In homely phrase, this is a sort of "second helping" of a dish that has pleased the taste of thousands. Our first collection of Poems Teachers Ask For was the response to a demand for such a book, and this present volume is the response to a demand for "more." In Book One it was impracticable to use all of the many poems entitled to inclusion on the basis of their being desired. We are constantly in receipt of requests that certain selections be printed in NORMAL INSTRUCTOR-PRIMARY PLANS on the page "Poems Our Readers Have Asked For." More than two hundred of these were chosen for Book One, and more than two hundred others, as much desired as those in the earlier volume, are included in Book Two.

Because of copyright restrictions, we often have been unable to present, in magazine form, verse of large popular appeal. By special arrangement, a number of such poems were included in Book One of Poems Teachers Ask For, and many more are given in the pages that follow. Acknowledgment is made below to publishers and authors for courteous permission to reprint in this volume material which they control:

THE CENTURY COMPANY—The Minuet, from "Poems and Verses," by Mary Mapes Dodge.

W.B. CONKEY COMPANY—Solitude, from "Poems of Passion," and How Salvator Won, from "Kingdom of Love," both by Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

DODGE PUBLISHING COMPANY—How Did You Die? from "Impertinent Poems," and The Sin of the Coppenter Man, from "I Rule the House," both by Edmund Vance Cooke.

HAMLIN GARLAND—My Prairies and Color in the Wheat.

ISABEL AMBLER GILMAN—The Sunset City.

HARPER & BROTHERS—Over the Hill from the Poor-House and The School-Master's Guests, from "Farm Legends," by Will Carleton.

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY—The Sandman, by Margaret Vandegrift; The Sin of Omission and Our Own, by Margaret E. Sangster; The Ballad of the Tempest, by James T. Fields; also the poems by Henry W. Longfellow, John G. Whittier, James Russell Lowell, Alice Cary, Phoebe Cary, Oliver Wendell Holmes, and J.T. Trowbridge, of whose works they are the authorized publishers.

CHARLES H.L. JOHNSTON—The President.

RUDYARD KIPLING and DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY (A.P. WATT & SON, London, England)—Mother o' Mine.

LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD COMPANY—Hullo and The Volunteer Organist, both from "Back Country Poems," by Sam Walter Foss, and He Worried About It, from "Whiffs from Wild Meadows," by Sam Walter Foss.

EDWIN MARKHAM—Lincoln, the Man of the People.

REILLY & LEE CO.—Home, from "A Heap o' Livin'," by Edgar A. Guest.

FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY—Our Flag, by Margaret E. Sangster.

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS—I Have a Rendezvous with Death, by Alan Seeger; Song of the Chattahoochee, by Sidney Lanier; If All the Skies, by Henry van Dyke.

HARR WAGNER PUBLISHING COMPANY—Mothers of Men and The Fortunate Isles, by Joaquin Miller.

THE PUBLISHERS.

POEMS TEACHERS ASK FOR

BOOK TWO

Home

It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it home,A heap o' sun an' shadder, an' ye sometimes have t' roamAfore ye really 'preciate the things ye left behind,An' hunger fer 'em somehow, with 'em allus on yer mind.It don't make any differunce how rich ye get t' be,How much yer chairs an' tables cost, how great yer luxury;It ain't home t' ye, though it be the palace of a king,Until somehow yer soul is sort o' wrapped 'round everything.Home ain't a place that gold can buy or get up in a minute;Afore it's home there's got t' be a heap o' livin' in it:Within the walls there's got t' be some babies born, and thenRight there ye've got t' bring 'em up t' women good, an' men;And gradjerly, as time goes on ye find ye wouldn't partWith anything they ever used—they've grown into yer heart;The old high chairs, the playthings, too, the little shoes they woreYe hoard; an' if ye could ye'd keep the thumbmarks on the door.Ye've got t' weep t' make it home, ye've got t' sit and sighAn' watch beside a loved one's bed, an' know that Death is nigh;An' in the stillness o' the night t' see Death's angel come,An' close the eyes o' her that smiled, an' leave her sweet voice dumb.Fer these are scenes that grip the heart, an' when yer tears are dried,Ye find the home is dearer than it was, an' sanctified;An' tuggin' at ye always are the pleasant memoriesO' her that was an' is no more—ye can't escape from these.Ye've got t' sing and dance fer years, ye've got t' romp an' play,An' learn t' love the things ye have by usin' 'em each day;Even the roses 'round the porch must blossom year by yearAfore they 'come a part o' ye, suggestin' someone dearWho used t' love 'em long ago, an' trained 'em jes' t' runThe way they do, so's they would get the early mornin' sun;Ye've got t' love each brick an' stone from cellar up t' dome:It takes a heap o' livin' in a house f' make it home.Edgar A. Guest.

The House with Nobody In It

Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie trackI go by a poor old farm-house with its shingles broken and black;I suppose I've passed it a hundred times, but I always stop for a minuteAnd look at the house, the tragic house, the house with nobody in it.I've never seen a haunted house, but I hear there are such things;That they hold the talk of spirits, their mirth and sorrowings.I know that house isn't haunted and I wish it were, I do,For it wouldn't be so lonely if it had a ghost or two.This house on the road to Suffern needs a dozen panes of glass,And somebody ought to weed the walk and take a scythe to the grass.It needs new paint and shingles and vines should be trimmed and tied,But what it needs most of all is some people living inside.If I had a bit of money and all my debts were paid,I'd put a gang of men to work with brush and saw and spade.I'd buy that place and fix it up the way that it used to be,And I'd find some people who wanted a home and give it to them free.Now a new home standing empty with staring window and doorLooks idle perhaps and foolish, like a hat on its block in the store,But there's nothing mournful about it, it cannot be sad and loneFor the lack of something within it that it has never known.But a house that has done what a house should do, a house that has sheltered life,That has put its loving wooden arms around a man and his wife,A house that has echoed a baby's laugh and helped up his stumbling feet,Is the saddest sight, when it's left alone, that ever your eyes could meet.So whenever I go to Suffern along the Erie trackI never go by the empty house without stopping and looking back,Yet it hurts me to look at the crumbling roof and the shutters fallen apart,For I can't help thinking the poor old house is a house with a broken heart.Joyce Kilmer.

Color in the Wheat

Like liquid gold the wheat field lies,A marvel of yellow and russet and green,That ripples and runs, that floats and flies,With the subtle shadows, the change, the sheen,That play in the golden hair of a girl,—A ripple of amber—a flareOf light sweeping after—a curlIn the hollows like swirling feetOf fairy waltzers, the colors runTo the western sunThrough the deeps of the ripening wheat.Broad as the fleckless, soaring sky,Mysterious, fair as the moon-led sea,The vast plain flames on the dazzled eyeUnder the fierce sun's alchemy.The slow hawk stoopsTo his prey in the deeps;The sunflower droopsTo the lazy wave; the wind sleeps—Then swirling in dazzling links and loops,A riot of shadow and shine,A glory of olive and amber and wine,To the westering sun the colors runThrough the deeps of the ripening wheat.O glorious land! My western land,Outspread beneath the setting sun!Once more amid your swells, I stand,And cross your sod-lands dry and dun.I hear the jocund calls of menWho sweep amid the ripened grainWith swift, stern reapers; once againThe evening splendor floods the plain,The crickets' chimeMakes pauseless rhyme,And toward the sun,The colors runBefore the wind's feetIn the wheat!Hamlin Garland.

The Broken Pinion

I walked through the woodland meadows,Where sweet the thrushes sing;And I found on a bed of mossesA bird with a broken wing.I healed its wound, and each morningIt sang its old sweet strain,But the bird with a broken pinionNever soared as high again.I found a young life brokenBy sin's seductive art;And touched with a Christlike pity,I took him to my heart.He lived with a noble purposeAnd struggled not in vain;But the life that sin had strickenNever soared as high again.But the bird with a broken pinionKept another from the snare;And the life that sin had strickenRaised another from despair.Each loss has its compensation,There is healing for every pain;But the bird with a broken pinionNever soars as high again.Hezekiah Butterworth.

Jamie Douglas

It was in the days when ClaverhouseWas scouring moor and glen,To change, with fire and bloody sword,The faith of Scottish men.They had made a covenant with the LordFirm 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 plaidHis 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 ClaverhouseHad hunted long in vain,And swore they would not leave that glenTill old Tam Roy was slain.So Jamie Douglas went his wayWith 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 apaceTo where their cruel leader stands,And set them face to face.The cakes concealed beneath his plaidSoon tell the story plain—"It is old Tam Roy the cakes are for,"Exclaimed the angry man."Now guide me to his hiding placeAnd 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 stonesThe old gaunt wolf and carrion crowShall battle for your bones."And in his brawny, strong right handHe lifted up the child,And held him where the clefted rocksFormed a chasm deep and wildSo deep it was, the trees belowLike stunted bushes seemed.Poor Jamie looked in frightened maze,It seemed some horrid dream.He looked up at the blue sky aboveThen 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 saveFrom 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 caveShall Tam Roy wait for you.Long for your welcome comingWaits the mother on the moor,And watches and calls, "Come, Jamie, lad,"Through the half-open door.No more adown the rocky pathYou come with fearless tread,Or, on moor or mountain, takeThe good man's daily bread.But up in heaven the shining onesA wondrous story tell,Of a child snatched up from a rocky gulfThat is nae so deep as hell.And there before the great white throne,Forever blessed and glad,His mother dear and old Tam RoyShall meet their bonny lad.

The Ensign Bearer

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 downMen whose deeds this day are worthy of a kingdom and a crown.Prithee hasten, Uncle Jared, what's the bullet in my breastTo 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 allThat a soldier cannot part with when he heeds his country's call!Ask the mother what, in dying, sends her yearning spirit backOver 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 hisIn 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.

The Real Riches

Every coin of earthly treasureWe have lavished upon earthFor our simple worldly pleasureMay be reckoned something worth;For the spending was not losing,Tho' the purchase were but small;It has perished with the using.We have had it,—that is all!All the gold we leave behind us,When we turn to dust again,Tho' our avarice may blind us,We have gathered quite in vain;Since we neither can direct it,By the winds of fortune tost,Nor in other worlds expect it;What we hoarded we have lost.But each merciful oblation—Seed of pity wisely sown,What we gave in self-negation,We may safely call our own;For the treasure freely givenIs the treasure that we hoard,Since the angels keep in heaven,What is lent unto the Lord.John G. Saxe.

The Polish Boy

Whence come those shrieks so wild and shrill,That cut, like blades of steel, the air,Causing the creeping blood to chillWith the sharp cadence of despair?Again they come, as if a heartWere cleft in twain by one quick blow,And every string had voice apartTo utter its peculiar woe.Whence came they? From yon temple, whereAn altar, raised for private prayer,Now forms the warrior's marble bedWho Warsaw's gallant armies led.The dim funereal tapers throwA holy luster o'er his brow,And burnish with their rays of lightThe mass of curls that gather brightAbove the haughty brow and eyeOf a young boy that's kneeling by.What hand is that, whose icy pressClings 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 cryRang wildly, late, upon the air,When the dead warrior met her eyeOutstretched upon the altar there.With pallid lip and stony browShe murmurs forth her anguish now.But hark! the tramp of heavy feetIs 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 bandRush 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 treadToo near the body of my dead;Nor touch the living boy; I standBetween 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 wildTo 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 boreHis 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 handsShe stripped of rings and diamond bands,And tore from braids of long black hairThe 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 graspAgain undid the mother's clasp.Forward she fell, with one long cryOf 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 strengthOf 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 cheeksForetell the thought before he speaks;With a full voice of proud commandHe 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 nowMy 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 brightGlittered a moment on the sight."Ha! start ye back? Fool! coward! knave!Think ye my noble father's glaiveWould drink the life-blood of a slave?The pearls that on the handle flameWould blush to rubies in their shame;The blade would quiver in thy breastAshamed 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 lightFlashed on the jeweled weapon bright;Another, and his young heart's bloodLeaped 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 kissTo 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 feelMy 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, IRejoice with thee,—and thus—to die."One long, deep breath, and his pale headLay on his mother's bosom,—dead.Ann S. Stephens.

The Height of the Ridiculous

I wrote some lines once on a timeIn wondrous merry mood,And thought, as usual, men would sayThey were exceeding good.They were so queer, so very queer,I laughed as I would die;Albeit, in the general way,A sober man am I.I called my servant, and he came;How kind it was of himTo mind a slender man like me,He of the mighty limb!"These to the printer," I exclaimed,And, in my humorous way,I added (as a trifling jest),"There'll be the devil to pay."He took the paper, and I watched,And saw him peep within;At the first line he read, his faceWas all upon the grin.He read the next; the grin grew broad,And shot from ear to ear;He read the third; a chuckling noiseI now began to hear.The fourth; he broke into a roar;The fifth; his waistband split;The sixth; he burst five buttons off,And tumbled in a fit.Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye,I watched that wretched man,And since, I never dare to writeAs funny as I can.Oliver Wendell Holmes.

Excelsior

The shades of night were falling fast,As through an Alpine village passedA youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,A banner with the strange device,Excelsior!His brow was sad his eye beneathFlashed like a falchion from its sheath,And like a silver clarion rungThe accents of that unknown tongue,Excelsior!In happy homes he saw the lightOf household fires gleam warm and bright;Above, the spectral glaciers shone,And from his lips escaped a groan,Excelsior!"Try not the Pass!" the old man said;"Dark lowers the tempest overhead,The roaring torrent is deep and wide!"And loud the clarion voice replied,Excelsior!"O stay," the maiden said, "and restThy weary head upon this breast!"A tear stood in his bright blue eye,But still he answered, with a sigh,Excelsior!"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch!Beware the awful avalanche!"This was the peasant's last Good-night,A voice replied, far up the height,Excelsior!At break of day, as heavenwardThe pious monks of Saint BernardUttered the oft-repeated prayer,A voice cried through the startled air,Excelsior!A traveller, by the faithful hound,Half-buried in the snow was found,Still grasping in his hand of iceThat banner with the strange device,Excelsior!There in the twilight cold and gray,Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay,And from the sky, serene and far,A voice fell, like a falling star,Excelsior!Henry W. Longfellow.

The Bivouac of the Dead

The muffled drum's sad roll has beatThe soldier's last tattoo;No more on life's parade shall meetThat brave and fallen few.On fame's eternal camping groundTheir silent tents are spread,And Glory guards with solemn roundThe bivouac of the dead.No rumor of the foe's advanceNow swells upon the wind;No troubled thought at midnight hauntsOf loved ones left behind;No vision of the morrow's strifeThe warrior's dream alarms;No braying horn or screaming fifeAt 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 washedThe 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 delightThose breasts that nevermore shall feelThe rapture of the fight.Like a fierce northern hurricaneThat sweeps his great plateau,Flushed with the triumph yet to gain,Came down the serried foe,Who heard the thunder of the frayBreak o'er the field beneath,Knew well the watchword of that dayWas "Victory or Death!"Full many a mother's breath hath sweptO'er Angostura's plain,And long the pitying sky hath weptAbove its moulder'd slain.The raven's scream, or eagle's flight,Or shepherd's pensive lay,Alone now wake each solemn heightThat frowned o'er that dread fray.Sons of the "dark and bloody ground,"Ye must not slumber there,Where stranger steps and tongues resoundAlong the heedless air!Your own proud land's heroic soilShall 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 breastOn many a bloody shield.The sunshine of their native skySmiles sadly on them here,And kindred eyes and hearts watch byThe heroes' sepulcher.Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead!Dear as the blood ye gave;No impious footsteps here shall treadThe herbage of your grave;Nor shall your glory be forgotWhile fame her record keeps,Or honor points the hallowed spotWhere Valor proudly sleeps.Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stoneIn 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 lightThat gilds your glorious tomb.Theodore O'Hara.

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Poems Teachers Ask For, Book Two

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