| And every wicked deed that he had done, |
| Were visibly written on his lineaments; |
| Even the last, worst deed of all, that left him here, |
| A parricide within a murderer's cell. |
| |
| Here then the artist found him; and with hand |
| Made skillful by its oft-repeated toil, |
| Transferred unto his canvas that vile face, |
| And also wrote beneath it just one word, |
| A word of darkest import—it was Vice. |
| Then with some inspiration not his own, |
| Thinking, perchance, to touch that guilty heart, |
| And wake it to repentance e'er too late, |
| The artist told the tale of that bright morn, |
| Placed the two pictured faces side by side, |
| And brought the wretch before them. With a shriek |
| That echoed through those vaulted corridors, |
| Like to the cries that issue from the lips |
| Of souls forever doomed to woe, |
| Prostrate upon the stony floor he fell, |
| And hid his face and groaned aloud in anguish. |
| "I was that child once—I, yes, even I— |
| In the gracious years forever fled, |
| That innocent and happy little child! |
| These very hands were raised to God in prayer, |
| That now are reddened with a mother's blood. |
| Great Heaven! can such things be? Almighty power, |
| Send forth Thy dart and strike me where I lie!" |
|
| He rose, laid hold upon the artist's arm |
| And grasped it with demoniac power, |
| The while he cried: "Go forth, I say, go forth |
| And tell my history to the tempted youth. |
| I looked upon the wine when it was red, |
| I heeded not my mother's piteous prayers, |
| I heeded not the warnings of my friends, |
| But tasted of the wine when it was red, |
| Until it left a demon in my heart |
| That led me onward, step by step, to this, |
| This horrible place from which my body goes |
| Unto the gallows, and my soul to hell!" |
| He ceased as last. The artist turned and fled; |
| But even as he went, unto his ears |
| Were borne the awful echoes of despair, |
| Which the lost wretch flung on the empty air, |
| Cursing the demon that had brought him there. |
| Give me that grand old volume, the gift of a mother's love, |
| Tho' the spirit that first taught me has winged its flight above. |
| Yet, with no legacy but this, she has left me wealth untold, |
| Yea, mightier than earth's riches, or the wealth of Ophir's gold. |
| |
| When a child, I've kneeled beside her, in our dear old cottage home, |
| And listened to her reading from that prized and cherished tome, |
| As with low and gentle cadence, and a meek and reverent mien, |
| God's word fell from her trembling lips, like a presence felt and seen. |
| |
| Solemn and sweet the counsels that spring from its open page, |
| Written with all the fervor and zeal of the prophet age; |
| Full of the inspiration of the holy bards who trod, |
| Caring not for the scoffer's scorn, if they gained a soul to God. |
| |
| Men who in mind were godlike, and have left on its blazoned scroll |
| Food for all coming ages in its manna of the soul; |
| Who, through long days of anguish, and nights devoid of ease, |
| Still wrote with the burning pen of faith its higher mysteries. |
| |
| I can list that good man yonder, in the gray church by the brook, |
| Take up that marvelous tale of love, of the story and the Book, |
| How through the twilight glimmer, from the earliest dawn of time, |
| It was handed down as an heirloom, in almost every clime. |
| |
| How through strong persecution and the struggle of evil days |
| The precious light of the truth ne'er died, but was fanned to a beacon blaze. |
| How in far-off lands, where the cypress bends o'er the laurel bough, |
| It was hid like some precious treasure, and they bled for its truth, as now. |
| |
| He tells how there stood around it a phalanx none could break, |
| Though steel and fire and lash swept on, and the cruel wave lapt the stake; |
| How dungeon doors and prison bars had never damped the flame, |
| But raised up converts to the creed whence Christian comfort came. |
| |
|
| That housed in caves and caverns—how it stirs our Scottish blood!— |
| The Convenanters, sword in hand, poured forth the crimson flood; |
| And eloquent grows the preacher, as the Sabbath sunshine falls, |
| Thro' cobwebbed and checkered pane, a halo on the walls! |
| |
| That still 'mid sore disaster, in the heat and strife of doubt, |
| Some bear the Gospel oriflamme, and one by one march out, |
| Till forth from heathen kingdoms, and isles beyond the sea, |
| The glorious tidings of the Book spread Christ's salvation free. |
| |
| So I cling to my mother's Bible, in its torn and tattered boards, |
| As one of the greatest gems of art, and the king of all other hoards, |
| As in life the true consoler, and in death ere the Judgment call, |
| The guide that will lead to the shining shore, where the Father waits for all. |
| |
| When the Norn Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour |
| Greatening and darkening as it hurried on, |
| She left the Heaven of Heroes and came down |
| To make a man to meet the mortal need, |
| She took the tried clay of the common road— |
| Clay warm yet with the genial heat of Earth, |
| Dasht through it all a strain of prophecy; |
| Tempered the heap with thrill of human tears; |
| Then mixt a laughter with the serious stuff. |
| Into the shape she breathed a flame to light |
| That tender, tragic, ever-changing face; |
| And laid on him a sense of the Mystic Powers, |
| Moving—all husht—behind the mortal veil. |
| Here was a man to hold against the world, |
| A man to match the mountains and the sea. |
| |
| The color of the ground was in him, the red earth; |
| The smack and tang of elemental things; |
| The rectitude and patience of the cliff; |
| The good-will of the rain that loves all leaves; |
| The friendly welcome of the wayside well; |
| The courage of the bird that dares the sea; |
| The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn; |
| The pity of the snow that hides all scars; |
| The secrecy of streams that make their way |
| Under the mountain to the rifted rock; |
| The tolerance and equity of light |
| That gives as freely to the shrinking flower |
| As to the great oak flaring to the wind— |
| To the grave's low hill as to the Matterhorn |
| That shoulders out the sky. Sprung from the West, |
| He drank the valorous youth of a new world. |
| The strength of virgin forests braced his mind, |
| The hush of spacious prairies stilled his soul. |
| His words were oaks in acorns; and his thoughts |
| Were roots that firmly gript the granite truth. |
| |
| Up from log cabin to the Capitol, |
| One fire was on his spirit, one resolve— |
| To send the keen ax to the root of wrong, |
| Clearing a free way for the feet of God, |
| The eyes of conscience testing every stroke, |
| To make his deed the measure of a man. |
| He built the rail-pile as he built the State, |
| Pouring his splendid strength through every blow; |
| The grip that swung the ax in Illinois |
| Was on the pen that set a people free. |
| |
| So came the Captain with the mighty heart; |
| And when the judgment thunders split the house, |
| Wrenching the rafters from their ancient rest, |
| He held the ridgepole up, and spikt again |
| The rafters of the Home. He held his place— |
| Held the long purpose like a growing tree— |
| Held on through blame and faltered not at praise. |
| And when he fell in whirlwind, he went down |
| As when a lordly cedar, green with boughs, |
| Goes down with a great shout upon the hills, |
| And leaves a lonesome place against the sky. |
| |
| Edwin Markham. |
| The gate was thrown open, I rode out alone, |
| More proud than a monarch, who sits on a throne. |
| I am but a jockey, but shout upon shout |
| Went up from the people who watched me ride out. |
| And the cheers that rang forth from that warm-hearted crowd |
| Were as earnest as those to which monarch e'er bowed. |
| My heart thrilled with pleasure so keen it was pain, |
| As I patted my Salvator's soft, silken mane; |
| And a sweet shiver shot from his hide to my hand |
| As we passed by the multitude down to the stand. |
| The great wave of cheering came billowing back |
| As the hoofs of brave Tenny ran swift down the track, |
| And he stood there beside us, all bone and all muscle, |
| Our noble opponent, well trained for the tussle |
| That waited us there on the smooth, shining course. |
| My Salvator, fair to the lovers of horse |
| As a beautiful woman is fair to man's sight— |
| Pure type of the thoroughbred, clean-limbed and bright— |
| Stood taking the plaudits as only his due |
| And nothing at all unexpected or new. |
| |
| And then there before us as the bright flag is spread, |
| There's a roar from the grand stand, and Tenny's ahead; |
| At the sound of the voices that shouted, "A go!" |
| He sprang like an arrow shot straight from the bow. |
| I tighten the reins on Prince Charlie's great son; |
| He is off like a rocket, the race is begun. |
| Half-way down the furlong their heads are together, |
| Scarce room 'twixt their noses to wedge in a feather; |
| Past grand stand, and judges, in neck-to-neck strife, |
| Ah, Salvator, boy, 'tis the race of your life! |
| I press my knees closer, I coax him, I urge, |
| I feel him go out with a leap and a surge; |
| I see him creep on, inch by inch, stride by stride, |
| While backward, still backward, falls Tenny beside. |
| We are nearing the turn, the first quarter is passed— |
| 'Twixt leader and chaser the daylight is cast; |
| The distance elongates; still Tenny sweeps on, |
| As graceful and free-limbed and swift as a fawn, |
| His awkwardness vanished, his muscles all strained— |
| A noble opponent well born and well trained. |
| |
| I glanced o'er my shoulder; ha! Tenny! the cost |
| Of that one second's flagging will be—the race lost; |
| One second's yielding of courage and strength, |
| And the daylight between us has doubled its length. |
| The first mile is covered, the race is mine—no! |
| For the blue blood of Tenny responds to a blow; |
| He shoots through the air like a ball from a gun, |
| And the two lengths between us are shortened to one. |
| My heart is contracted, my throat feels a lump, |
| For Tenny's long neck is at Salvator's rump; |
| And now with new courage grown bolder and bolder, |
| I see him once more running shoulder to shoulder. |
| With knees, hands and body I press my grand steed; |
| I urge him, I coax him, I pray him to heed! |
| O Salvator! Salvator! List to my calls, |
| For the blow of my whip will hurt both if it falls. |
| There's a roar from the crowd like the ocean in storm, |
| As close to the saddle leaps Tenny's great form; |
| One mighty plunge, and with knee, limb and hand, |
| I lift my horse first by a nose past the stand. |
| We are under the string now—the great race is done— |
| And Salvator, Salvator, Salvator won! |
| |
| Cheer, hoary-headed patriarchs; cheer loud, I say; |
| 'Tis the race of a century witnessed to-day! |
| Though ye live twice the space that's allotted to men |
| Ye never will see such a grand race again. |
| Let the shouts of the populace roar like the surf, |
| For Salvator, Salvator, king of the turf, |
| He has rivaled the record of thirteen long years; |
| He has won the first place in the vast line of peers. |
| 'Twas a neck-to-neck contest, a grand, honest race, |
| And even his enemies grant him his place. |
| Down into the dust let old records be hurled, |
| And hang out 2:05 to the gaze of the world! |
| |
| Ella Wheeler Wilcox. |
| Bring, novelist, your note-book! bring, dramatist, your pen! |
| And I'll tell you a simple story of what women do for men. |
| It's only a tale of a lifeboat, of the dying and the dead, |
| Of the terrible storm and shipwreck that happened off Mumbles Head! |
| Maybe you have traveled in Wales, sir, and know it north and south; |
| Maybe you are friends with the "natives" that dwell at Oystermouth; |
| It happens, no doubt, that from Bristol you've crossed in a casual way, |
| And have sailed your yacht in the summer in the blue of Swansea Bay. |
| |
| Well! it isn't like that in the winter, when the lighthouse stands alone, |
| In the teeth of Atlantic breakers that foam on its face of stone; |
| It wasn't like that when the hurricane blew, and the storm-bell tolled,or when |
| There was news of a wreck, and the lifeboat launched, and a desperate cry for men. |
| When in the world did the coxswain shirk? a brave old salt was he! |
| Proud to the bone of as four strong lads as ever had tasted the sea, |
| Welshmen all to the lungs and loins, who, about that coast, 'twas said, |
| Had saved some hundred lives apiece—at a shilling or so a head! |
| |
| So the father launched the lifeboat, in the teeth of the tempest's roar, |
| And he stood like a man at the rudder, with an eye on his boys at the oar, |
| Out to the wreck went the father! out to the wreck went the sons! |
| Leaving the weeping of women, and booming of signal guns; |
| Leaving the mother who loved them, and the girls that the sailors love; |
| Going to death for duty, and trusting to God above! |
| Do you murmur a prayer, my brothers, when cozy and safe in bed, |
| For men like these, who are ready to die for a wreck off Mumbles Head? |
| It didn't go well with the lifeboat! 'twas a terrible storm that blew! |
| And it snapped the' rope in a second that was flung to the drowning crew; |
| |
| And then the anchor parted—'twas a tussle to keep afloat! |
| But the father stuck to the rudder, and the boys to the brave old boat. |
| Then at last on the poor doomed lifeboat a wave broke mountains high! |
| "God help us now!" said the father. "It's over, my lads! Good-bye"! |
| Half of the crew swam shoreward, half to the sheltered caves, |
| But father and sons were fighting death in the foam of the angry waves. |
| |
| Up at a lighthouse window two women beheld the storm, |
| And saw in the boiling breakers a figure—a fighting form; |
| It might be a gray-haired father, then the women held their breath; |
| It might be a fair-haired brother, who was having a round with death; |
| It might be a lover, a husband, whose kisses were on the lips |
| Of the women whose love is the life of men going down to the sea in ships. |
| They had seen the launch of the lifeboat, they had seen the worst, and more, |
| Then, kissing each other, these women went down from the lighthouse, straight to shore. |
| |
| There by the rocks on the breakers these sisters, hand in hand, |
| Beheld once more that desperate man who struggled to reach the land, |
| 'Twas only aid he wanted to help him across the wave, |
| But what are a couple of women with only a man to save? |
| What are a couple of women? well, more than three craven men |
| Who stood by the shore with chattering teeth, refusing to stir—and then |
| Off went the women's shawls, sir; in a second they're torn and rent, |
| Then knotting them into a rope of love, straight into the sea they went! |
| |
| "Come back!" cried the lighthouse-keeper. "For God's sake, girls, come back!" |
| As they caught the waves on their foreheads, resisting the fierce attack. |
| "Come back!" moaned the gray-haired mother, as she stood by the angry sea, |
| "If the waves take you, my darlings, there's nobody left to me!" |
| "Come back!" said the three strong soldiers, who still stood faint and pale, |
| "You will drown if you face the breakers! you will fall if you brave the gale!" |
| "Come back!" said the girls, "we will not! go tell it to all the town, |
| We'll lose our lives, God willing, before that man shall drown!" |
| |
| "Give one more knot to the shawls, Bess! give one strong clutch of your hand! |
| Just follow me, brave, to the shingle, and we'll bring him safe to land! |
| Wait for the next wave, darling! only a minute more, |
| And I'll have him safe in my arms, dear, and we'll drag him to the shore." |
| Up to the arms in the water, fighting it breast to breast, |
| They caught and saved a brother alive. God bless them! you know the rest— |
| Well, many a heart beat stronger, and many a tear was shed, |
| And many a glass was tossed right off to "The Women of Mumbles Head!" |
| |
| Clement Scott. |
| "'A frightful face'? Wal, yes, yer correct; |
| That man on the enjine thar |
| Don't pack the han'somest countenance— |
| Every inch of it sportin' a scar; |
| But I tell you, pard, thar ain't money enough |
| Piled up in the National Banks |
| To buy that face, nor a single scar— |
| (No, I never indulges. Thanks.) |
| |
| "Yes, Jim is an old-time engineer, |
| An' a better one never war knowed! |
| Bin a runnin' yar since the fust machine |
| War put on the Quincy Road; |
| An' thar ain't a galoot that pulls a plug |
| From Maine to the jumpin' off place |
| That knows more about the big iron hoss |
| Than him with the battered-up face. |
| |
| "'Got hurt in a smash-up'? No,'twar done |
| In a sort o' legitimate way; |
| He got it a-trying to save a gal |
| Up yar on the road last May. |
| I heven't much time for to spin you the yarn, |
| For we pull out at two-twenty-five— |
| Just wait till I climb up an' toss in some coal, |
| So's to keep old '90' alive. |
| |
| "Jim war pullin' the Burlin'ton passenger then, |
| Left Quincy a half an hour late, |
| An' war skimmin' along purty lively, so's not |
| To lay out No. 21 freight. |
| The '90' war more than whoopin' 'em up |
| An' a-quiverin' in every nerve! |
| When all to once Jim yelled 'Merciful God!' |
| As she shoved her sharp nose 'round a curve. |
| |
| "I jumped to his side o' the cab, an' ahead |
| 'Bout two hundred paces or so |
| Stood a gal on the track, her hands raised aloft, |
| An' her face jist as white as the snow; |
| It seems she war so paralyzed with the fright |
| That she couldn't move for'ard or back, |
| An' when Jim pulled the whistle she fainted an' fell |
| Right down in a heap on the track! |
| |
| "I'll never forgit till the day o' my death |
| The look that cum over Jim's face; |
| He throw'd the old lever cl'r back like a shot |
| So's to slacken the '90's' wild pace, |
| Then let on the air brakes as quick as a flash, |
| An' out through the window he fled, |
| An' skinned 'long the runnin' board cla'r in front, |
| An' lay on the pilot ahead. |
| |
| "Then just as we reached whar the poor creetur lay, |
| He grabbed a tight hold, of her arm, |
| An' raised her right up so's to throw her one side |
| Out o' reach of danger an' harm. |
| But somehow he slipped an' fell with his head |
| On the rail as he throw'd the young lass, |
| An' the pilot in strikin' him, ground up his face |
| In a frightful and horrible mass! |
| |
| "As soon as we stopped I backed up the train |
| To that spot where the poor fellow lay, |
| An' there sot the gal with his head in her lap |
| An' wipin' the warm blood away. |
| The tears rolled in torrents right down from her eyes, |
| While she sobbed like her heart war all broke— |
| I tell you, my friend, such a sight as that 'ar |
| Would move the tough heart of an oak! |
| |
| "We put Jim aboard an' ran back to town, |
| What for week arter week the boy lay |
| A-hoverin' right in the shadder o' death, |
| An' that gal by his bed every day. |
| But nursin' an' doctorin' brought him around— |
| Kinder snatched him right outer the grave— |
| His face ain't so han'some as 'twar, but his heart |
| Remains just as noble an' brave. |
|
| "Of course thar's a sequel—as story books say— |
| He fell dead in love, did this Jim; |
| But hadn't the heart to ax her to have |
| Sich a batter'd-up rooster as him. |
| She know'd how he felt, and last New Year's day |
| War the fust o' leap year as you know, |
| So she jist cornered Jim an' proposed on the spot, |
| An' you bet he didn't say no. |
| |
| "He's building a house up thar on the hill, |
| An' has laid up a snug pile o' cash, |
| The weddin's to be on the first o' next May— |
| Jist a year from the day o' the smash— |
| The gal says he risked his dear life to save hers, |
| An' she'll just turn the tables about, |
| An' give him the life that he saved—thar's the bell. |
| Good day, sir, we're goin' to pull out." |
|
| Cheeriest room, that morn, the kitchen. Helped by Bridget's willing hands, |
| Bustled Hannah, deftly mixing pies, for ready waiting pans. |
| Little Flossie flitted round them, and her curling, floating hair |
| Glinted gold-like, gleamed and glistened, in the sparkling sunlit air; |
| Slouched a figure o'er the lawn; a man so wretched and forlore, |
| Tattered, grim, so like a beggar, ne'er had trod that path before. |
| His shirt was torn, his hat was gone, bare and begrimed his knees, |
| Face with blood and dirt disfigured, elbows peeped from out his sleeves. |
| Rat-tat-tat, upon the entrance, brought Aunt Hannah to the door; |
| Parched lips humbly plead for water, as she scanned his misery o'er; |
| Wrathful came the dame's quick answer; made him cower, shame, and start |
| Out of sight, despairing, saddened, hurt and angry to the heart. |
| "Drink! You've had enough, you rascal. Faugh! The smell now makes me sick, |
| Move, you thief! Leave now these grounds, sir, or our dogs will help you quick." |
| Then the man with dragging footsteps hopeless, wishing himself dead, |
| Crept away from sight of plenty, starved in place of being fed, |
| Wandered farther from the mansion, till he reached a purling brook, |
| Babbling, trilling broken music by a green and shady nook, |
| Here sweet Flossie found him fainting; in her hands were food and drink; |
| Pale like death lay he before her, yet the child-heart did not shrink; |
| Then the rags from off his forehead, she with dainty hands offstripped, |
| In the brooklet's rippling waters, her own lace-trimmed 'kerchief dipped; |
| Then with sweet and holy pity, which, within her, did not daunt, |
| Bathed the blood and grime-stained visage of that sin-soiled son of want. |
| Wrung she then the linen cleanly, bandaged up the wound again |
| Ere the still eyes opened slowly; white lips murmuring, "Am I sane?" |
| "Look, poor man, here's food and drink. Now thank our God before you take." |
| Paused he mute and undecided, while deep sobs his form did shake |
| With an avalanche of feeling, and great tears came rolling down |
| O'er a face unused to showing aught except a sullen frown; |
| That "our God" unsealed a fountain his whole life had never known, |
| When that human angel near him spoke of her God as his own. |
| "Is it 'cause my aunty grieved you?" Quickly did the wee one ask. |
| "I'll tell you my little verse then, 'tis a holy Bible task, |
| It may help you to forgive her: 'Love your enemies and those |
| Who despitefully may use you; love them whether friends or foes!'" |
| Then she glided from his vision, left him prostrate on the ground |
| Conning o'er and o'er that lesson—with a grace to him new found. |
| Sunlight filtering through green branches as they wind-wave dance and dip, |
| Finds a prayer his mother taught him, trembling on his crime-stained lip. |
| Hist! a step, an angry mutter, and the owner of the place, |
| Gentle Flossie's haughty father, and the tramp stood face to face! |
| "Thieving rascal! you've my daughter's 'kerchief bound upon your brow; |
| Off with it, and cast it down here. Come! be quick about it now." |
| As the man did not obey him, Flossie's father lashed his cheek |
| With a riding-whip he carried; struck him hard and cut him deep. |
| Quick the tramp bore down upon him, felled him, o'er him where he lay |
| Raised a knife to seek his life-blood. Then there came a thought to stay |
| All his angry, murderous impulse, caused the knife to shuddering fall: |
| "He's her father; love your en'mies; 'tis 'our God' reigns over all." |
| |
| At midnight, lambent, lurid flames light up the sky with fiercest beams, |
| Wild cries, "Fire! fire!" ring through the air, and red like blood each flame now seems; |
| They faster grow, they higher throw weird, direful arms which ever lean |
| About the gray stone mansion old. Now roars the wind to aid the scene; |
| The flames yet higher, wilder play. A shudder runs through all around— |
| Distinctly as in light of day, at topmost window from the ground |
| Sweet Flossie stands, her golden hair enhaloed now by firelit air. |
| Loud rang the father's cry: "O God! my child! my child! Will no one dare |
| For her sweet sake the flaming stair?" Look, one steps forth with muffled face, |
| Leaps through the flames with fleetest feet, on trembling ladder runs a race |
| With life and death—the window gains. Deep silence falls on all around, |
| Till bursts aloud a sobbing wail. The ladder falls with crashing sound— |
| A flaming, treacherous mass. O God! she was so young and he so brave! |
| Look once again. See! see! on highest roof he stands—the fiery wave |
| Fierce rolling round—his arms enclasp the child—God help him yet to save! |
| "For life or for eternal sleep," |
| He cries, then makes a vaulting leap, |
| A tree branch catches, with sure aim, |
| And by the act proclaims his name; |
| The air was rent, the cheers rang loud, |
| A rough voice cried from out the crowd, |
| "Huzza, my boys, well we know him, |
| None dares that leap but Flying Jim!" |
| A jail-bird—outlaw—thief, indeed, |
| Yet o'er them all takes kingly lead. |
| "Do now your worst," his gasping cry, |
| "Do all your worst, I'm doomed to die; |
| I've breathed the flames, 'twill not be long"; |
| Then hushed all murmurs through the throng. |
| With reverent hands they bore him where |
| The summer evening's cooling air |
| Came softly sighing through the trees; |
| The child's proud father on his knees |
| Forgiveness sought of God and Jim, |
| Which dying lips accorded him. |
| A mark of whip on white face stirred |
| To gleaming scarlet at his words. |
| "Forgive them all who use you ill, |
| She taught me that and I fulfill; |
| I would her hand might touch my face, |
| Though she's so pure and I so base." |
| Low Flossie bent and kissed the brow, |
| With smile of bliss transfigured now: |
| Death, the angel, sealed it there, |
| 'Twas sent to God with "mother's prayer." |
| |
| Emma Dunning Banks. |
| Away, away in the Northland, |
| Where the hours of the day are few, |
| And the nights are so long in winter, |
| They cannot sleep them through; |
| |
| Where they harness the swift reindeer |
| To the sledges, when it snows; |
| And the children look like bears' cubs |
| In their funny, furry clothes: |
| |
| They tell them a curious story— |
| I don't believe 't is true; |
| And yet you may learn a lesson |
| If I tell the tale to you |
| |
| Once, when the good Saint Peter |
| Lived in the world below, |
| And walked about it, preaching, |
| Just as he did, you know; |
| |
| He came to the door of a cottage, |
| In traveling round the earth, |
| Where a little woman was making cakes, |
| And baking them on the hearth; |
| |
| And being faint with fasting, |
| For the day was almost done, |
| He asked her, from her store of cakes, |
| To give him a single one. |
| |
| So she made a very little cake, |
| But as it baking lay, |
| She looked at it, and thought it seemed |
| Too large to give away. |
| |
| Therefore she kneaded another, |
| And still a smaller one; |
| But it looked, when she turned it over, |
| As large as the first had done. |
| |
| Then she took a tiny scrap of dough, |
| And rolled, and rolled it flat; |
| And baked it thin as a wafer— |
| But she couldn't part with that. |
| |
|
| For she said, "My cakes that seem too small |
| When I eat of them myself, |
| Are yet too large to give away," |
| So she put them on the shelf. |
| |
| Then good Saint Peter grew angry, |
| For he was hungry and faint; |
| And surely such a woman |
| Was enough to provoke a saint. |
| |
| And he said, "You are far too selfish |
| To dwell in a human form, |
| To have both food and shelter, |
| And fire to keep you warm. |
| |
| "Now, you shall build as the birds do, |
| And shall get your scanty food |
| By boring, and boring, and boring, |
| All day in the hard dry wood," |
| |
| Then up she went through the chimney, |
| Never speaking a word, |
| And out of the top flew a woodpecker. |
| For she was changed to a bird. |
| |
| She had a scarlet cap on her head, |
| And that was left the same, |
| Bat all the rest of her clothes were burned |
| Black as a coal in the flame. |
| |
| And every country school boy |
| Has seen her in the wood; |
| Where she lives in the woods till this very day, |
| Boring and boring for food. |
| |
| And this is the lesson she teaches: |
| Live not for yourself alone, |
| Lest the needs you will not pity |
| Shall one day be your own. |
| |
| Give plenty of what is given to you, |
| Listen to pity's call; |
| Don't think the little you give is great, |
| And the much you get is small. |
| |
| Now, my little boy, remember that, |
| And try to be kind and good, |
| When you see the woodpecker's sooty dress, |
| And see her scarlet hood. |
| |
| You mayn't be changed to a bird, though you live |
| As selfishly as you can; |
| But you will be changed to a smaller thing— |
| A mean and selfish man. |
| |
| Phoebe Cary. |
| When the lessons and tasks are all ended, |
| And the school for the day is dismissed, |
| And the little ones gather around me, |
| To bid me good-night and be kissed,— |
| Oh, the little white arms that encircle |
| My neck in a tender embrace! |
| Oh, the smiles that are halos of Heaven, |
| Shedding sunshine and love on my face! |
| |
| And when they, are gone, I sit dreaming |
| Of my childhood, too lovely to last; |
| Of love that my heart will remember |
| When it wakes to the pulse of the past; |
| Ere the world and its wickedness made me |
| A partner of sorrow and sin; |
| When the glory of God was about me, |
| And the glory of gladness within. |
| |
| Oh, my heart grows as weak as a woman's |
| And the fountains of feeling will flow, |
| When I think of the paths, steep and stony |
| Where the feet of the dear ones must go. |
| Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them, |
| Of the tempests of fate blowing wild— |
| Oh, there's nothing on earth half so holy |
| As the innocent heart of a child! |
| |
| They are idols of hearts and of households, |
| They are angels of God in disguise. |
| His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses, |
| His glory still beams in their eyes: |
| Oh, those truants from earth and from heaven, |
| They have made me more manly and mild! |
| And I know how Jesus could liken |
| The Kingdom of God to a child. |
| |
| Seek not a life for the dear ones |
| All radiant, as others have done. |
| But that life may have just enough shadow |
| To temper the glare of the sun; |
| I would pray God to guard them from evil, |
| But my prayer would bound back to myself. |
| Ah! A seraph may pray for a sinner, |
| But the sinner must pray for himself. |
| |
| The twig is so easily bended, |
| I have banished the rule of the rod; |
| I have taught them the goodness of Knowledge, |
| They have taught me the goodness of God. |
| My heart is a dungeon of darkness, |
| Where I shut them from breaking a rule; |
| My frown is sufficient correction, |
| My love is the law of the school. |
| |
| I shall leave the old house in the autumn |
| To traverse the threshold no more, |
| Ah! how I shall sigh for the dear ones |
| That meet me each morn at the door. |
| I shall miss the good-nights and the kisses, |
| And the gush of their innocent glee; |
| The group on the green and the flowers |
| That are brought every morning to me. |
| |
| I shall miss them at morn and at evening. |
| Their song in the school and the street, |
| I shall miss the low hum of their voices |
| And the tramp of their delicate feet. |
| When the lessons and tasks are all ended, |
| And death says the school is dismissed, |
| May the little ones gather around me |
| To bid me good-night and be kissed. |
| |
| Charles M. Dickinson. |
| The sunlight shone on walls of stone, |
| And towers sublime and tall, |
| King Alfred sat upon his throne |
| Within his council hall. |
| |
| And glancing o'er the splendid throng, |
| With grave and solemn face, |
| To where his noble vassals stood, |
| He saw a vacant place. |
| |
| "Where is the Earl of Holderness?" |
| With anxious look, he said. |
| "Alas, O King!" a courtier cried, |
| "The noble Earl is dead!" |
| |
| Before the monarch could express |
| The sorrow that he felt, |
| A soldier, with a war-worn face, |
| Approached the throne, and knelt. |
| |
| "My sword," he said, "has ever been, |
| O King, at thy command, |
| And many a proud and haughty Dane |
| Has fallen by my hand. |
| |
| "I've fought beside thee in the field, |
| And 'neath the greenwood tree; |
| It is but fair for thee to give |
| Yon vacant place to me." |
| |
| "It is not just," a statesman cried, |
| "This soldier's prayer to hear, |
| My wisdom has done more for thee |
| Than either sword or spear. |
| |
| "The victories of thy council hall |
| Have made thee more renown |
| Than all the triumphs of the field |
| Have given to thy crown. |
| |
| "My name is known in every land, |
| My talents have been thine, |
| Bestow this Earldom, then, on me, |
| For it is justly mine." |
| |
| Yet, while before the monarch's throne |
| These men contending stood, |
| A woman crossed the floor, who wore |
| The weeds of widowhood. |
| |
| And slowly to King Alfred's feet |
| A fair-haired boy she led— |
| "O King, this is the rightful heir |
| Of Holderness," she said. |
| |
| "Helpless, he comes to claim his own, |
| Let no man do him wrong, |
| For he is weak and fatherless, |
| And thou art just and strong." |
| |
| "What strength or power," the statesman cried, |
| "Could such a judgement bring? |
| Can such a feeble child as this |
| Do aught for thee, O King? |
| |
| "When thou hast need of brawny arms |
| To draw thy deadly bows, |
| When thou art wanting crafty men |
| To crush thy mortal foes." |
| |
| With earnest voice the fair young boy |
| Replied: "I cannot fight, |
| But I can pray to God, O King, |
| And God can give thee might!" |
| |
| The King bent down and kissed the child, |
| The courtiers turned away, |
| "The heritage is thine," he said, |
| "Let none thy right gainsay. |
| |
| "Our swords may cleave the casques of men, |
| Our blood may stain the sod, |
| But what are human strength and power |
| Without the help of God?" |
| |
| Eugene J. Hall. |
| |
| Your letter, lady, came too late, |
| For heaven had claimed its own; |
| Ah, sudden change—from prison bars |
| Unto the great white throne; |
| And yet I think he would have stayed, |
| To live for his disdain, |
| Could he have read the careless words |
| Which you have sent in vain. |
| |
| So full of patience did he wait, |
| Through many a weary hour, |
| That o'er his simple soldier-faith |
| Not even death had power; |
| And you—did others whisper low |
| Their homage in your ear, |
| As though among their shallow throng |
| His spirit had a peer? |
| |
| I would that you were by me now, |
| To draw the sheet aside |
| And see how pure the look he wore |
| The moment when he died. |
| The sorrow that you gave to him |
| Had left its weary trace, |
| As 'twere the shadow of the cross |
| Upon his pallid face. |
| |
| "Her love," he said, "could change for me |
| The winter's cold to spring." |
| Ah, trust of fickle maiden's love, |
| Thou art a bitter thing! |
| For when these valleys, bright in May, |
| Once more with blossoms wave, |
| The northern violets shall blow |
| Above his humble grave. |
| |
| Your dole of scanty words had been |
| But one more pang to bear |
| For him who kissed unto the last |
| Your tress of golden hair; |
| I did not put it where he said, |
| For when the angels come, |
| I would not have them find the sign |
| Of falsehood in the tomb. |
| |
| I've read your letter, and I know |
| The wiles that you have wrought |
| To win that trusting heart of his, |
| And gained it—cruel thought! |
| What lavish wealth men sometimes give |
| For what is worthless all! |
| What manly bosoms beat for them |
| In folly's falsest thrall! |
| |
| You shall not pity him, for now |
| His sorrow has an end; |
| Yet would that you could stand with me |
| Beside my fallen friend! |
| And I forgive you for his sake, |
| As he—if he be forgiven— |
| May e'en be pleading grace for you |
| Before the court of Heaven. |
|
| |
| To-night the cold winds whistle by, |
| As I my vigil keep |
| Within the prison dead-house, where |
| Few mourners come to weep. |
| A rude plank coffin holds his form; |
| Yet death exalts his face, |
| And I would rather see him thus |
| Than clasped in your embrace. |
| |
| To-night your home may shine with light |
| And ring with merry song, |
| And you be smiling as your soul |
| Had done no deadly wrong; |
| Your hand so fair that none would think |
| It penned these words of pain; |
| Your skin so white—would God your heart |
| Were half as free from stain. |
| |
| I'd rather be my comrade dead |
| Than you in life supreme; |
| For yours the sinner's waking dread, |
| And his the martyr's dream! |
| Whom serve we in this life we serve |
| In that which is to come; |
| He chose his way, you—yours; let God |
| Pronounce the fitting doom. |
| |
| W.S. Hawkins. |
| I'm not a chicken; I have seen |
| Full many a chill September, |
| And though I was a youngster then, |
| That gale I well remember; |
| The day before, my kite-string snapped, |
| And I, my kite pursuing, |
| The wind whisked off my palm-leaf hat;— |
| For me two storms were brewing! |
| |
| It came as quarrels sometimes do, |
| When married folks get clashing; |
| There was a heavy sigh or two, |
| Before the fire was flashing,— |
| A little stir among the clouds, |
| Before they rent asunder,— |
| A little rocking of the trees, |
| And then came on the thunder. |
| |
| Lord! how the ponds and rivers boiled, |
| And how the shingles rattled! |
| And oaks were scattered on the ground, |
| As if the Titans battled; |
| And all above was in a howl, |
| And all below a clatter,— |
| The earth was like a frying-pan. |
| Or some such hissing matter. |
| |
| It chanced to be our washing-day, |
| And all our things were drying: |
| The storm came roaring through the lines, |
| And set them all a-flying; |
| I saw the shirts and petticoats |
| Go riding off like witches; |
| I lost, ah! bitterly I wept,— |
| I lost my Sunday breeches! |
| |
| I saw them straddling through the air, |
| Alas! too late to win them; |
| I saw them chase the clouds, as if |
| The devil had been in them; |
| They were my darlings and my pride, |
| My boyhood's only riches,— |
| "Farewell, farewell," I faintly cried,— |
| "My breeches! O my breeches!" |
| |
| That night I saw them in my dreams, |
| How changed from what I knew them! |
| The dews had steeped their faded threads, |
| The winds had whistled through them! |
| I saw the wide and ghastly rents |
| Where demon claws had torn them; |
| A hole was in their amplest part, |
| As if an imp had worn them. |
| |
| I have had many happy years |
| And tailors kind and clever, |
| But those young pantaloons have gone |
| Forever and forever! |
| And not till fate has cut the last |
| Of all my earthly stitches, |
| This aching heart shall cease to mourn |
| My loved, my long-lost breeches! |
| |
| O.W. Holmes |
| With sable-draped banners and slow measured tread, |
| The flower laden ranks pass the gates of the dead; |
| And seeking each mound where a comrade's form rests |
| Leave tear-bedewed garlands to bloom, on his breast. |
| Ended at last is the labor of love; |
| Once more through the gateway the saddened lines move— |
| A wailing of anguish, a sobbing of grief, |
| Falls low on the ear of the battle-scarred chief; |
| Close crouched by the portals, a sunny-haired child |
| Besought him in accents with grief rendered wild: |
| |
| "Oh! sir, he was good, and they say he died brave— |
| Why, why, did you pass by my dear papa's grave? |
| I know he was poor, but as kind and as true |
| As ever marched into the battle with you; |
| His grave is so humble, no stone marks the spot, |
| You may not have seen it. Oh, say you did not! |
| For my poor heart will break if you knew he was there, |
| And thought him too lowly your offerings to share. |
| He didn't die lowly—he poured his heart's blood |
| In rich crimson streams, from the top-crowning sod |
| Of the breastworks which stood in front of the fight— |
| And died shouting, 'Onward! for God and the right!' |
| O'er all his dead comrades your bright garlands wave, |
| But you haven't put one on my papa's grave. |
| If mamma were here—but she lies by his side, |
| Her wearied heart broke when our dear papa died!" |
| |
| "Battalion! file left! countermarch!" cried the chief, |
| "This young orphaned maid hath full cause for her grief." |
| Then up in his arms from the hot, dusty street, |
| He lifted the maiden, while in through the gate |
| The long line repasses, and many an eye |
| Pays fresh tribute of tears to the lone orphan's sigh. |
| "This way, it is—here, sir, right under this tree; |
| They lie close together, with just room for me." |
| "Halt! Cover with roses each lowly green mound; |
| A love pure as this makes these graves hallowed ground." |
| |
| "Oh! thank you, kind sir! I ne'er can repay |
| The kindness you've shown little Daisy to-day; |
| But I'll pray for you here, each day while I live, |
| 'Tis all that a poor soldier's orphan can give. |
| I shall see papa soon and dear mamma, too— |
| I dreamed so last night, and I know 'twill come true; |
| And they will both bless you, I know, when I say |
| How you folded your arms round their dear one to-day; |
| How you cheered her sad heart and soothed it to rest, |
| And hushed its wild throbs on your strong, noble breast; |
| And when the kind angels shall call you to come |
| We'll welcome you there to our beautiful home |
| Where death never comes his black banners to wave, |
| And the beautiful flowers ne'er weep o'er a grave." |
| |
| C.E.L. Holmes. |
| Two little stockings hung side by side, |
| Close to the fireside broad and wide. |
| "Two?" said Saint Nick, as down he came, |
| Loaded with toys and many a game. |
| "Ho, ho!" said he, with a laugh of fun, |
| "I'll have no cheating, my pretty one. |
| |
| "I know who dwells in this house, my dear, |
| There's only one little girl lives here." |
| So he crept up close to the chimney place, |
| And measured a sock with a sober face; |
| Just then a wee little note fell out |
| And fluttered low, like a bird, about. |
|
| |
| "Aha! What's this?" said he, in surprise, |
| As he pushed his specs up close to his eyes, |
| And read the address in a child's rough plan. |
| "Dear Saint Nicholas," so it began, |
| "The other stocking you see on the wall |
| I have hung up for a child named Clara Hall. |
| |
| "She's a poor little girl, but very good, |
| So I thought, perhaps, you kindly would |
| Fill up her stocking, too, to-night, |
| And help to make her Christmas bright. |
| If you've not enough for both stockings there, |
| Please put all in Clara's, I shall not care." |
| |
| Saint Nicholas brushed a tear from his eye, |
| And, "God bless you, darling," he said with a sigh; |
| Then softly he blew through the chimney high |
| A note like a bird's, as it soars on high, |
| When down came two of the funniest mortals |
| That ever were seen this side earth's portals. |
| |
| "Hurry up," said Saint Nick, "and nicely prepare |
| All a little girl wants where money is rare." |
| Then, oh, what a scene there was in that room! |
| Away went the elves, but down from the gloom |
| Of the sooty old chimney came tumbling low |
| A child's whole wardrobe, from head to toe. |
| |
| How Santa Clans laughed, as he gathered them in, |
| And fastened each one to the sock with a pin; |
| Right to the toe he hung a blue dress,— |
| "She'll think it came from the sky, I guess," |
| Said Saint Nicholas, smoothing the folds of blue, |
| And tying the hood to the stocking, too. |
| |
| When all the warm clothes were fastened on, |
| And both little socks were filled and done, |
| Then Santa Claus tucked a toy here and there, |
| And hurried away to the frosty air, |
| Saying, "God pity the poor, and bless the dear child |
| Who pities them, too, on this night so wild." |
| |
| The wind caught the words and bore them on high |
| Till they died away in the midnight sky; |
| While Saint Nicholas flew through the icy air, |
| Bringing "peace and good will" with him everywhere. |
| |
| Sara Keables Hunt. |
| Oh! listen to the water mill, through all the livelong day, |
| As the clicking of the wheels wears hour by hour away; |
| How languidly the autumn wind does stir the withered leaves |
| As in the fields the reapers sing, while binding up their sheaves! |
| A solemn proverb strikes my mind, and as a spell is cast, |
| "The mill will never grind again with water that is past." |
| |
| The summer winds revive no more leaves strewn o'er earth and main, |
| The sickle nevermore will reap the yellow garnered grain; |
| The rippling stream flows on—aye, tranquil, deep and still, |
| But never glideth back again to busy water mill; |
| The solemn proverb speaks to all with meaning deep and vast, |
| "The mill will never grind again with water that is past." |
| |
| Ah! clasp the proverb to thy soul, dear loving heart and true, |
| For golden years are fleeting by and youth is passing too; |
| Ah! learn to make the most of life, nor lose one happy day, |
| For time will ne'er return sweet joys neglected, thrown away; |
| Nor leave one tender word unsaid, thy kindness sow broadcast— |
| "The mill will never grind again with water that is past." |
| |
| Oh! the wasted hours of life, that have swiftly drifted by, |
| Alas! the good we might have done, all gone without a sigh; |
| Love that we might once have saved by a single kindly word, |
| Thoughts conceived, but ne'er expressed, perishing unpenned, unheard. |
| Oh! take the lesson to thy soul, forever clasp it fast— |
| "The mill will never grind again with water that is past." |
| |
| Work on while yet the sun doth shine, thou man of strength and will, |
| The streamlet ne'er doth useless glide by clicking water mill; |
| Nor wait until to-morrow's light beams brightly on thy way, |
| For all that thou canst call thine own lies in the phrase "to-day." |
| Possession, power and blooming health must all be lost at last— |
| "The mill will never grind again with water that is past." |
| |
| Oh! love thy God and fellowman, thyself consider last, |
| For come it will when thou must scan dark errors of the past; |
| Soon will this fight of life be o'er and earth recede from view, |
| And heaven in all its glory shine, where all is pure and true. |
| Ah! then thou'lt see more clearly still the proverb deep and vast, |
| "The mill will never grind again with water that is past." |
| |
| Sarah Doudney. |
| What makes the dog's nose always cold? |
| I'll try to tell you, Curls of Gold, |
| If you will good and quiet be, |
| And come and stand by mamma's knee. |
| Well, years and years and years ago— |
| How many I don't really know— |
| There came a rain on sea and shore, |
| Its like was never seen before |
| Or since. It fell unceasing down, |
| Till all the world began to drown; |
| But just before it began to pour, |
| An old, old man—his name was Noah— |
| Built him an Ark, that he might save |
| His family from a wat'ry grave; |
| And in it also he designed |
| To shelter two of every kind |
| Of beast. Well, dear, when it was done, |
| And heavy clouds obscured the sun, |
| The Noah folks to it quickly ran, |
| And then the animals began |
| To gravely march along in pairs; |
| The leopards, tigers, wolves and bears, |
| The deer, the hippopotamuses, |
| The rabbits, squirrels, elks, walruses, |
| The camels, goats, cats and donkeys, |
| The tall giraffes, the beavers, monkeys, |
| The rats, the big rhinoceroses, |
| The dromedaries and the horses, |
| The sheep, and mice and kangaroos, |
| Hyenas, elephants, koodoos, |
| And hundreds more-'twould take all day, |
| My dear, so many names to say— |
| And at the very, very end |
| Of the procession, by his friend |
| And master, faithful dog was seen; |
| The livelong time he'd helping been, |
| To drive the crowd of creatures in; |
| And now, with loud, exultant bark, |
| He gaily sprang abroad the Ark. |
| Alas! so crowded was the space |
| He could not in it find a place; |
| So, patiently, he turned about, |
| Stood half way in, half way out, |
| And those extremely heavy showers |
| Descended through nine hundred hours |
| And more; and, darling, at the close, |
| 'Most frozen was his honest nose; |
| And never could it lose again |
| The dampness of that dreadful rain. |
| And that is what, my Curls of Gold, |
| Made all the doggies' noses cold. |
| Chained in the market-place he stood, |
| A man of giant frame, |
| Amid the gathering multitude |
| That shrunk to hear his name— |
| All stern of look and strong of limb, |
| His dark eye on the ground:— |
| And silently they gazed on him, |
| As on a lion bound. |
| |
| Vainly, but well, that chief had fought, |
| He was a captive now, |
| Yet pride, that fortune humbles not, |
| Was written on his brow. |
| The scars his dark broad bosom wore |
| Showed warrior true and brave; |
| A prince among his tribe before, |
| He could not be a slave. |
| |
| Then to his conqueror he spake: |
| "My brother is a king; |
| Undo this necklace from my neck, |
| And take this bracelet ring, |
| And send me where my brother reigns, |
| And I will fill thy hands |
| With store of ivory from the plains, |
| And gold-dust from the sands." |
| |
| "Not for thy ivory nor thy gold |
| Will I unbind thy chain; |
| That bloody hand shall never hold |
| The battle-spear again. |
| A price thy nation never gave |
| Shall yet be paid for thee; |
| For thou shalt be the Christian's slave, |
| In lands beyond the sea." |
| |
| Then wept the warrior chief and bade |
| To shred his locks away; |
| And one by one, each heavy braid |
| Before the victor lay. |
| Thick were the platted locks, and long, |
| And deftly hidden there |
| Shone many a wedge of gold among |
| The dark and crispèd hair. |
| |
| "Look, feast thy greedy eye with gold |
| Long kept for sorest need: |
| Take it—thou askest sums untold, |
| And say that I am freed. |
| Take it—my wife, the long, long day |
| Weeps by the cocoa-tree, |
| And my young children leave their play, |
| And ask in vain for me." |
| |
| "I take thy gold—but I have made |
| Thy fetters fast and strong, |
| And ween that by the cocoa shade |
| Thy wife will wait thee long," |
| Strong was the agony that shook |
| The captive's frame to hear, |
| And the proud meaning of his look |
| Was changed to mortal fear. |
| |
| His heart was broken—crazed his brain; |
| At once his eye grew wild; |
| He struggled fiercely with his chain, |
| Whispered, and wept, and smiled; |
| Yet wore not long those fatal bands, |
| And once, at shut of day, |
| They drew him forth upon the sands, |
| The foul hyena's prey. |
| |
| William Cullen Bryant. |
| The children kept coming one by one, |
| Till the boys were five and the girls were three. |
| And the big brown house was alive with fun, |
| From the basement floor to the old roof-tree, |
| Like garden flowers the little ones grew, |
| Nurtured and trained with tenderest care; |
| Warmed by love's sunshine, bathed in dew, |
| They blossomed into beauty rare. |
| |
| But one of the boys grew weary one day, |
| And leaning his head on his mother's breast, |
| He said, "I am tired and cannot play; |
| Let me sit awhile on your knee and rest." |
| She cradled him close to her fond embrace, |
| She hushed him to sleep with her sweetest song, |
| And rapturous love still lightened his face |
| When his spirit had joined the heavenly throng. |
| |
| Then the eldest girl, with her thoughtful eyes, |
| Who stood where the "brook and the river meet," |
| Stole softly away into Paradise |
| E'er "the river" had reached her slender feet. |
| While the father's eyes on the graves were bent, |
| The mother looked upward beyond the skies: |
| "Our treasures," she whispered, "were only lent; |
| Our darlings were angels in earth's disguise." |
| |
| The years flew by, and the children began |
| With longings to think of the world outside, |
| And as each in turn became a man, |
| The boys proudly went from the father's side. |
| The girls were women so gentle and fair, |
| That lovers were speedy to woo and to win; |
| And with orange-blooms in their braided hair, |
| Their old home they left, new homes to begin. |
| |
| So, one by one the children have gone— |
| The boys were five, the girls were three; |
| And the big brown house is gloomy and alone, |
| With but two old folks for its company. |
| They talk to each other about the past, |
| As they sit together at eventide, |
| And say, "All the children we keep at last |
| Are the boy and girl who in childhood died." |
| |
| Mrs. E.V. Wilson. |
| Well, wife, I've found the model church! I worshiped there to-day! |
| It made me think of good old times before my hair was gray; |
| The meetin'-house was fixed up more than they were years ago. |
| But then I felt, when I went in, it wasn't built for show. |
| |
| The sexton didn't seat me away back by the door; |
| He knew that I was old and deaf, as well as old and poor; |
| He must have been a Christian, for he led me boldly through |
| The long aisle of that crowded church to find a pleasant pew. |
| |
| I wish you'd heard that singin'; it had the old-time ring; |
| The preacher said, with trumpet voice: "Let all the people sing!" |
| The tune was "Coronation," and the music upward rolled, |
| Till I thought I heard the angels striking all their harps of gold. |
| |
| My deafness seemed to melt away; my spirit caught the fire; |
| I joined my feeble, trembling voice with that melodious choir, |
| And sang as in my youthful days: "Let angels prostrate fall, |
| Bring forth the royal diadem, and crown Him Lord of all." |
| |
| I tell you, wife, it did me good to sing that hymn once more; |
| I felt like some wrecked mariner who gets a glimpse of shore; |
| I almost wanted to lay down this weatherbeaten form, |
| And anchor in that blessed port forever from the storm. |
| |
| The preachin'? Well, I can't just tell all that the preacher said; |
| I know it wasn't written; I know it wasn't read; |
| He hadn't time to read it, for the lightnin' of his eye |
| Went flashin' long from pew to pew, nor passed a sinner by. |
| |
| The sermon wasn't flowery; 'twas simple Gospel truth; |
| It fitted poor old men like me; it fitted hopeful youth; |
| 'Twas full of consolation, for weary hearts that bleed; |
| 'Twas full of invitations, to Christ and not to creed. |
| |
| The preacher made sin hideous in Gentiles and in Jews; |
| He shot the golden sentences down in the finest pews; |
| And—though I can't see very well—I saw the falling tear |
| That told me hell was some ways off, and heaven very near. |
| |
| How swift the golden moments fled within that holy place! |
| How brightly beamed the light of heaven from every happy face! |
| Again I longed for that sweet time when friend shall meet with friend— |
| "When congregations ne'er break up, and Sabbaths have no end." |
| |
| I hope to meet that minister—that congregation, too— |
| In that dear home beyond the stars that shine from heaven's blue; |
| I doubt not I'll remember, beyond life's evenin' gray, |
| The happy hour of worship in that model church today. |
| |
| Dear wife, the fight will soon be fought; the vict'ry soon be won; |
| The shinin' goal is just ahead; the race is nearly run; |
| O'er the river we are nearin', they are throngin' to the shore, |
| To shout our safe arrival where the weary weep no more. |
| |
| John H. Yates. |
| The gret big church wuz crowded full uv broadcloth an' of silk, |
| An' satins rich as cream thet grows on our ol' brindle's milk; |
| Shined boots, biled shirts, stiff dickeys, an' stove-pipe hats were there, |
| An' doodes 'ith trouserloons so tight they couldn't kneel down in prayer. |
| |
| The elder in his poolpit high, said, as he slowly riz: |
| "Our organist is kept' to hum, laid up 'ith roomatiz, |
| An' as we hev no substitoot, as brother Moore ain't here, |
| Will some 'un in the congregation be so kind's to volunteer?" |
| |
| An' then a red-nosed, blear-eyed tramp, of low-toned, rowdy style, |
| Give an interductory hiccup, an' then swaggered up the aisle. |
| Then thro' that holy atmosphere there crep' a sense er sin, |
| An' thro' thet air of sanctity the odor uv ol' gin. |
| |
| Then Deacon Purington he yelled, his teeth all set on edge: |
| "This man perfanes the house of God! W'y, this is sacrilege!" |
| The tramp didn' hear a word he said, but slouched 'ith stumblin' feet, |
| An' stalked an' swaggered up the steps, an' gained the organ seat. |
| |
| He then went pawin' thro' the keys, an' soon there rose a strain |
| Thet seemed to jest bulge out the heart, an' 'lectrify the brain; |
| An' then he slapped down on the thing 'ith hands an' head an' knees, |
| He slam-dashed his hull body down kerflop upon the keys. |
| |
| The organ roared, the music flood went sweepin' high an' dry, |
| It swelled into the rafters, an' bulged out into the sky; |
| The ol' church shook and staggered, an' seemed to reel an' sway, |
| An' the elder shouted "Glory!" an' I yelled out "Hooray!!" |
| |
| An' then he tried a tender strain that melted in our ears, |
| Thet brought up blessed memories and drenched 'em down 'ith tears; |
| An' we dreamed uv ol' time kitchens, 'ith Tabby on the mat, |
| Uv home an' luv an' baby days, an' Mother, an' all that! |
| |
| An' then he struck a streak uv hope—a song from souls forgiven— |
| Thet burst from prison bars uv sin, an' stormed the gates uv heaven; |
| The morning stars together sung—no soul wuz left alone— |
| We felt the universe wuz safe, an' God was on His throne! |
| |
| An' then a wail of deep despair an' darkness come again, |
| An' long, black crape hung on the doors uv all the homes uv men; |
| No luv, no light, no joy, no hope, no songs of glad delight, |
| An' then—the tramp, he swaggered down an' reeled out into the night! |
| |
| But we knew he'd tol' his story, tho' he never spoke a word, |
| An' it was the saddest story thet our ears had ever heard; |
| He had tol' his own life history, an' no eye was dry thet day, |
| W'en the elder rose an' simply said: "My brethren, let up pray." |
| |
| Sam Walter Foss. |
| The old mayor climbed the belfry tower, |
| The ringers rang by two, by three; |
| "Pull, if ye never pulled before; |
| Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he. |
| "Play uppe, play uppe O Boston bells! |
| Play all your changes, all your swells, |
| Play uppe 'The Brides of Enderby.'" |
| |
| Men say it was a stolen tyde— |
| The Lord that sent it, He knows all; |
| But in myne ears doth still abide |
| The message that the bells let fall: |
| And there was naught of strange, beside |
| The flight of mews ans peewits pied |
| By millions crouched on the old sea-wall. |
| |
| I sat and spun within the doore, |
| My thread break off, I raised myne eyes; |
| The level sun, like ruddy ore, |
| Lay sinking in the barren skies, |
| And dark against day's golden death |
| She moved where Lindis wandereth, |
| My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth. |
| |
| "Cusha! Cusha!" all along; |
| Ere the early dews were falling, |
| Farre away I heard her song. |
| "Cusha! Cusha!" all along; |
| Where the reedy Lindis floweth, |
| Floweth, floweth, |
| From the meads where melick groweth |
| Faintly came her milking song: |
| |
| "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, |
| "For the dews will soone be falling; |
| Leave your meadow grasses mellow, |
| Mellow, mellow; |
| Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; |
| Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, |
| Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, |
| Hollow, hollow; |
| Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, |
| From the clovers lift your head; |
| Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, |
| Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, |
| Jetty, to the milking shed." |
| |
| If it be long, ay, long ago, |
| When I beginne to think howe long, |
| Againe I hear the Lindis flow, |
| Swift as an arrowe, sharp and strong; |
| And all the aire, it seemeth mee, |
| Bin full of floating bells (sayeth she), |
| That ring the tune of Enderby. |
| |
| Alle fresh the level pasture lay, |
| And not a shadowe mote be seene, |
| Save where full fyve good miles away |
| The steeple towered from out the greene; |
| And lo! the great bell farre and wide |
| Was heard in all the country side |
| That Saturday at eventide. |
| |
| The swanherds where there sedges are |
| Moved on in sunset's golden breath, |
| The shepherde lads I heard affare, |
| And my sonne's wife, Elizabeth; |
| Till floating o'er the grassy sea |
| Came down that kindly message free, |
| The "Brides of Mavis Enderby." |
| |
| Then some looked uppe into the sky, |
| And all along where Lindis flows |
| To where the goodly vessels lie, |
| And where the lordly steeple shows, |
| They sayde, "And why should this thing be? |
| What danger lowers by land or sea? |
| They ring the tune of Enderby! |
| |
| "For evil news from Mablethorpe, |
| Of pyrate galleys warping downe; |
| For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe, |
| They have not spared to wake the towne; |
| But while the west bin red to see, |
| And storms be none, and pyrates flee, |
| Why ring 'The Brides of Enderby'?" |
| |
| I looked without, and lo! my sonne |
| Came riding down with might and main: |
| He raised a shout as he drew on, |
| Till all the welkin rang again, |
| "Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" |
| (A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath |
| Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.) |
| |
| "The old sea wall (he cried) is downe, |
| The rising tide comes on apace, |
| And boats adrift in yonder towne |
| Go sailing uppe the market-place." |
| He shook as one that looks on death: |
| "God save you, mother!" straight he saith, |
| "Where is my wife, Elizabeth?" |
|
| |
| "Good sonne, where Lindis winds away, |
| With her two bairns I marked her long; |
| And ere yon bells beganne to play |
| Afar I heard her milking song." |
| He looked across the grassy lea, |
| To right, to left, "Ho, Enderby!" |
| They rang "The Brides of Enderby"! |
| |
| With that he cried and beat his breast; |
| For, lo! along the river's bed |
| A mighty eygre reared his crest, |
| And uppe the Lindis raging sped. |
| It swept with thunderous noises loud; |
| Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, |
| Or like a demon in a shroud. |
| |
| And rearing Lindis backward pressed, |
| Shook all her trembling bankes amaine, |
| Then madly at the eygre's breast |
| Flung uppe her weltering walls again. |
| Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout— |
| Then beaten foam flew round about— |
| Then all the mighty floods were out. |
| |
| So farre, so fast the eygre drave, |
| The heart had hardly time to beat, |
| Before a shallow seething wave |
| Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet. |
| The feet had hardly time to flee |
| Before it brake against the knee, |
| And all the world was in the sea. |
| |
| Upon the roofe we sat that night, |
| The noise of bells went sweeping by; |
| I marked the lofty beacon light |
| Stream from the church tower, red and high,— |
| A lurid mark and dread to see; |
| And awesome bells they were to mee, |
| That in the dark rang "Enderby." |
| |
| They rang the sailor lads to guide |
| From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed; |
| And I—my sonne was at my side, |
| And yet the ruddy beacon glowed; |
| And yet he moaned beneath his breath, |
| "Oh, come in life, or come in death! |
| Oh, lost! my love, Elizabeth." |
| |
| And didst thou visit him no more? |
| Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare; |
| The waters laid thee at his doore, |
| Ere yet the early dawn was clear; |
| Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, |
| The lifted sun shone on thy face, |
| Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place. |
| |
| That flow strewed wrecks about the grass, |
| That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea; |
| A fatal ebbe and flow, alas! |
| To manye more than myne and me: |
| But each will mourn his own (she saith), |
| And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath |
| Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth. |
| |
| I shall never hear her more |
| By the reedy Lindis shore, |
| "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling |
| Ere the early dews be falling; |
| I shall never hear her song, |
| "Cusha! Cusha!" all along, |
| Where the sunny Lindis floweth, |
| Goeth, floweth; |
| From the meads where melick groweth, |
| When the water winding down, |
| Onward floweth to the town. |
| |
| I shall never see her more |
| Where the reeds and rushes quiver, |
| Shiver, quiver; |
| Stand beside the sobbing river, |
| Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling |
| To the sandy lonesome shore; |
| I shall never hear her calling, |
| "Leave your meadow grasses mellow, |
| Mellow, mellow; |
| Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; |
| Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot; |
| Quit your pipes of parsley hollow, |
| Hollow, hollow; |
| Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow; |
| Lightfoot, Whitefoot, |
| From your clovers lift the head; |
| Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow, |
| Jetty, to the milking-shed." |
| |
| Jean Ingelow. |
| Work! |
| Thank God for the might of it, |
| The ardor, the urge, the delight of it, |
| Work that springs from the heart's desire, |
| Setting the brain and the soul on fire— |
| Oh, what is so good as the heat of it, |
| And what is so glad as the beat of it, |
| And what is so kind as the stern command, |
| Challenging brain and heart and hand? |
| |
| Work! |
| Thank God for the pride of it, |
| For the beautiful, conquering tide of it, |
| Sweeping the life in its furious flood, |
| Thrilling the arteries, cleansing the blood, |
| Mastering stupor and dull despair, |
| Moving the dreamer to do and dare— |
| Oh, what is so good as the urge of it, |
| And what is so glad as the surge of it, |
| And what is so strong as the summons deep, |
| Rousing the torpid soul from sleep? |
| |
| Work! |
| Thank God for the pace of it, |
| For the terrible, swift, keen race of it, |
| Fiery steeds in full control, |
| Nostrils a-quiver to reach the goal. |
| Work, the power that drives behind, |
| Guiding the purposes, taming the mind, |
| Holding the runaway wishes back, |
| Reining the will to one steady track, |
| Speeding the energies, faster, faster, |
| Triumphing ever over disaster; |
| Oh, what is so good as the pain of it, |
| And what is so great as the gain of it, |
| And what is so kind as the cruel goad, |
| Forcing us on through the rugged road? |
| |
| Work! |
| Thank God for the swing of it, |
| For the clamoring, hammering ring of it, |
| Passion of labor daily hurled |
| On the mighty anvils of the world. |
| Oh, what is so fierce as the flame of it? |
| And what is so huge as the aim of it? |
| Thundering on through dearth and doubt, |
| Calling the plan of the Maker out, |
| Work, the Titan; Work, the friend, |
| Shaping the earth to a glorious end, |
| Draining the swamps and blasting hills, |
| Doing whatever the Spirit wills— |
| Rending a continent apart, |
| To answer the dream of the Master heart. |
| Thank God for a world where none may shirk— |
| Thank God for the splendor of Work! |
| |
| Angela Morgan. |
| I cannot vouch my tale is true, |
| Nor say, indeed, 'tis wholly new; |
| But true or false, or new or old, |
| I think you'll find it fairly told. |
| A Frenchman, who had ne'er before |
| Set foot upon a foreign shore, |
| Weary of home, resolved to go |
| And see what Holland had to show. |
| He didn't know a word of Dutch, |
| But that could hardly grieve him much; |
| He thought, as Frenchmen always do, |
| That all the world could "parley-voo." |
| At length our eager tourist stands |
| Within the famous Netherlands, |
| And, strolling gaily here and there, |
| In search of something rich or rare, |
| A lordly mansion greets his eyes; |
| "How beautiful!" the Frenchman cries, |
| And, bowing to the man who sate |
| In livery at the garden gate, |
| "Pray, Mr. Porter, if you please, |
| Whose very charming grounds are these? |
| And, pardon me, be pleased to tell |
| Who in this splendid house may dwell." |
| To which, in Dutch, the puzzled man |
| Replied what seemed like "[Nick Van Stann]," |
| |
| "Thanks!" said the Gaul; "the owner's taste |
| Is equally superb and chaste; |
| So fine a house, upon my word, |
| Not even Paris can afford. |
| With statues, too, in every niche; |
| Of course Monsieur Van Stann is rich, |
| And lives, I warrant, like a king,— |
| Ah! wealth mast be a charming thing!" |
| In Amsterdam the Frenchman meets |
| A thousand wonders in the streets, |
| But most he marvels to behold |
| A lady dressed in silk and gold; |
| Gazing with rapture on the dame, |
| He begs to know the lady's name, |
| And hears, to raise his wonders more, |
| The very words he heard before! |
| "Mercie!" he cries; "well, on my life, |
| Milord has got a charming wife; |
| 'Tis plain to see, this Nick Van Stann |
| Must be a very happy man." |
| |
| Next day our tourist chanced to pop |
| His head within a lottery shop, |
| And there he saw, with staring eyes, |
| The drawing of the mammoth prize. |
| "Ten millions! 'tis a pretty sum; |
| I wish I had as much at home: |
| I'd like to know, as I'm a sinner, |
| What lucky fellow is the winner?" |
| Conceive our traveler's amaze |
| To hear again the hackneyed phrase. |
| "What? no! not Nick Van Stann again? |
| Faith! he's the luckiest of men. |
| You may be sure we don't advance |
| So rapidly as that in France: |
| A house, the finest in the land; |
| A lovely garden, nicely planned; |
| A perfect angel of a wife, |
| And gold enough to last a life; |
| There never yet was mortal man |
| So blest—as Monsieur Nick Van Stann!" |
| |
| Next day the Frenchman chanced to meet |
| A pompous funeral in the street; |
| And, asking one who stood close by |
| What nobleman had pleased to die, |
| Was stunned to hear the old reply. |
| The Frenchman sighed and shook his head, |
| "Mon Dieu! poor Nick Van Stann is dead; |
| With such a house, and such a wife, |
| It must be hard to part with life; |
| And then, to lose that mammoth prize,— |
| He wins, and, pop,—the winner dies! |
| Ah, well! his blessings came so fast, |
| I greatly feared they could not last: |
| And thus, we see, the sword of Fate |
| Cuts down alike the small and great." |
| |
| John G. Saxe. |
| |
| |
| Nicht verstehen:—"I don't understand." |
| Marching down to Armageddon— |
| Brothers, stout and strong! |
| Let us cheer the way we tread on, |
| With a soldier's song! |
| Faint we by the weary road, |
| Or fall we in the rout, |
| Dirge or Pæan, Death or Triumph!— |
| Let the song ring out! |
| |
| We are they who scorn the scorners— |
| Love the lovers—hate |
| None within the world's four corners— |
| All must share one fate; |
| We are they whose common banner |
| Bears no badge nor sign, |
| Save the Light which dyes it white— |
| The Hope that makes it shine. |
| |
| We are they whose bugle rings, |
| That all the wars may cease; |
| We are they will pay the Kings |
| Their cruel price for Peace; |
| We are they whose steadfast watchword |
| Is what Christ did teach— |
| "Each man for his Brother first— |
| And Heaven, then, for each." |
| |
| We are they who will not falter— |
| Many swords or few— |
| Till we make this Earth the altar |
| Of a worship new; |
| We are they who will not take |
| From palace, priest or code, |
| A meaner Law than "Brotherhood"— |
| A lower Lord than God. |
| |
| Marching down to Armageddon— |
| Brothers, stout and strong! |
| Ask not why the way we tread on |
| Is so rough and long! |
| God will tell us when our spirits |
| Grow to grasp His plan! |
| Let us do our part to-day— |
| And help Him, helping Man! |
| |
| Shall we even curse the madness |
| Which for "ends of State" |
| Dooms us to the long, long sadness |
| Of this human hate? |
| Let us slay in perfect pity |
| Those that must not live; |
| Vanquish, and forgive our foes— |
| Or fall—and still forgive! |
| |
| We are those whose unpaid legions, |
| In free ranks arrayed, |
| Massacred in many regions— |
| Never once were stayed: |
| We are they whose torn battalions, |
| Trained to bleed, not fly, |
| Make our agonies a triumph,— |
| Conquer, while we die! |
| |
| Therefore, down to Armageddon— |
| Brothers, bold and strong; |
| Cheer the glorious way we tread on, |
| With this soldier song! |
| Let the armies of the old Flags |
| March in silent dread! |
| Death and Life are one to us, |
| Who fight for Quick and Dead! |
| |
| Edwin Arnold. |
| It was a sergeant old and gray, |
| Well singed and bronzed from siege and pillage. |
| Went tramping in an army's wake |
| Along the turnpike of the village. |
| |
| For days and nights the winding host |
| Had through the little place been marching, |
| And ever loud the rustics cheered, |
| Till every throat was hoarse and parching. |
| |
| The squire and farmer, maid and dame, |
| All took the sight's electric stirring, |
| And hats were waved and staves were sung, |
| And kerchiefs white were countless whirring. |
| |
| They only saw a gallant show |
| Of heroes stalwart under banners, |
| And, in the fierce heroic glow, |
| 'Twas theirs to yield but wild hosannas. |
| |
| The sergeant heard the shrill hurrahs, |
| Where he behind in step was keeping; |
| But, glancing down beside the road, |
| He saw a little maid sit weeping. |
| |
| "And how is this?" he gruffly said, |
| A moment pausing to regard her;— |
| "Why weepest thou, my little chit?" |
| And then she only cried the harder. |
| |
| "And how is this, my little chit?" |
| The sturdy trooper straight repeated, |
| "When all the village cheers us on, |
| That you, in tears, apart are seated? |
| |
| "We march two hundred thousand strong, |
| And that's a sight, my baby beauty, |
| To quicken silence into song |
| And glorify the soldier's duty." |
| |
| "It's very, very grand, I know," |
| The little maid gave soft replying; |
| "And father, mother, brother too, |
| All say 'Hurrah' while I am crying; |
| |
| "But think, oh, Mr. Soldier, think, |
| How many little sisters' brothers |
| Are going all away to fight, |
| And may be killed, as well as others!" |
| |
| "Why, bless thee, child," the sergeant said, |
| His brawny hand her curls caressing, |
| "'Tis left for little ones like thee |
| To find that war's not all a blessing." |
| |
| And "Bless thee!" once again he cried, |
| Then cleared his throat and looked indignant |
| And marched away with wrinkled brow |
| To stop the struggling tear benignant. |
| |
| And still the ringing shouts went up |
| From doorway, thatch, and fields of tillage; |
| The pall behind the standard seen |
| By one alone of all the village. |
| |
|
| The oak and cedar bend and writhe |
| When roars the wind through gap and braken; |
| But 'tis the tenderest reed of all |
| That trembles first when Earth is shaken. |
| |
| Robert Henry Newell. |
| You're going to leave the homestead, John, |
| You're twenty-one to-day: |
| And very sorry am I, John, |
| To see you go away. |
| You've labored late and early, John, |
| And done the best you could; |
| I ain't going to stop you, John, |
| I wouldn't if I could. |
| |
| Yet something of your feelings, John, |
| I s'pose I'd ought to know, |
| Though many a day has passed away— |
| 'Twas forty years ago— |
| When hope was high within me, John, |
| And life lay all before, |
| That I, with strong and measured stroke, |
| "Cut loose" and pulled from shore. |
| |
| The years they come and go, my boy, |
| The years they come and go; |
| And raven locks and tresses brown |
| Grow white as driven snow. |
| My life has known its sorrows, John, |
| Its trials and troubles sore; |
| Yet God withal has blessed me, John, |
| "In basket and in store." |
| |
| But one thing let me tell you, John, |
| Before you make a start, |
| There's more in being honest, John, |
| Twice o'er than being smart. |
| Though rogues may seem to flourish, John, |
| And sterling worth to fail, |
| Oh! keep in view the good and true; |
| 'Twill in the end prevail. |
| |
| Don't think too much of money, John, |
| And dig and delve and plan, |
| And rake and scrape in every shape, |
| To hoard up all you can. |
| Though fools may count their riches, John, |
| In dollars and in cents, |
| The best of wealth is youth and health, |
| And good sound common sense. |
| |
| And don't be mean and stingy, John, |
| But lay a little by |
| Of what you earn; you soon will learn |
| How fast 'twill multiply. |
| So when old age comes creeping on, |
| You'll have a goodly store |
| Of wealth to furnish all your needs— |
| And maybe something more. |
| |
| There's shorter cuts to fortune, John, |
| We see them every day; |
| But those who save their self-respect |
| Climb up the good old way. |
| "All is not gold that glitters," John, |
| And makes the vulgar stare, |
| And those we deem the richest, John, |
| Have oft the least to spare. |
| |
| Don't meddle with your neighbors, John, |
| Their sorrows or their cares; |
| You'll find enough to do, my boy, |
| To mind your own affairs. |
| The world is full of idle tongues— |
| You can afford to shirk! |
| There's lots of people ready, John, |
| To do such dirty work. |
| |
| And if amid the race for fame |
| You win a shining prize, |
| The humbler work of honest men |
| You never should despise; |
| For each one has his mission, John, |
| In life's unchanging plan— |
| Though lowly be his station, John, |
| He is no less a man. |
| |
| Be good, be pure, be noble, John; |
| Be honest, brave, be true; |
| And do to others as you would |
| That they should do to you; |
| And put your trust in God, my boy, |
| Though fiery darts be hurled; |
| Then you can smile at Satan's rage, |
| And face a frowning world. |
| |
| Good-by! May Heaven guard and bless |
| Your footsteps day by day; |
| The old house will be lonesome, John, |
| When you are gone away. |
| The cricket's song upon the hearth |
| Will have a sadder tone; |
| The old familiar spots will be |
| So lonely when you're gone. |
| The warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire, |
| And sued the haughty king to free his long-imprisoned sire; |
| "I bring thee here my fortress-keys, I bring my captive train, |
| I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord!—oh break my father's chain!" |
| "Rise, rise! even now thy father comes, a ransomed man this day; |
| Mount thy good horse; and thou and I will meet him on his way." |
|
| Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed, |
| And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's foamy speed. |
| And lo! from far, as on they pressed, there came a glittering band, |
| With one that midst them stately rode, as leader in the land: |
| "Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there, in very truth, is he, |
| The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearned so long to see." |
| His dark eye flashed, his proud breast heaved, his cheek's hue came and went; |
| He reached that gray-haired chieftain's side, and there, dismounting, bent; |
| A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand he took— |
| What was there in its touch that all his fiery spirit shook? |
| That hand was cold,—a frozen thing,—it dropped from his like lead! |
| He looked up to the face above,—the face was of the dead! |
| A plume waved o'er the noble brow,—the brow was fixed and white, |
| He met, at last, his father's eyes, but in them was no sight! |
| Up from the ground he sprang and gazed, but who could paint that gaze? |
| They hushed their very hearts that saw its horror and amaze. |
| They might have chained him, as before that stony form he stood, |
| For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his lip the blood. |
| "Father!" at length he murmured low, and wept like childhood then; |
| Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men! |
| He thought on all his glorious hopes, and all his young renown; |
| He flung the falchion from his side, and in the dust sat down. |
| Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his darkly mournful brow: |
| "No more, there is no more," he said, "to lift the sword for now; |
| My king is false, my hope betrayed, my father—oh, the worth, |
| The glory, and the loveliness, are passed away from earth! |
| I thought to stand where banners waved, my sire, beside thee, yet! |
| I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's free soil had met! |
| Thou wouldst have known my spirit then;—for thee my fields were won; |
| And thou hast perished in thy chains, as though thou hadst no son!" |
| Then, starting from the ground once more, he seized the monarch's rein, |
| Amidst the pale and 'wildered looks of all the courtier train; |
| And, with a fierce, o'ermastering grasp, the rearing war-horse led, |
| And sternly set them face to face, the king before the dead: |
| "Came I not forth, upon thy pledge, my father's hand to kiss? |
| Be still, and gaze thou on, false king! and tell me what is this? |
| The voice, the glance, the heart I sought—give answer, where are they? |
| If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life through this cold clay! |
| Into these glassy eyes put light; be still! keep down thine ire; |
| Bid these white lips a blessing speak, this earth is not my sire. |
| Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood was shed! |
| Thou canst not?—and a king!—his dust be mountains on thy head." |
| He loosed the steed—his slack hand fell; upon the silent face |
| He cast one long, deep, troubled look, then turned from that sad place. |
| His hope was crushed, his after fate untold in martial strain; |
| His banner led the spears no more, amidst the hills of Spain. |
| |
| Felicia Hemans. |
| O Thou eternal One! whose presence bright |
| All space doth occupy, all motion guide— |
| Unchanged through time's all-devastating flight! |
| Thou only God—there is no God beside! |
| Being above all beings! Mighty One, |
| Whom none can comprehend and none explore, |
| Who fill'st existence with Thyself alone— |
| Embracing all, supporting, ruling o'er,— |
| Being whom we call God, and know no more! |
| |
| In its sublime research, philosophy |
| May measure out the ocean-deep—may count |
| The sands or the sun's rays—but, God! for Thee |
| There is no weight nor measure; none can mount |
| Up to thy mysteries:* Reason's brightest spark, |
| Though kindled by Thy light, in vain would try |
| To trace Thy counsels, infinite and dark: |
| And thought is lost ere thought can soar so high, |
| Even like past moments in eternity. |
| |
| Thou from primeval nothingness didst call |
| First chaos, then existence—Lord! in Thee |
| Eternity had its foundation; all |
| Sprung forth from Thee—of light, joy, harmony, |
| Sole Origin—all life, all beauty Thine; |
| Thy word created all, and doth create; |
| Thy splendor fills all space with rays divine; |
| Thou art and wert and shalt be! Glorious! Great! |
| Light-giving, life-sustaining Potentate! |
| |
| Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround— |
| Upheld by Thee, by Thee inspired with breath! |
| Thou the beginning with the end hast bound, |
| And beautifully mingled life and death! |
| As sparks mount upward from the fiery blaze, |
| So suns are born, so worlds spring forth from Thee; |
| And as the spangles in the sunny rays |
| Shine round the silver snow, the pageantry |
| Of heaven's bright army glitters in Thy praise. |
| |
| A million torches, lighted by Thy hand, |
| Wander unwearied through the blue abyss— |
| They own Thy power, accomplish Thy command, |
| All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss. |
| What shall we call them? Piles of crystal light— |
| A glorious company of golden streams— |
| Lamps of celestial ether burning bright— |
| Suns lighting systems with their joyous beams? |
| But Thou to these art as the noon to night. |
| |
| Yes! as a drop of water in the sea, |
| All this magnificence in Thee is lost:— |
| What are ten thousand worlds compared to Thee? |
| And what am I then?—Heaven's unnumbered host, |
| Though multiplied by myriads, and arrayed |
| In all the glory of sublimest thought, |
| Is but an atom in the balance, weighed |
| Against Thy greatness—is a cipher brought |
| Against infinity! What am I then? Naught! |
| |
| Naught! But the effluence of Thy light divine, |
| Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom too; |
| Yes! in my spirit doth Thy spirit shine |
| As shines the sunbeam in a drop of dew. |
| Naught! but I live, and on hope's pinions fly |
| Eager toward Thy presence; for in Thee |
| I live, and breathe, and dwell; aspiring high, |
| Even to the throne of Thy divinity. |
| I am, O God! and surely Thou must be! |
|
| |
| Thou art!—directing, guiding all—Thou art! |
| Direct my understanding then to Thee; |
| Control my spirit, guide my wandering heart; |
| Though but an atom midst immensity, |
| Still I am something, fashioned by Thy hand! |
| I hold a middle rank 'twixt heaven and earth— |
| On the last verge of mortal being stand. |
| Close to the realm where angels have their birth, |
| Just on the boundaries of the spirit-land! |
| |
| The chain of being is complete in me— |
| In me is matter's last gradation lost, |
| And the next step is spirit—Deity! |
| I can command the lightning, and am dust! |
| A monarch and a slave—a worm, a god! |
| Whence came I here, and how? so marvelously |
| Constructed and conceived? unknown! this clod |
| Lives surely through some higher energy; |
| For from itself alone it could not be! |
| |
| Creator, yes! Thy wisdom and Thy word |
| Created me! Thou source of life and good! |
| Thou spirit of my spirit, and my Lord! |
| Thy light, Thy love, in their bright plenitude |
| Filled me with an immortal soul, to spring |
| Over the abyss of death; and bade it wear |
| The garments of eternal day, and wing |
| Its heavenly flight beyond this little sphere, |
| Even to its source—to Thee—its Author there. |
| |
| O thoughts ineffable! O visions blest! |
| Though worthless our conceptions all of Thee, |
| Yet shall Thy shadowed image fill our breast. |
| And waft its homage to Thy Deity. |
| God! thus alone my lowly thoughts can soar, |
| Thus seek thy presence—Being wise and good! |
| Midst Thy vast works admire, obey, adore; |
| And when the tongue is eloquent no more |
| The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude. |
| |
| Gabriel Somanovitch Derzhavin. |
| There were ninety and nine |
| Of a flock, sleek and fine |
| In a sheltering cote in the vale; |
| But a lamb was away, |
| On the mountain astray, |
| Unprotected within the safe pale. |
| |
| Then the sleet and the rain |
| On the mountain and plain, |
| And the wind fiercely blowing a gale, |
| And the night's growing dark, |
| And the wolf's hungry bark |
| Stir the soul of the shepherd so hale. |
| |
| And he says, "Hireling, go; |
| For a lamb's in the snow |
| And exposed to the wild hungry beast; |
| 'Tis no time to keep seat, |
| Nor to rest weary feet, |
| Nor to sit at a bounteous feast." |
| |
| Then the hireling replied, |
| "Here you have at your side |
| All your flock save this one little sheep. |
| Are the ninety and nine, |
| All so safe and so fine, |
| Not enough for the shepherd to keep?" |
| |
| Then the shepherd replied, |
| "Ah! this lamb from my side |
| Presses near, very near, to my heart. |
| Not its value in pay |
| Makes me urge in this way, |
| But the longings and achings of heart." |
| |
| "Let me wait till the day, |
| O good shepherd, I pray; |
| For I shudder to go in the dark |
| On the mountain so high |
| And its precipice nigh |
| 'Mong the wolves with their frightening bark." |
|
| |
| Then the shepherd said, "No; |
| Surely some one must go |
| Who can rescue my lamb from the cold, |
| From the wolf's hungry maw |
| And the lion's fierce paw |
| And restore it again to the fold." |
| |
| Then the shepherd goes out |
| With his cloak girt about |
| And his rod and his staff in his hand. |
| What cares he for the cold |
| If his sheep to the fold |
| He can bring from the dark mountain land? |
| |
| You can hear his clear voice |
| As the mountains rejoice, |
| "Sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep!" |
| Up the hillside so steep, |
| Into caverns so deep, |
| "Sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep!" |
| |
| Now he hears its weak "baa," |
| And he answers it, "Ah! |
| Sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep!" |
| Then its answering bleat |
| Hurries on his glad feet, |
| And his arms gather up his lost sheep. |
| |
| Wet and cold on his breast |
| The lost lamb found its rest |
| As he bore it adown to the fold. |
| And the ninety and nine |
| Bleat for joy down the line, |
| That it's safe from the wolf and the cold. |
| |
| Then he said to his friends, |
| "Now let joy make amends |
| For the steeps and the deeps I have crossed— |
| For the pelting of sleet |
| And my sore, weary feet, |
| For I've found the dear lamb that was lost." |
| |
| Let the hirelings upbraid |
| For the nights that He stayed |
| On the mountains so rugged and high. |
| Surely never a jeer |
| From my lips shall one hear, |
| For—that poor lonely lambkin—was—I. |
| |
| While the eons shall roll |
| O'er my glad ransomed soul |
| I will praise the Good Shepherd above, |
| For a place on His breast, |
| For its comfort and rest, |
| For His wonderful, wonderful love. |
| |
| D. N. Howe. |
| I was strolling one day down the Lawther Arcade, |
| That place for children's toys, |
| Where you can purchase a dolly or spade |
| For your good little girls and boys. |
| And as I passed a certain stall, said a wee little voice to me: |
| O, I am a Colonel in a little cocked hat, and I ride on a tin Gee Gee; |
| O, I am a Colonel in a little cocked hat, and I ride on a tin Gee Gee. |
| |
| Then I looked and a little tin soldier I saw, |
| In his little cocked hat so fine. |
| He'd a little tin sword that shone in the light |
| As he led a glittering line of tin hussars, |
| Whose sabers flashed in a manner à la military. |
| And that little tin soldier he rode at their head, |
| So proud on his tin Gee Gee. |
| |
| Then that little tin soldier he sobbed and he sighed, |
| So I patted his little tin head. |
| What vexes your little tin soul? said I, |
| And this is what he said: |
| I've been on this stall a very long time, |
| And I'm marked twenty-nine, as you see; |
| Whilst just on the shelf above my head, |
| There's a fellow marked sixty-three. |
| |
| Now he hasn't got a sword and he hasn't got a horse, |
| And I'm quite as good as he. |
| So why mark me at twenty-nine, |
| And him at sixty-three? |
| There's a pretty little dolly girl over there, |
| And I'm madly in love with she. |
| But now that I'm only marked twenty-nine, |
| She turns up her nose at me, |
| She turns up her little wax nose at me, |
| And carries on with sixty-three. |
| |
| And, oh, she's dressed in a beautiful dress; |
| It's a dress I do admire, |
| She has pearly blue eyes that open and shut |
| When worked inside by a wire, |
| And once on a time when the folks had gone, |
| She used to ogle at me. |
| But now that I'm only marked twenty-nine, |
| She turns up her nose at me. |
| She turns up her little snub nose at me, |
| And carries on with sixty-three. |
| |
| Cheer up, my little tin man, said I, |
| I'll see what I can do. |
| You're a fine little fellow, and it's a shame |
| That she should so treat you. |
| So I took down the label from the shelf above, |
| And I labeled him sixty-three, |
| And I marked the other one twenty-nine, |
| Which was very, very wrong of me, |
| But I felt so sorry for that little tin soul, |
| As he rode on his tin Gee Gee. |
| |
| Now that little tin soldier he puffed with pride, |
| At being marked sixty-three, |
| And that saucy little dolly girl smiled once more, |
| For he'd risen in life, do you see? |
| And it's so in this world; for I'm in love |
| With a maiden of high degree; |
| But I am only marked twenty-nine, |
| And the other chap's sixty-three— |
| And a girl never looks at twenty-nine |
| With a possible sixty-three! |
| |
| Fred Cape. |
| I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer, |
| The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here." |
| The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die, |
| I outs into the street again, an' to myself sez I: |
| O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy go away"; |
| But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins," when the band begins to play, |
| The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play, |
| O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins," when the band begins to play. |
| |
| I went into a theater as sober as could be, |
| They give a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me; |
| They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls, |
| But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls. |
| For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy wait outside"; |
| But it's "Special train for Atkins," when the trooper's on the tide, |
| The troopship's on the tide, my boys, etc. |
| |
| O makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep |
| Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap; |
| An' hustlin' drunken sodgers when they're goin' large a bit |
| Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit. |
| Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?" |
| But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll, |
| The drums begin to roll, my boys, etc. |
| |
| We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too, |
| But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you; |
| An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints, |
| Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints. |
| While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy fall be'ind"; |
| But it's "Please to walk in front, sir," when there's trouble in the wind. |
| There's trouble in the wind, my boys, etc. |
| |
| You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all: |
| We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational. |
| Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face, |
| The Widow's uniform is not the soldierman's disgrace. |
| For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!" |
| But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot; |
| An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please; |
| An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool—you bet that Tommy sees! |
| |
| Rudyard Kipling. |
| |
| The weaver at his loom is sitting, |
| Throws his shuttle to and fro; |
| Foot and treadle, |
| Hand and pedal, |
| Upward, downward, hither, thither, |
| How the weaver makes them go: |
| As the weaver wills they go. |
| Up and down the web is plying, |
| And across the woof is flying; |
| What a rattling! |
| What a battling! |
| What a shuffling! |
| What a scuffling! |
| As the weaver makes his shuttle |
| Hither, thither, scud and scuttle. |
| Threads in single, threads in double; |
| How they mingle, what a trouble! |
| Every color, what profusion! |
| Every motion, what confusion! |
| While the web and woof are mingling, |
| Signal bells above are jingling,— |
| Telling how each figure ranges, |
| Telling when the color changes, |
| As the weaver makes his shuttle |
| Hither, thither, scud and scuttle. |
| |
| The weaver at his loom is sitting, |
| Throws his shuttle to and fro; |
| 'Mid the noise and wild confusion, |
| Well the weaver seems to know, |
| As he makes his shuttle go, |
| What each motion |
| And commotion, |
| What each fusion |
| And confusion, |
| In the grand result will show. |
| Weaving daily, |
| Singing gaily, |
| As he makes his busy shuttle |
| Hither, thither, scud and scuttle. |
| |
| The weaver at his loom is sitting, |
| Throws his shuttle to and fro; |
| See you not how shape and order |
| From the wild confusion grow, |
| As he makes his shuttle go?— |
| As the web and woof diminish, |
| Grows beyond the beauteous finish,— |
| Tufted plaidings, |
| Shapes, and shadings; |
| All the mystery |
| Now is history;— |
| And we see the reason subtle, |
| Why the weaver makes his shuttle |
| Hither, thither, scud and scuttle. |
| |
| See the Mystic Weaver sitting |
| High in heaven—His loom below; |
| Up and down the treadles go; |
| Takes for web the world's long ages, |
| Takes for woof its kings and sages, |
| Takes the nobles and their pages, |
| Takes all stations and all stages,— |
| Thrones are bobbins in His shuttle; |
| Armies make them scud and scuttle; |
| Web into the woof must flow, |
| Up and down the nations go, |
| As the weaver wills they go; |
| Men are sparring, |
| Powers are jarring, |
| Upward, downward, hither, thither |
| Just like puppets in a show. |
| Up and down the web is plying, |
| And across the woof is flying, |
| What a battling! |
| What a rattling! |
| What a shuffling! |
| What a scuffling! |
| As the weaver makes his shuttle |
| Hither, thither, scud and scuttle. |
| |
| Calmly see the Mystic Weaver |
| Throw His shuttle to and fro; |
| 'Mid the noise and wild confusion. |
| Well the Weaver seems to know |
| What each motion |
| And commotion, |
| What each fusion |
| And confusion, |
| In the grand result will show, |
| As the nations, |
| Kings and stations, |
| Upward, downward, hither, thither, |
| As in mystic dances, go. |
| In the present all is mystery; |
| In the past, 'tis beauteous history. |
| O'er the mixing and the mingling, |
| How the signal bells are jingling! |
| See you not the Weaver leaving |
| Finished work behind, in weaving? |
| See you not the reason subtle, |
| As the web and woof diminish, |
| Changing into beauteous finish, |
| Why the Weaver makes his shuttle, |
| Hither, thither, scud and scuttle? |
| |
| Glorious wonder! what a weaving! |
| To the dull beyond believing! |
| Such, no fabled ages know. |
| Only Faith can see the mystery, |
| How, along the aisle of history |
| Where the feet of sages go, |
| Loveliest to the purest eyes, |
| Grand the mystic tapet lies,— |
| Soft and smooth, and even spreading |
| Every figure has its plaidings, |
| As if made for angels' treading; |
| Tufted circles touching ever, |
| Inwrought figures fading never; |
| Brighter form and softer shadings; |
| Each illumined,—what a riddle |
| From a cross that gems the middle. |
|
| |
| 'Tis a saying—some reject it— |
| That its light is all reflected; |
| That the tapet's hues are given |
| By a sun that shines in heaven! |
| 'Tis believed, by all believing, |
| That great God himself is weaving,— |
| Bringing out the world's dark mystery, |
| In the light of truth and history; |
| And as web and woof diminish, |
| Comes the grand and glorious finish; |
| When begin the golden ages |
| Long foretold by seers and sages. |
| 'Tis gone at last, and I am glad; it stayed a fearful while, |
| And when the world was light and gay, I could not even smile; |
| It stood before me like a giant, outstretched its iron arm; |
| No matter where I looked, I saw the mortgage on the farm. |
| |
| I'll tell you how it happened, for I want the world to know |
| How glad I am this winter day whilst earth is white with snow; |
| I'm just as happy as a lark. No cause for rude alarm |
| Confronts us now, for lifted is the mortgage on the farm. |
| |
| The children they were growing up and they were smart and trim. |
| To some big college in the East we'd sent our youngest, Jim; |
| And every time he wrote us, at the bottom of his screed |
| He tacked some Latin fol-de-rol which none of us could read. |
| |
| The girls they ran to music, and to painting, and to rhymes, |
| They said the house was out of style and far behind the times; |
| They suddenly diskivered that it didn't keep'm warm— |
| Another step of course towards a mortgage on the farm. |
| |
| We took a cranky notion, Hannah Jane and me one day, |
| While we were coming home from town, a-talking all the way; |
| The old house wasn't big enough for us, although for years |
| Beneath its humble roof we'd shared each other's joys and tears. |
| |
| We built it o'er and when 'twas done, I wish you could have seen it, |
| It was a most tremendous thing—I really didn't mean it; |
| Why, it was big enough to hold the people of the town |
| And not one half as cosy as the old one we pulled down. |
| |
| I bought a fine pianner and it shortened still the pile, |
| But, then, it pleased the children and they banged it all the while; |
| No matter what they played for me, their music had no charm, |
| For every tune said plainly: "There's a mortgage on the farm!" |
| |
| I worked from morn till eve, and toiled as often toils the slave |
| To meet that grisly interest; I tried hard to be brave, |
| And oft when I came home at night with tired brain and arm, |
| The chickens hung their heads, they felt the mortgage on the farm.— |
| |
| But we saved a penny now and then, we laid them in a row, |
| The girls they played the same old tunes, and let the new ones go; |
| And when from college came our Jim with laurels on his brow, |
| I led him to the stumpy field and put him to the plow. |
| |
| He something said in Latin which I didn't understand, |
| But it did me good to see his plow turn up the dewy land; |
| And when the year had ended and empty were the cribs, |
| We found we'd hit the mortgage, sir, a blow between the ribs. |
| |
| To-day I harnessed up the team and thundered off to town, |
| And in the lawyer's sight I planked the last bright dollar down; |
| And when I trotted up the lanes a-feeling good and warm, |
| The old red rooster crowed his best: "No mortgage on the farm!" |
| |
| I'll sleep almighty good to-night, the best for many a day, |
| The skeleton that haunted us has passed fore'er away. |
| The girls can play the brand-new tunes with no fears to alarm, |
| And Jim can go to Congress, with no mortgage on the farm! |
| "Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!" |
| |
| That is what the vision said. |
| In his chamber all alone, |
| Kneeling on the floor of stone, |
| Prayed the Monk in deep contrition |
| For his sins of indecision, |
| Prayed for greater self-denial |
| In temptation and in trial; |
| It was noonday by the dial, |
| And the Monk was all alone. |
| |
| Suddenly, as if it lightened, |
| An unwonted splendor brightened |
| All within him and without him |
| In that narrow cell of stone; |
| And he saw the blessed vision |
| Of our Lord, with light Elysian |
| Like a vesture wrapped about Him, |
| Like a garment round Him thrown. |
| |
| Not as crucified and slain |
| Not in agonies of pain, |
| Not with bleeding hands and feet, |
| Did the Monk his Master see; |
| But as in the village street, |
| In the house or harvest field, |
| Halt and lame and blind He healed, |
| When He walked in Galilee. |
| |
| In as attitude imploring, |
| Hands upon his bosom crossed, |
| Wondering, worshiping, adoring, |
| Knelt the Monk, in rapture lost, |
| Lord, he thought, in heaven that reignest, |
| Who am I that thus Thou deignest |
| To reveal Thyself to me? |
| Who am I, that from the center |
| Of Thy glory Thou shouldst enter |
| This poor cell, my guest to be? |
| |
| Then amid his exaltation, |
| Loud the convent bell appalling, |
| From its belfrey calling, calling, |
| Rang through court and corridor |
| With persistent iteration, |
| He had never heard before. |
| It was now the appointed hour |
| When alike in shine or shower, |
| Winter's cold or summer's heat, |
| To the convent portals came |
| All the blind and halt and lame, |
| All the beggars of the street, |
| For their daily dole of food |
| Dealt them by the brotherhood; |
| |
| And their almoner was he |
| Who upon his bended knees |
| Rapt in silent ecstasy |
| Of divinest self-surrender, |
| Saw the vision and the splendor. |
|
| Deep distress and hesitation |
| Mingled with his adoration; |
| Should he go, or should he stay? |
| Should he leave the poor to wait |
| Hungry at the convent gate, |
| Till the vision passed away? |
| Should he slight his radiant guest, |
| Slight this visitant celestial |
| For a crowd of ragged, bestial |
| Beggars at the convent gate? |
| Would the vision there remain? |
| Would the vision come again? |
| Then a voice within his breast |
| Whispered audible and clear, |
| As if to the outward ear: |
| "Do thy duty; that is best; |
| Leave unto thy Lord the rest!" |
| |
| Straightway to his feet he started, |
| And with longing look intent |
| On the blessed vision bent, |
| Slowly from his cell departed, |
| Slowly on his errand went. |
| |
| At the gate the poor were waiting, |
| Looking through the iron grating, |
| With that terror in the eye |
| That is only seen in those |
| Who amid their wants and woes |
| Hear the sound of doors that close. |
| And of feet that pass them by: |
| Grown familiar with disfavor, |
| Grown familiar with the savor |
| Of the bread by which men die; |
| But to-day, they knew not why, |
| Like the gate of Paradise |
| Seemed the convent gate to rise, |
| Like a sacrament divine |
| Seemed to them the bread and wine. |
| In his heart the Monk was praying, |
| Thinking of the homeless poor, |
| What they suffer and endure; |
| What we see not, what we see; |
| And the inward voice was saying: |
| "Whatsoever thing thou doest |
| To the least of mine and lowest, |
| That thou doest unto me." |
| |
| Unto me! but had the vision |
| Come to him in beggar's clothing, |
| Come a mendicant imploring, |
| Would he then have knelt adoring, |
| Or have listened with derision, |
| And have turned away with loathing? |
| |
| Thus his conscience put the question, |
| Full of troublesome suggestion, |
| As at length, with hurried pace, |
| Toward his cell he turned his face, |
| And beheld the convent bright |
| With a supernatural light, |
| Like a luminous cloud expanding |
| Over floor and wall and ceiling. |
| |
| But he paused with awe-struck feeling |
| At the threshold of his door, |
| For the vision still was standing |
| As he left it there before, |
| When the convent bell appalling, |
| From its belfry calling, calling, |
| Summoned him to feed the poor. |
| Through the long hour intervening |
| It had waited his return, |
| And he felt his bosom burn, |
| Comprehending all the meaning, |
| When the blessed vision said: |
| "Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled." |
| |
| Henry W. Longfellow. |
| South Mountain towered upon our right, far off the river lay, |
| And over on the wooded height we held their lines at bay. |
| At last the muttering guns were still; the day died slow and wan; |
| At last the gunners pipes did fill, the sergeant's yarns began. |
| When, as the wind a moment blew aside the fragrant flood |
| Our brierwoods raised, within our view a little maiden stood. |
| A tiny tot of six or seven, from fireside fresh she seemed, |
| (Of such a little one in heaven one soldier often dreamed.) |
| And as we stared, her little hand went to her curly head |
| In grave salute. "And who are you?" at length the sergeant said. |
| "And where's your home?" he growled again. She lisped out, "Who is me? |
| Why, don't you know? I'm little Jane, the Pride of Battery B. |
| My home? Why, that was burned away, and pa and ma are dead; |
| And so I ride the guns all day along with Sergeant Ned. |
| And I've a drum that's not a toy, a cap with feathers, too; |
| And I march beside the drummer boy on Sundays at review. |
| But now our 'bacca's all give out, the men can't have their smoke, |
| And so they're cross—why, even Ned won't play with me and joke. |
| And the big colonel said to-day—I hate to hear him swear— |
| He'd give a leg for a good pipe like the Yanks had over there. |
| And so I thought when beat the drum, and the big guns were still, |
| I'd creep beneath the tent and come out here across the hill |
| And beg, good Mister Yankee men, you'd give me some 'Lone Jack.' |
| Please do: when we get some again, I'll surely bring it back. |
| Indeed I will, for Ned—says he,—if I do what I say, |
| I'll be a general yet, maybe, and ride a prancing bay." |
| |
| We brimmed her tiny apron o'er; you should have heard her laugh |
| As each man from his scanty store shook out a generous half. |
| To kiss the little mouth stooped down a score of grimy men, |
| Until the sergeant's husky voice said,"'Tention squad!" and then |
| We gave her escort, till good-night the pretty waif we bid, |
| And watched her toddle out of sight—or else 'twas tears that hid |
| Her tiny form—nor turned about a man, nor spoke a word, |
| Till after awhile a far, hoarse shout upon the wind we heard! |
| We sent it back, then cast sad eyes upon the scene around; |
| A baby's hand had touched the ties that brothers once had bound. |
| |
| That's all—save when the dawn awoke again the work of hell, |
| And through the sullen clouds of smoke the screaming missiles fell, |
| Our general often rubbed his glass, and marveled much to see |
| Not a single shell that whole day fell in the camp of Battery B. |
| |
| Frank H. Gassaway. |
| It was kept out in the kitchen, and 'twas long and deep and wide, |
| And the poker hung above it and the shovel stood beside, |
| And the big, black cookstove, grinnin' through its grate from ear to ear, |
| Seemed to look as if it loved it like a brother, pretty near. |
| Flowered oilcloth tacked around it kept its cracks and knot-holes hid, |
| And a pair of leather hinges fastened on the heavy lid, |
| And it hadn't any bottom—or, at least, it seemed that way |
| When you hurried in to fill it, so's to get outside and play. |
| |
| When the noons was hot and lazy and the leaves hung dry and still, |
| And the locust in the pear tree started up his planin'-mill, |
| And the drum-beat of the breakers was a soothin', temptin' roll, |
| And you knew the "gang" was waitin' by the brimmin' "swimmin' hole"— |
| Louder than the locust's buzzin,' louder than the breakers' roar, |
| You could hear the wood-box holler, "Come and fill me up once more!" |
| And the old clock ticked and chuckled as you let each armful drop, |
| Like it said, "Another minute, and you're nowheres near the top!" |
| |
| In the chilly winter mornin's when the bed was snug and warm, |
| And the frosted winders tinkled 'neath the fingers of the storm, |
| And your breath rose off the piller in a smoky cloud of steam— |
| Then that wood-box, grim and empty, came a-dancin' through your dream, |
| Came and pounded at your conscience, screamed in aggravatin' glee, |
| "Would you like to sleep this mornin'? You git up and 'tend to me!" |
| Land! how plain it is this minute—shed and barn and drifted snow, |
| And the slabs of oak a-waitin!, piled and ready, in a row. |
| |
| Never was a fishin' frolic, never was a game of ball, |
| But that mean, provokin' wood-box had to come and spoil it all; |
| You might study at your lessons and 'twas full and full to stay, |
| But jest start an Injun story, and 'twas empty right away. |
| Seemed as if a spite was in it, and although I might forgit |
| All the other chores that plagued me, I can hate that wood-box yit: |
| And when I look back at boyhood—shakin' off the cares of men— |
| Still it comes to spoil the picture, screamin', "Fill me up again!" |
| |
| Joseph C. Lincoln. |
| Good Deacon Roland—"may his tribe increase!"— |
| Awoke one Sabbath morn feeling at peace |
| With God and all mankind. His wants supplied, |
| He read his Bible and then knelt beside |
| The family altar, and uplifted there |
| His voice to God in fervent praise and prayer; |
| In praise for blessings past, so rich and free, |
| And prayer for benedictions yet to be. |
| Then on a stile, which spanned the dooryard fence, |
| He sat him down complacently, and thence |
| Surveyed with pride, o'er the far-reaching plain, |
| His flocks and herds and fields of golden grain; |
| His meadows waving like the billowy seas, |
| And orchards filled with over-laden trees, |
| Quoth he: "How vast the products of my lands; |
| Abundance crowns the labor of my hands, |
| Great is my substance; God indeed is good, |
| Who doth in love provide my daily food." |
| |
| While thus he sat in calm soliloquy, |
| A voice aroused him from his reverie,— |
| A childish voice from one whose shoeless feet |
| Brought him unnoticed to the deacon's seat; |
| "Please mister, I have eaten naught to-day; |
| If I had money I would gladly pay |
| For bread; but I am poor, and cannot buy |
| My breakfast; mister, would you mind if I |
| Should ask for something, just for what you call |
| Cold pieces from your table, that is all?" |
| The deacon listened to the child's request, |
| The while his penetrating eye did rest |
| On him whose tatters, trembling, quick revealed |
| The agitation of the heart concealed |
| Within the breast of one unskilled in ruse, |
| Who asked not alms like one demanding dues. |
| Then said the deacon: "I am not inclined |
| To give encouragement to those who find |
| It easier to beg for bread betimes, |
| Than to expend their strength in earning dimes |
| Wherewith to purchase it. A parent ought |
| To furnish food for those whom he has brought |
| Into this world, where each one has his share |
| Of tribulation, sorrow, toil and care. |
| I sympathize with you, my little lad, |
| Your destitution makes me feel so sad; |
| But, for the sake of those who should supply |
| Your wants, I must your earnest plea deny; |
| And inasmuch as giving food to you |
| Would be providing for your parents, too, |
| Thus fostering vagrancy and idleness, |
| I cannot think such charity would bless |
| Who gives or takes; and therefore I repeat, |
| I cannot give you anything to eat." |
| Before this "vasty deep" of logic stood |
| The child nor found it satisfying food. |
| Nor did he tell the tale he might have told |
| Of parents slumbering in the grave's damp mould, |
| But quickly shrank away to find relief |
| In giving vent to his rekindled grief, |
| While Deacon Roland soon forgot the appeal |
| In meditating on his better weal. |
| |
| Ere long the Sabbath bells their peals rang out |
| To summon worshippers, with hearts devout, |
| To wait on God and listen to His word; |
| And then the deacon's pious heart was stirred; |
| And in the house of God he soon was found |
| Engaged in acts of worship most profound. |
| Wearied, however, with his week-day care, |
| He fell asleep before the parson's prayer |
| Was ended; then he dreamed he died and came |
| To heaven's grand portal, and announced his name: |
| "I'm Deacon Roland, called from earth afar, |
| To join the saints; please set the gates ajar, |
| That I may 'join the everlasting song,' |
| And mingle ever with the ransomed throng." |
| Then lo! "a horror of great darkness" came |
| Upon him, as he heard a voice exclaim: |
| "Depart from me! you cannot enter here! |
| I never knew you, for indeed, howe'er |
| You may have wrought on earth, the sad, sad fact |
| Remains, that life's sublimest, worthiest act—" |
| The deacon woke to find it all a dream |
| Just as the minister announced his theme: |
| "My text," said he, "doth comfort only such |
| As practice charity; for 'inasmuch |
| As ye have done it to the least of these |
| My little ones' saith He who holds the keys |
| Of heaven, 'ye have done it unto me,' |
| And I will give you immortality." |
|
| |
| Straightway the deacon left his cushioned pew, |
| And from the church in sudden haste withdrew, |
| And up the highway ran, on love's swift feet |
| To overtake the child of woe, and greet |
| Him as the worthy representative |
| Of Christ the Lord and to him freely give |
| All needful good, that thus he might atone |
| For the neglect which he before had shown. |
| Thus journeying, God directed all his way, |
| O'er hill and dale, to where the outcast lay |
| Beside the road bemoaning his sad fate. |
| And then the deacon said, "My child, 'tis late; |
| Make haste and journey with me to my home; |
| To guide you thither, I myself have come; |
| And you shall have the food you asked in vain, |
| For God himself hath made my duty plain; |
| If he demand it, all I have is thine; |
| Shrink not, but trust me; place thy hand in mine." |
| And as they journeyed toward the deacon's home, |
| The child related how he came to roam, |
| Until the listening deacon understood |
| The touching story of his orphanhood. |
| Then, finding in the little waif a gem |
| Worthy to deck the Saviour's diadem, |
| He drew him to his loving breast, and said, |
| "My child, you shall by me be clothed and fed; |
| Nor shall you go from hence again to roam |
| While God in love provides for us a home." |
| And as the weeks and months roll on apace, |
| The deacon held the lad in love's embrace; |
| And being childless did on him confer |
| The boon of sonship. |
| |
| Thus the almoner |
| Of God's great bounty to the destitute |
| The deacon came to be; and as the fruit |
| Of having learned to keep the golden rule |
| His charity became all-bountiful; |
| And from thenceforth he lived to benefit |
| Mankind; and when in life's great book were writ |
| Their names who heeded charity's request, |
| Lo! Deacon Roland's "name led all the rest." |
| |
| S.V.R. Ford. |
| Talking of sects quite late one eve, |
| What one and another of saints believe, |
| That night I stood in a troubled dream |
| By the side of a darkly-flowing stream. |
| |
| And a "churchman" down to the river came, |
| When I heard a strange voice call his name, |
| "Good father, stop; when you cross this tide |
| You must leave your robes on the other side." |
| |
| But the aged father did not mind, |
| And his long gown floated out behind |
| As down to the stream his way he took, |
| His hands firm hold of a gilt-edged book. |
| |
|
| "I'm bound for heaven, and when I'm there |
| I shall want my book of Common Prayer, |
| And though I put on a starry crown, |
| I should feel quite lost without my gown." |
| |
| Then he fixed his eye on the shining track, |
| But his gown was heavy and held him back, |
| And the poor old father tried in vain, |
| A single step in the flood to gain. |
| |
| I saw him again on the other side, |
| But his silk gown floated on the tide, |
| And no one asked, in that blissful spot, |
| If he belonged to "the church" or not. |
| |
| Then down to the river a Quaker strayed; |
| His dress of a sober hue was made, |
| "My hat and coat must be all of gray, |
| I cannot go any other way." |
| |
| Then he buttoned his coat straight up to his chin |
| And staidly, solemnly, waded in, |
| And his broad-brimmed hat he pulled down tight |
| Over his forehead, so cold and white. |
| |
| But a strong wind carried away his hat, |
| And he sighed a few moments over that, |
| And then, as he gazed to the farther shore |
| The coat slipped off and was seen no more. |
| |
| Poor, dying Quaker, thy suit of gray |
| Is quietly sailing—away—away, |
| But thou'lt go to heaven, as straight as an arrow, |
| Whether thy brim be broad or narrow. |
| |
| Next came Dr. Watts with a bundle of psalms |
| Tied nicely up in his aged arms, |
| And hymns as many, a very wise thing, |
| That the people in heaven, "all round," might sing. |
| |
| But I thought that he heaved an anxious sigh, |
| As he saw that the river ran broad and high, |
| And looked rather surprised, as one by one, |
| The psalms and hymns in the wave went down. |
| |
| And after him, with his MSS., |
| Came Wesley, the pattern of godliness, |
| But he cried, "Dear me, what shall I do? |
| The water has soaked them through and through." |
| |
| And there, on the river, far and wide, |
| Away they went on the swollen tide, |
| And the saint, astonished, passed through alone, |
| Without his manuscripts, up to the throne. |
| |
| Then gravely walking, two saints by name, |
| Down to the stream together came, |
| But as they stopped at the river's brink, |
| I saw one saint from the other shrink. |
| |
| "Sprinkled or plunged—may I ask you, friend, |
| How you attained to life's great end?" |
| "Thus, with a few drops on my brow"; |
| "But I have been dipped, as you'll see me now. |
| |
|
| "And I really think it will hardly do, |
| As I'm 'close communion,' to cross with you. |
| You're bound, I know, to the realms of bliss, |
| But you must go that way, and I'll go this." |
| |
| And straightway plunging with all his might, |
| Away to the left—his friend at the right, |
| Apart they went from this world of sin, |
| But how did the brethren "enter in"? |
| |
| And now where the river was rolling on, |
| A Presbyterian church went down; |
| Of women, there seemed an innumerable throng, |
| But the men I could count as they passed along. |
| |
| And concerning the road they could never agree, |
| The old or the new way, which it could be; |
| Nor ever a moment paused to think |
| That both would lead to the river's brink. |
| |
| And a sound of murmuring long and loud |
| Came ever up from the moving crowd, |
| "You're in the old way, and I'm in the new, |
| That is the false, and this is the true": |
| Or, "I'm in the old way, and you're in the new, |
| That is the false, and this is the true." |
| |
| But the brethren only seemed to speak, |
| Modest the sisters walked, and meek, |
| And if ever one of them chanced to say |
| What troubles she met with on the way, |
| |
| How she longed to pass to the other side, |
| Nor feared to cross over the swelling tide, |
| A voice arose from the brethren then, |
| "Let no one speak but the 'holy men,' |
| For have ye not heard the words of Paul? |
| 'Oh, let the women keep silence all.'" |
| |
| I watched them long in my curious dream. |
| Till they stood by the border of the stream, |
| Then, just as I thought, the two ways met. |
| But all the brethren were talking yet, |
| And would talk on, till the heaving tide |
| Carried them over, side by side; |
| Side by side, for the way was one, |
| The toilsome journey of life was done, |
| And priest and Quaker, and all who died, |
| Came out alike on the other side; |
| No forms or crosses, or books had they, |
| No gowns of silk, or suits of gray, |
| No creeds to guide them, or MSS., |
| For all had put on "Christ's righteousness." |
| |
| Elizabeth H. Jocelyn Cleaveland. |
| I |
| Turn back the leaves of history. On yon Pacific shore |
| A world-known city's fall and rise shall thrill your hearts once more. |
| 'Twas April; nineteen-six the year; old San Francisco lay |
| Effulgent in the splendor of the dying orb of day |
| That bathed in flood of crimson light Mount Tamalpais' lonely height |
| And kissed the sister towns "goodnight" across the misty bay. |
| |
| It burst in glory on the hills, lit up the princely homes, |
| And gleamed from lofty towers and spires and flashed from gilded domes; |
| It glorified the massive blocks caught in its widening flow, |
| Engulfed the maze of streets and parks that stretched away below, |
| Till marble white and foliage green and vales of gray, and silvery sheen |
| Of ocean's surface vast, serene, were tinted by its glow. |
|
| |
| The tranquil murmurs of the deep were borne on balmy air |
| All odorous with lily breath and roses sweet and rare. |
| The zephyrs sang a lullaby as the slow, fiery ball |
| Ended its trail of gorgeousness behind horizon's wall. |
| Then gray absorbed each rainbow hue and dark the beauteous landscape grew |
| As shadowy Evening softly drew her curtain over all. |
| |
| II |
| That night around the festal board, 'mid incandescence gay, |
| Sat Pomp and Pride and Wealth and Power, in sumptuous array, |
| That night the happy, careless throng were all on pleasure bent, |
| And Beauty in her jewelled robes to ball and opera went. |
| 'Mid feasting, laughter, song and jest; by music's soothing tones caressed; |
| The Sunset City sank to rest in peace, secure, content. |
| |
| III |
| Unconscious of approaching doom, old San Francisco sleeps |
| While from the east, all smilingly, the April morning creeps. |
| See! Playful sunbeams tinge with gold the mountains in the sky, |
| And hazy clouds of gray unfold—but, hark! What means that cry? |
| The ground vibrates with sadden shock. The buildings tremble, groan and rock. |
| Wild fears the waking senses mock, and some wake but to die. |
| |
| A frightful subterranean force the earth's foundation shakes; |
| The city quivers in the throes of fierce, successive quakes, |
| And massive structures thrill like giant oaks before the blast; |
| Into the streets with deafening crash the frailer ones are cast. |
| Half garbed, the multitude rush out in frantic haste, with prayer and shout, |
| To join the panic stricken rout. Ho! DEATH is marching past. |
| |
| A rumbling noise! The streets upheave, and sink again, like waves; |
| And shattered piles and shapeless wrecks are strewn with human graves. |
| Danger at every corner lurks. Destruction fills the air. |
| Death-laden showers of mortar, bricks, are falling everywhere. |
| |
| IV |
| "Fire! Fire!" And lo! the dread fiend starts. Mothers with babes clasped to their hearts |
| Are struggling for the open parts in frenzy of despair. |
| |
| A hundred tiny tongues of flame forth from the ruins burst. |
| No water! God! what shall we do to slake their quenchless thirst? |
| The shocks have broken all the mains! "Use wine!" the people cry. |
| The red flames laugh like drunken fiends; they stagger as to die, |
| Then up again in fury spring, on high their crimson draperies fling; |
| From block to block they leap and swing, and smoke clouds hide the sky. |
| |
| Ha! from the famed Presidio that guards the Golden Gate |
| Come Funston and his regulars to match their strength with Fate. |
| The soldiers and the citizens are fighting side by side |
| To check that onslaught of red wrath, to stem destruction's tide. |
| With roar, and boom, and blare, and blast, an open space is cleared at last. |
| The fiends of fury gallop past with flanks outstretched and wide; |
| |
| Around the city's storehouses they wreathe and twine and dance, |
| And wealth and splendor shrivel up before their swift advance. |
| Before their devastating breath the stricken people flee. |
| "Mine, mine your treasures are!" cried Death, and laughs in fiendish glee. |
| Into that vortex of red hell sink church and theatre, store, hotel. |
| With thunderous roar and hissing yell on sweeps the crimson sea. |
| |
| Again with charge of dynamite the lurid clouds are riven; |
| Again with heat and sulphur smoke the troops are backward driven. |
| All day, all night, all day again, with that infernal host |
| They strive in vain for mastery. Each vantage gained is lost,— |
| On comes the bellowing flood of flame in furious wrath its own to claim; |
| Resistless in its awful aim each space is bridged and crossed. |
| |
| Ah God! the miles and miles of waste! One half the city gone! |
| And westward now—toward Van Ness—the roaring flames roll on. |
| "Blow up that mile of palaces!" It is the last command, |
| And there, at broad Van Ness, the troops make their heroic stand. |
| The fight is now for life—sweet life, for helpless babe and homeless wife— |
| The culmination of the strife spectacularly grand. |
| |
| On sweeps the hurricane of fire. The fatal touch is given. |
| The detonation of the blast goes shrieking up to heaven. |
| The mansions of bonanza kings are tottering to their doom; |
| That swirling tide of fiery fate halts at the gaping tomb. |
| Beyond the cataclysm's brink, the multitude, too dazed to think, |
| Behold the red waves rise and—sink into the smoldering gloom. |
| |
| V |
| The fire has swept the waterfront and burned the Mission down, |
| The business section—swallowed up, and wiped out Chinatown— |
| Full thirty thousand homes destroyed, Nob Hill in ashes lies, |
| And ghastly skeletons of steel on Market Street arise. |
| A gruesome picture everywhere! 'Tis desolation grim and bare |
| Waits artisan and millionaire beneath rank sulphurous skies. |
| |
| To-night, within the city parks, famished, benumbed and mute, |
| Two hundred thousand refugees, homeless and destitute! |
| Upon the hard, cold ground they crouch—the wrecks of Pomp and Pride; |
| Milady and the city waifs are huddled side by side. |
| And there, 'neath shelter rude and frail, we hear the new-born infants wail, |
| While' nations read the tragic tale—how San Francisco died. |
| |
| VI |
| PROPHECY—1906 |
| Not dead! Though maimed, her Soul yet lives—indomitable will— |
| The Faith, the Hope, the Spirit bold nor quake nor fire can kill. |
| To-morrow hearts shall throb again with western enterprise, |
| And from the ruins of to-day a city shall arise— |
| A monument of beauty great reared by the Conquerors of Fate— |
| The City of the Golden Gate and matchless sunset skies! |
| |
| VII |
| FULFILLMENT--1915 |
| Reborn, rebuilt, she rose again, far vaster in expanse— |
| A radiant city smiling from the ashes of romance! |
| A San Francisco glorified, more beauteous than of yore, |
| Enthroned upon her splendid hills, queen of the sunset shore; |
| Her flags of industry unfurled, her portals open to the world! |
| Thus, in the Book of Destiny, she lives for evermore. |
| |
| Isabel Ambler Gilman. |
| Two angels, one of Life and one of Death, |
| Passed o'er our village as the morning broke; |
| The dawn was on their faces, and beneath, |
| The sombre houses hearsed with plumes of smoke. |
| |
| Their attitude and aspect were the same, |
| Alike their features and their robes of white; |
| But one was crowned with amaranth, as with flame, |
| And one with asphodels, like flakes of light. |
| |
| I saw them pause on their celestial way; |
| Then said I, with deep fear and doubt oppressed, |
| "Beat not so loud, my heart, lest thou betray |
| The place where thy beloved are at rest!" |
| |
| And he who wore the crown of asphodels, |
| Descending, at my door began to knock, |
| And my soul sank within me, as in wells |
| The waters sink before an earthquake's shock. |
| |
| I recognized the nameless agony, |
| The terror and the tremor and the pain, |
| That oft before had filled or haunted me, |
| And now returned with threefold strength again. |
| |
| The door I opened to my heavenly guest, |
| And listened, for I thought I heard God's voice; |
| And, knowing whatsoe'er he sent was best, |
| Dared neither to lament nor to rejoice. |
| |
| Then with a smile, that filled the house with light, |
| "My errand is not Death, but Life," he said; |
| And ere I answered, passing out of sight, |
| On his celestial embassy he sped. |
| |
|
| 'Twas at thy door, O friend! and not at mine, |
| The angel with the amaranthine wreath, |
| Pausing, descended, and with, voice divine, |
| Whispered a word that had a sound like Death. |
| |
| Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom, |
| A shadow on those features fair and thin; |
| And softly, from that hushed and darkened room, |
| Two angels issued, where but one went in. |
| |
| All is of God! If he but waves his hand, |
| The mists collect, the rain falls thick and loud, |
| Till, with a smile of light on sea and land, |
| Lo! he looks back from the departing cloud. |
| |
| Angels of Life and Death alike are his; |
| Without his leave they pass no threshold o'er; |
| Who, then, would wish or dare, believing this, |
| Against his messengers to shut the door? |
| |
| Henry W. Longfellow. |
| It was the pleasant harvest-time, |
| When cellar-bins are closely stowed, |
| And garrets bend beneath their load, |
| And the old swallow-haunted barns— |
| Brown-gabled, long, and full of seams |
| Through which the moted sunlight streams— |
| |
| And winds blow freshly in, to shake |
| The red plumes of the roosted cocks, |
| And the loose hay-mow's scented locks— |
| Are filled with summer's ripened stores, |
| Its odorous grass and barley sheaves, |
| From their low scaffolds to their eaves. |
| |
| On Esek Harden's oaken floor, |
| With many an autumn threshing worn, |
| Lay the heaped ears of unhusked corn. |
| And thither came young men and maids, |
| Beneath a moon that, large and low, |
| Lit that sweet eve of long ago, |
| |
| They took their places; some by chance, |
| And others by a merry voice |
| Or sweet smile guided to their choice. |
| How pleasantly the rising moon, |
| Between the shadow of the mows, |
| Looked on them through the great elm-boughs!— |
| |
| On sturdy boyhood, sun-embrowned, |
| On girlhood with its solid curves |
| Of healthful strength and painless nerves! |
| And jests went round, and laughs that made |
| The house-dog answer with his howl, |
| And kept astir the barn-yard fowl. |
| |
| And quaint old songs their fathers sung, |
| In Derby dales and Yorkshire moors, |
| Ere Norman William trod their shores; |
| And tales, whose merry license shook |
| The fat sides of the Saxon thane, |
| Forgetful of the hovering Dane! |
| |
| But still the sweetest voice was mute |
| That river-valley ever heard |
| From lip of maid or throat of bird; |
| For Mabel Martin sat apart, |
| And let the hay-mow's shadow 'fall |
| Upon the loveliest face of all. |
| She sat apart, as one forbid, |
| Who knew that none would condescend |
| To own the Witch-wife's child a friend. |
| |
| The seasons scarce had gone their round, |
| Since curious thousands thronged to see |
| Her mother on the gallows-tree; |
| And mocked the palsied limbs of age, |
| That faltered on the fatal stairs, |
| And wan lip trembling with its prayers! |
| Few questioned of the sorrowing child, |
| Or, when they saw the mother die, |
| Dreamed of the daughter's agony. |
| They went up to their homes that day, |
| As men and Christians justified: |
| God willed it, and the wretch had died! |
| |
| Dear God and Father of us all, |
| Forgive our faith in cruel lies,— |
| Forgive the blindness that denies! |
| Forgive Thy creature when he takes, |
| For the all-perfect love Thou art, |
| Some grim creation of his heart. |
| Cast down our idols, overturn |
| Our bloody altars; let us see |
| Thyself in Thy humanity! |
| |
| Poor Mabel from her mother's grave |
| Crept to her desolate hearth-stone, |
| And wrestled with her fate alone; |
| With love, and anger, and despair, |
| The phantoms of disordered sense, |
| The awful doubts of Providence! |
| The school-boys jeered her as they passed, |
| And, when she sought the house of prayer, |
| Her mother's curse pursued her there. |
| And still o'er many a neighboring door |
| She saw the horseshoe's curved charm, |
| To guard against her mother's harm;— |
| That mother, poor, and sick, and lame, |
| Who daily, by the old arm-chair, |
| Folded her withered hands in prayer;— |
| Who turned, in Salem's dreary jail, |
| Her worn old Bible o'er and o'er, |
| When her dim eyes could read no more! |
| |
| Sore tried and pained, the poor girl kept |
| Her faith, and trusted that her way, |
| So dark, would somewhere meet the day. |
| And still her weary wheel went round, |
| Day after day, with no relief: |
| Small leisure have the poor for grief. |
| |
| So in the shadow Mabel sits; |
| Untouched by mirth she sees and hears, |
| Her smile is sadder than her tears. |
| But cruel eyes have found her out, |
| And cruel lips repeat her name, |
| And taunt her with her mother's shame. |
| |
| She answered not with railing words, |
| But drew her apron o'er her face, |
| And, sobbing, glided from the place. |
| And only pausing at the door, |
| Her sad eyes met the troubled gaze |
| Of one who, in her better days, |
| Had been her warm and steady friend, |
| Ere yet her mother's doom had made |
| Even Esek Harden half afraid. |
| |
| He felt that mute appeal of tears, |
| And, starting, with an angry frown |
| Hushed all the wicked murmurs down, |
| "Good neighbors mine," he sternly said, |
| "This passes harmless mirth or jest; |
| I brook no insult to my guest. |
| |
| "She is indeed her mother's child; |
| But God's sweet pity ministers |
| Unto no whiter soul than hers. |
| Let Goody Martin rest in peace; |
| I never knew her harm a fly, |
| And witch or not, God knows,—not I. |
| I know who swore her life away; |
| And, as God lives, I'd not condemn |
| An Indian dog on word of them." |
| |
| Poor Mabel, in her lonely home, |
| Sat by the window's narrow pane, |
| White in the moonlight's silver rain. |
| The river, on its pebbled rim, |
| Made music such as childhood knew; |
| The door-yard tree was whispered through |
| By voices such as childhood's ear |
| Had heard in moonlights long ago; |
| And through the willow boughs below |
| She saw the rippled waters shine; |
| Beyond, in waves of shade and light |
| The hills rolled off into the night. |
| |
| Sweet sounds and pictures mocking so |
| The sadness of her human lot, |
| She saw and heard, but heeded not. |
| She strove to drown her sense of wrong, |
| And, in her old and simple way, |
| To teach, her bitter heart to pray. |
| |
| Poor child! the prayer, began in faith, |
| Grew to a low, despairing cry |
| Of utter misery: "Let me die! |
| Oh! take me from the scornful eyes, |
| And hide me where the cruel speech |
| And mocking finger may not reach! |
| |
| "I dare not breathe my mother's name; |
| A daughter's right I dare not crave |
| To weep above her unblest grave! |
| Let me not live until my heart, |
| With few to pity, and with none |
| To love me, hardens into stone. |
| O God! have mercy on thy child, |
| Whose faith in Thee grows weak and small, |
| And take me ere I lose it all." |
| |
| The broadest lands in all the town, |
| The skill to guide, the power to awe, |
| Were Harden's; and his word was law. |
| None dared withstand him to his face, |
| But one sly maiden spake aside: |
| "The little witch is evil-eyed! |
| Her mother only killed a cow, |
| Or witched a churn or dairy-pan; |
| But she, forsooth, must charm a man!" |
| |
| A shadow on the moonlight fell, |
| And murmuring wind and wave became |
| A voice whose burden was her name. |
| Had then God heard her? Had he sent |
| His angel down? In flesh and blood, |
| Before her Esek Harden stood! |
|
| |
| He laid his hand upon her arm: |
| "Dear Mabel, this no more shall be; |
| Who scoffs at you, must scoff at me. |
| You know rough Esek Harden well; |
| And if he seems no suitor gay, |
| And if his hair is mixed with gray, |
| The maiden grown shall never find |
| His heart less warm than when she smiled |
| Upon his knees, a little child!" |
| |
| Her tears of grief were tears of joy, |
| As folded in his strong embrace, |
| She looked in Esek Harden's face. |
| "O truest friend of all!" she said, |
| "God bless you for your kindly thought, |
| And make me worthy of my lot!" |
| |
| He led her through his dewy fields, |
| To where the swinging lanterns glowed, |
| And through the doors the huskers showed. |
| "Good friends and neighbors!" Esek said, |
| "I'm weary of this lonely life; |
| In Mabel see my chosen wife! |
| |
| "She greets you kindly, one and all: |
| The past is past, and all offence |
| Falls harmless from her innocence. |
| Henceforth she stands no more alone; |
| You know what Esek Harden is;— |
| He brooks no wrong to him or his." |
| |
| Now let the merriest tales be told, |
| And let the sweetest songs be sung, |
| That ever made the old heart young! |
| For now the lost has found a home; |
| And a lone hearth shall brighter burn, |
| As all the household joys return! |
| |
| Oh, pleasantly the harvest moon, |
| Between the shadow of the mows, |
| Looked on them through the great elm-boughs! |
| On Mabel's curls of golden hair, |
| On Esek's shaggy strength it fell; |
| And the wind whispered, "It is well!" |
| |
| John G. Whittier. |
| King David's limbs were weary. He had fled |
| From far Jerusalem; and now he stood |
| With his faint people for a little rest |
| Upon the shore of Jordan. The light wind |
| Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow |
| To its refreshing breath; for he had worn |
| The mourner's covering, and he had not felt |
| That he could see his people until now. |
| |
| They gathered round him on the fresh green bank |
| And spoke their kindly words, and as the sun |
| Rose up in heaven he knelt among them there, |
| And bowed his head upon his hands to pray. |
| Oh! when the heart is full—where bitter thoughts |
| Come crowding thickly up for utterance, |
| And the poor common words of courtesy,— |
| Are such a mockery—how much |
| The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer! |
| He prayed for Israel—and his voice went up |
| Strongly and fervently. He prayed for those |
| Whose love had been his shield—and his deep tones |
| Grew tremulous. But, oh! for Absalom, |
| For his estranged, misguided Absalom— |
| The proud, bright being who had burst away |
| In all his princely beauty to defy |
| The heart that cherished him—for him he prayed, |
| In agony that would not be controll'd, |
| Strong supplication, and forgave him there |
| Before his God for his deep sinfulness. |
| |
| The pall was settled. He who slept beneath |
| Was straightened for the grave, and as the folds |
| Sank to their still proportions, they betrayed |
| The matchless symmetry of Absalom, |
| The mighty Joab stood beside the bier |
| And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly, |
| As if he feared the slumberer might stir. |
| A slow step startled him. He grasped his blade |
| As if a trumpet rang, but the bent form |
| Of David entered; and he gave command |
| In a low tone to his few followers, |
| And left him with the dead. |
| |
| The King stood still |
| Till the last echo died; then, throwing off |
| The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back |
| The pall from the still features of his child. |
| He bowed his head upon him and broke forth |
| In the resistless eloquence of woe: |
| |
| "Alas! my noble boy; that thou shouldst die! |
| Thou who were made so beautifully fair! |
| That death should settle in thy glorious eye, |
| And leave his stillness in this clustering hair! |
| How could he mark thee for the silent tomb, |
| My proud boy, Absalom! |
| |
| "Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill |
| As to my bosom I have tried to press thee! |
| How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill |
| Like a rich harp-string yearning to caress thee, |
| And hear thy sweet 'my father!' from those dumb |
| And cold lips, Absalom! |
| |
| "But death is on thee! I shall hear the gush |
| Of music, and the voices of the young; |
| And life will pass me in the mantling blush, |
| And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung;— |
| But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come |
| To meet me, Absalom! |
| |
| "And oh! when I am stricken, and my heart, |
| Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, |
| How will its love for thee, as I depart, |
| Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token! |
| It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, |
| To see thee, Absalom! |
| |
| "And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up, |
| With death so like a gentle slumber on thee!— |
| And thy dark sin! Oh! I could drink the cup, |
| If from this woe its bitterness had won thee. |
| May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home, |
| My lost boy, Absalom!" |
| |
| He covered up his face, and bowed himself |
| A moment on his child; then, giving him |
| A look of melting tenderness, he clasped |
| His hands convulsively, as if in prayer, |
| And, as if strength were given him of God, |
| He rose up calmly, and composed the pall |
| Firmly and decently—and left him there, |
| As if his rest had been a breathing sleep. |
| |
| N.P. Willis. |
| It is Christmas day in the workhouse, |
| And the cold bare walls are bright |
| With garlands of green and holly, |
| And the place is a pleasant sight: |
| For with clean-washed hands and faces, |
| In a long and hungry line |
| The paupers sit at the tables, |
| For this is the hour they dine. |
| |
| And the guardians and their ladies, |
| Although the wind is east, |
| Have come in their furs and wrappers |
| To watch their charges feast; |
| To smile and be condescending, |
| Put pudding on pauper plates, |
| To be hosts at the workhouse banquet |
| They've paid for—with the rates. |
| |
| Oh, the paupers are meek and lowly |
| With their "Thank'ee kindly, mum's"; |
| So long as they fill their stomachs, |
| What matter whence it comes? |
| But one of the old men mutters, |
| And pushes his plate aside: |
| "Great God!" he cries; "but it chokes me; |
| For this is the day she died." |
| |
| The guardians gazed in horror, |
| The master's face went white: |
| "Did a pauper refuse their pudding?" |
| "Could their ears believe aright?" |
| Then the ladies clutched their husbands |
| Thinking the man would die, |
| Struck by a bolt, or something, |
| By the outraged One on high. |
| |
| But the pauper sat for a moment, |
| Then rose 'mid a silence grim, |
| For the others had ceased to chatter, |
| And trembled in every limb. |
| He looked at the guardians' ladies, |
| Then, eyeing their lords, he said: |
| "I eat not the food of villains |
| Whose hands are foul and red, |
| |
| "Whose victims cry for vengeance |
| From their dark unhallowed graves." |
| "He's drunk!" said the workhouse master, |
| "Or else he's mad, and raves." |
| "Not drunk or mad," cried the pauper, |
| "But only a hunted beast, |
| Who, torn by the hounds and mangled, |
| Declines the vulture's feast. |
| |
| "I care not a curse for the guardians, |
| And I won't be dragged away. |
| Just let me have the fit out, |
| It's only on Christmas day |
| That the black past comes to goad me, |
| And prey on my burning brain, |
| I'll tell you the rest in a whisper,— |
| I swear I won't shout again, |
| |
| "Keep your hands off me, curse you! |
| Hear me right out to the end, |
| You come here to see how paupers |
| The season of Christmas spend. |
| You come here to watch us feeding, |
| As they watch the captured beast, |
| Hear why a penniless pauper |
| Spits on your palfry feast. |
| |
| "Do you think I will take your bounty, |
| And let you smile and think |
| You're doing a noble action |
| With the parish's meat and drink? |
| Where is my wife, you traitors— |
| The poor old wife you slew? |
| Yes, by the God above us, |
| My Nance was killed by you! |
| |
| "Last winter my wife lay dying, |
| Starved in a filthy den; |
| I had never been to the parish,— |
| I came to the parish then. |
| I swallowed my pride in coming, |
| For, ere the ruin came. |
| I held up my head as a trader, |
| And I bore a spotless name. |
| |
| "I came to the parish, craving |
| Bread for a starving wife, |
| Bread for the woman who'd loved me |
| Through fifty years of life; |
| And what do you think they told me, |
| Mocking my awful grief? |
| That 'the House' was open to us, |
| But they wouldn't give 'out relief.' |
| |
| "I slunk to the filthy alley— |
| 'Twas a cold, raw Christmas eve— |
| And the bakers' shops were open, |
| Tempting a man to thieve: |
| But I clenched my fists together, |
| Holding my head awry, |
| So I came to her empty-handed |
| And mournfully told her why. |
| |
| "Then I told her 'the House' was open; |
| She had heard of the ways of that, |
| For her bloodless cheeks went crimson, |
| And up in her rags she sat, |
| Crying, 'Bide the Christmas here, John, |
| We've never had one apart; |
| I think I can bear the hunger,— |
| The other would break my heart.' |
| |
| "All through that eve I watched her, |
| Holding her hand in mine, |
| Praying the Lord, and weeping |
| Till my lips were salt as brine. |
| I asked her once if she hungered, |
| And as she answered 'No,' |
| The moon shone in at the window |
| Set in a wreath of snow. |
| |
| "Then the room was bathed in glory, |
| And I saw in my darling's eyes |
| The far-away look of wonder |
| That comes when the spirit flies; |
| And her lips were parched and parted, |
| And her reason came and went, |
| For she raved of our home in Devon |
| Where our happiest years were spent. |
| |
| "And the accents, long forgotten, |
| Came back to the tongue once more, |
| For she talked like the country lassie |
| I woo'd by the Devon shore. |
| Then she rose to her feet and trembled, |
| And fell on the rags and moaned, |
| And, 'Give me a crust—I'm famished— |
| For the love of God!' she groaned. |
| |
| "I rushed from the room like a madman, |
| And flew to the workhouse gate, |
| Crying 'Food for a dying woman?' |
| And the answer came, 'Too late.' |
| They drove me away with curses; |
| Then I fought with a dog in the street, |
| And tore from the mongrel's clutches |
| A crust he was trying to eat. |
| |
| "Back, through the filthy by-lanes! |
| Back, through the trampled slush! |
| Up to the crazy garret, |
| Wrapped in an awful hush. |
| My heart sank down at the threshold, |
| And I paused with a sudden thrill, |
| For there in the silv'ry moonlight |
| My Nance lay, cold and still. |
| |
| "Up to the blackened ceiling |
| The sunken eyes were cast— |
| I knew on those lips all bloodless |
| My name had been the last: |
| She'd called for her absent husband— |
| O God! had I but known!— |
| Had called in vain, and in anguish |
| Had died in that den—alone. |
| |
| "Yes, there, in a land of plenty, |
| Lay a loving woman dead, |
| Cruelly starved and murdered |
| For a loaf of the parish bread. |
| At yonder gate, last Christmas, |
| I craved for a human life. |
| You, who would feast us paupers, |
| What of my murdered wife! |
|
| "There, get ye gone to you dinners; |
| Don't mind me in the least; |
| Think of the happy paupers |
| Eating your Christmas feast; |
| And when you recount their blessings |
| In your snug, parochial way, |
| Say what you did for me, too, |
| Only last Christmas Day." |
| |
| George R. Sims. |
| 'Twas the eve before Christmas; "Good night" had been said, |
| And Annie and Willie had crept into bed; |
| There were tears on their pillows, and tears in their eyes, |
| And each little bosom was heaving with sighs, |
| For to-night their stern father's command had been given |
| That they should retire precisely at seven |
| Instead of at eight; for they troubled him more |
| With questions unheard of than ever before; |
| He had told them he thought this delusion a sin, |
| No such being as Santa Claus ever had been, |
| And he hoped, after this, he should never more hear |
| How he scrambled down chimneys with presents, each year, |
| And this was the reason that two little heads |
| So restlessly tossed on their soft downy beds. |
| |
| Eight, nine, and the clock on the steeple tolled ten; |
| Not a word had been spoken by either till then; |
| When Willie's sad face from the blanket did peep, |
| And whispered, "Dear Annie, is oo fast asleep?" |
| "Why, no, brother Willie," a sweet voice replies, |
| "I've tried it in vain, but I can't shut my eyes; |
| For somehow, it makes me so sorry because |
| Dear papa has said there is no Santa Claus; |
| Now we know there is, and it can't be denied, |
| For he came every year before mamma died; |
| But then I've been thinking that she used to pray, |
| And God would hear everything mamma would say; |
| And perhaps she asked him to send Santa Claus here |
| With the sacks full of presents he brought every year." |
| "Well, why tant we pray dest as mamma did then, |
| And ask Him to send him with presents aden?" |
| "I've been thinking so, too," and, without a word more, |
| Four little bare feet bounded out on the floor, |
| And four little knees the soft carpet pressed, |
| And two tiny hands were clasped close to each breast. |
| "Now, Willie, you know we must firmly believe |
| That the presents we ask for we're sure to receive; |
| You must wait just as still till I say the 'Amen,' |
| And by that you will know that your turn has come then. |
| Dear Jesus, look down on my brother and me. |
| And grant as the favor we are asking of Thee! |
| I want a wax dolly, a tea-set and ring, |
| And an ebony work-box that shuts with a spring. |
| Bless papa, dear Jesus, and cause him to see |
| That Santa Claus loves us far better than he; |
| Don't let him get fretful and angry again |
| At dear brother Willie, and Annie, Amen!" |
| "Peas Desus 'et Santa Taus tum down to-night, |
| And bing us some pesents before it is 'ight; |
| I want he should div me a nice ittle sed, |
| With bight, shiny unners, and all painted yed; |
| A box full of tandy, a book and a toy— |
| Amen—and then Desus, I'll be a dood boy." |
| Their prayers being ended they raised up their heads, |
| And with hearts light and cheerful again sought their beds; |
| They were soon lost in slumber both peaceful and deep, |
| And with fairies in dreamland were roaming in sleep. |
| |
| Eight, nine, and the little French clock had struck ten |
| Ere the father had thought of his children again; |
| He seems now to hear Annie's half suppressed sighs, |
| And to see the big tears stand in Willie's blue eyes. |
| "I was harsh with my darlings," he mentally said, |
| "And should not have sent them so early to bed; |
| But then I was troubled,—my feelings found vent, |
| For bank-stock to-day has gone down ten per cent. |
| But of course they've forgotten their troubles ere this, |
| And that I denied them the thrice asked-for kiss; |
| But just to make sure I'll steal up to their door, |
| For I never spoke harsh to my darlings before." |
| So saying, he softly ascended the stairs, |
| And arrived at the door to hear both of their prayers. |
| His Annie's "bless papa" draws forth the big tears, |
| And Willie's grave promise falls sweet on his ears. |
| "Strange, strange I'd forgotten," said he with a sigh, |
| "How I longed when a child to have Christmas draw nigh. |
| I'll atone for my harshness," he inwardly said, |
| "By answering their prayers, ere I sleep in my bed." |
| |
| Then he turned to the stairs, and softly went down, |
| Threw off velvet slippers and silk dressing-gown; |
| Donned hat, coat, and boots, and was out in the street, |
| A millionaire facing the cold driving sleet, |
| Nor stopped he until he had bought everything, |
| From the box full of candy to the tiny gold ring. |
| Indeed he kept adding so much to his store |
| That the various presents outnumbered a score; |
| Then homeward he turned with his holiday load |
| And with Aunt Mary's aid in the nursery 'twas stowed. |
| Miss Dolly was seated beneath a pine-tree, |
| By the side of a table spread out for a tea; |
| A work-box well filled in the centre was laid, |
| And on it the ring for which Annie had prayed; |
| A soldier in uniform stood by a sled |
| With bright shining runners, and all painted red; |
| There were balls, dogs and horses, books pleasing to see, |
| And birds of all colors—were perched in the tree, |
| While Santa Claus, laughing, stood up in the top, |
| As if getting ready more presents to drop. |
| And as the fond father the picture surveyed, |
| He thought for his trouble he had amply been paid; |
| And he said to himself as he brushed off a tear, |
| "I'm happier to-night than I've been for a year, |
| I've enjoyed more true pleasure than ever before— |
| What care I if bank-stocks fall ten per cent more. |
| Hereafter I'll make it a rule, I believe, |
| To have Santa Claus visit us each Christmas eve." |
| So thinking he gently extinguished the light, |
| And tripped down the stairs to retire for the night. |
| |
| As soon as the beams of the bright morning sun |
| Put the darkness to flight, and the stars, one by one, |
| Four little blue eyes out of sleep opened wide, |
| And at the same moment the presents espied; |
| Then out of their beds they sprang with a bound, |
| And the very gifts prayed for were all of them found; |
| They laughed and they cried in their innocent glee, |
| And shouted for papa to come quick and see |
| What presents old Santa Claus brought in the night |
| (Just the things that they wanted) and left before light; |
| "And now," added Annie, in a voice soft and low, |
| "You'll believe there's a Santa, Clans, papa, I know"; |
| While dear little Willie climbed up on his knee, |
| Determined no secret between them should be, |
| And told in soft whispers how Annie had said |
| That their blessed mamma, so long ago dead, |
| Used to kneel down and pray by the side of her chair, |
| And that God, up in heaven, had answered her prayer! |
| "Then we dot up, and payed dust as well as we tould, |
| And Dod answered our payers; now wasn't he dood?" |
| |
| "I should say that he was if he sent you all these, |
| And knew just what presents my children would please. |
| Well, well, let him think so, the dear little elf, |
| 'Twould be cruel to tell him I did it myself." |
| |
| Blind father! who caused your proud heart to relent, |
| And the hasty word spoken so soon to repent? |
| 'Twas the Being who made you steal softly upstairs, |
| And made you His agent to answer their prayers. |
| |
| Sophia P. Snow. |
| An old lady sat in her old arm-chair, |
| With wrinkled visage and disheveled hair, |
| And pale and hunger-worn features; |
| For days and for weeks her only fare, |
| As she sat there in her old arm-chair, |
| Had been potatoes. |
| |
| But now they were gone; of bad or good. |
| Not one was left for the old lady's food |
| Of those potatoes; |
| And she sighed and said, "What shall I do? |
| Where shall I send, and to whom shall I go |
| For more potatoes?" |
| |
| And she thought of the deacon over the way, |
| The deacon so ready to worship and pray, |
| Whose cellar was full of potatoes; |
| And she said: "I will send for the deacon to come; |
| He'll not mind much to give me some |
| Of such a store of potatoes." |
| |
| And the deacon came over as fast as he could, |
| Thinking to do the old lady some good, |
| But never thought of potatoes; |
| He asked her at once what was her chief want, |
| And she, simple soul, expecting a grant, |
| Immediately answered, "Potatoes." |
| |
| But the deacon's religion didn't lie that way; |
| He was more accustomed to preach and pray |
| Than to give of his hoarded potatoes; |
| So, not hearing, of course, what the old lady said, |
| He rose to pray with uncovered head, |
| But she only thought of potatoes. |
| |
| He prayed for patience, and wisdom, and grace, |
| But when he prayed, "Lord, give her peace," |
| She audibly sighed "Give potatoes"; |
| And at the end of each prayer which he said, |
| He heard, or thought that he heard in its stead, |
| The same request for potatoes. |
| |
| The deacon was troubled; knew not what to do; |
| 'Twas very embarrassing to have her act so |
| About "those carnal potatoes." |
| So, ending his prayer, he started for home; |
| As the door closed behind him, he heard a deep groan, |
| "Oh, give to the hungry, potatoes!" |
| |
| And that groan followed him all the way home; |
| In the midst of the night it haunted his room— |
| "Oh, give to the hungry, potatoes!" |
| He could bear it no longer; arose and dressed; |
| From his well-filled cellar taking in haste |
| A bag of his best potatoes. |
| |
| Again he went to the widow's lone hut; |
| Her sleepless eyes she had not shut; |
| But there she sat in that old arm-chair, |
| With the same wan features, the same sad air, |
| And, entering in, he poured on the floor |
| A bushel or more from his goodly store |
| Of choicest potatoes. |
| |
| The widow's cup was running o'er, |
| Her face was haggard and wan no more. |
| "Now," said the deacon, "shall we pray?" |
| "Yes," said the widow, "now you may." |
| And he kneeled him down on the sanded floor, |
| Where he had poured his goodly store, |
| And such a prayer the deacon prayed |
| As never before his lips essayed; |
| No longer embarrassed, but free and full, |
| He poured out the voice of a liberal soul, |
| And the widow responded aloud "Amen!" |
| But spake no more of potatoes. |
| |
| And would you, who hear this simple tale, |
| Pray for the poor, and praying, "prevail"? |
| Then preface your prayers with alms and good deeds; |
| Search out the poor, their wants and their needs; |
| Pray for peace, and grace, and spiritual food, |
| For wisdom and guidance,-for all these are good,— |
| But don't forget the potatoes. |
| |
| J.T. Pettee. |
| No gilt or tinsel taints the dress |
| Of him who holds the natal power, |
| No weighty helmet's fastenings press |
| On brow that shares Columbia's dower, |
| No blaring trumpets mark the step |
| Of him with mind on peace intent, |
| And so—HATS OFF! Here comes the State, |
| A modest King: |
| THE PRESIDENT. |
| |
| No cavalcade with galloping squads |
| Surrounds this man, whose mind controls |
| The actions of the million minds |
| Whose hearts the starry banner folds; |
| Instead, in simple garb he rides, |
| The King to whom grim Fate has lent |
| Her dower of righteousness and faith |
| To guide his will: |
| THE PRESIDENT. |
| |
| The ancient lands are struck with awe, |
| Here stands a power at which they scoffed, |
| Kings, rulers, scribes of pristine states. |
| Are dazed,—at Columbia they mocked; |
| Yet human wills have forged new states, |
| Their wills on justice full intent, |
| And fashioned here a lowly King, |
| The People's choice: |
| THE PRESIDENT. |
| |
| War-ravaged, spent, and torn—old worlds |
| With hatred rent, turn to the West, |
| "Give help!" they cry—"our souls are wracked, |
| On every side our kingdom's pressed." |
| And see! Columbia hastens forth, |
| Her healing hand to peace is lent, |
| Her sword unsheathed has forged the calm, |
| Her sons sent by |
| THE PRESIDENT. |
| |
| Full many a storm has tossed the barque |
| Since first it had its maiden trip, |
| Full many a conflagration's spark |
| Has scorched and seared the laboring ship; |
| And yet it ploughs a straightway course, |
| Through wrack of billows; wind-tossed, spent, |
| On sails the troubled Ship of State, |
| Steered forward by |
| THE PRESIDENT. |
| |
| STAND UP! HATS OFF! He's coming by, |
| No roll of drums peals at his course, |
| NOW GIVE A CHEER! He's part of you, |
| Your will with his: the nation's force. |
| And—as he passes—breathe a prayer, |
| May justice to his mind be lent, |
| And may the grace of Heaven be with |
| The man who rules: |
| OUR PRESIDENT. |
| |
| Charles H.L. Johnston. |
| "Oh tell me, sailor, tell me true, |
| Is my little lad, my Elihu, |
| A-sailing with your ship?" |
| The sailor's eyes were dim with dew,— |
| "Your little lad, your Elihu?" |
| He said with trembling lip,— |
| "What little lad? what ship?" |
| |
| "What little lad! as if there could be |
| Another such a one as he! |
| What little lad, do you say? |
| Why, Elihu, that took to the sea |
| The moment I put him off my knee! |
| It was just the other day |
| The Gray Swan sailed away." |
| |
| "The other day?" the sailor's eyes |
| Stood open with a great surprise,— |
| "The other day? the Swan?" |
| His heart began in his throat to rise. |
| "Ay, ay, sir, here in the cupboard lies |
| The jacket he had on." |
| "And so your lad is gone?" |
| |
| "Gone with the Swan." "And did she stand |
| With her anchor clutching hold of the sand, |
| For a month, and never stir?" |
| "Why, to be sure! I've seen from the land, |
| Like a lover kissing his lady's hand, |
| The wild sea kissing her,— |
| A sight to remember, sir." |
| |
| "But, my good mother, do you know |
| All this was twenty years ago? |
| I stood on the Gray Swan's deck, |
| And to that lad I saw you throw, |
| Taking it off, as it might be, so, |
| The kerchief from your neck." |
| "Ay, and he'll bring it back!" |
| |
| "And did the little lawless lad |
| That has made you sick and made you sad, |
| Sail with the Gray Swan's crew?" |
| "Lawless! the man is going mad! |
| The best boy ever mother had,— |
| Be sure he sailed with the crew! |
| What would you have him do?" |
| |
| "And he has never written line, |
| Nor sent you word, nor made you sign |
| To say he was alive?" |
| "Hold! if 'twas wrong, the wrong is mine; |
| Besides, he may be in the brine, |
| And could he write from the grave? |
| Tut, man, what would you have?" |
| |
| "Gone twenty years,—a long, long cruise, |
| 'Twas wicked thus your love to abuse; |
| But if the lad still live, |
| And come back home, think you you can |
| Forgive him?"—"Miserable man, |
| You're mad as the sea,—you rave,— |
| What have I to forgive?" |
| |
| The sailor twitched his shirt so blue, |
| And from within his bosom drew |
| The kerchief. She was wild. |
| "My God! my Father! is it true |
| My little lad, My Elihu? |
| My blessed boy, my child! |
| My dead,—my living child!" |
| |
| Alice Cary. |