Poems Teachers Ask For, Book Two

Children

Come to me, O ye children!For I hear you at your play,And the questions that perplexed meHave vanished quite away.Ye open the eastern windows,That look towards the sun,Where thoughts are singing swallowsAnd the brooks of morning run.In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine,In your thoughts the brooklet's flowBut in mine is the wind of AutumnAnd the first fall of the snow.Ah! what would the world be to usIf the children were no more?We should dread the desert behind usWorse than the dark before.What the leaves are to the forest,With light and air for food,Ere their sweet and tender juicesHave been hardened into wood,—That to the world are children;Through them it feels the glowOf a brighter and sunnier climateThan reaches the trunks below.Come to me, O ye children!And whisper in my earWhat the birds and the winds are singingIn your sunny atmosphere.For what are all our contrivings,And the wisdom of our books,When compared with your caresses,And the gladness of your looks?Ye are better than all the balladsThat ever were sung or said;For ye are living poems,And all the rest are dead.Henry W. Longfellow.

The Eve of Waterloo

(The battle of Waterloo occurred June 18, 1815)There was a sound of revelry by night,And Belgium's capital had gathered thenHer beauty and her chivalry, and brightThe lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men.A thousand hearts beat happily; and whenMusic 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 meetTo chase the glowing hours with flying feet—But, hark!—that heavy sound breaks in once more,As if the clouds its echo would repeatAnd 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 agoBlush'd at the praise of their own loveliness;And there were sudden partings, such as pressThe life from out young hearts, and choking sighsWhich ne'er might be repeated: who could guessIf 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 carWent 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 drumRoused 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 dayBattle's magnificently stern array!The thunder clouds close o'er it, which when rentThe 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.

The Land Where Hate Should Die

This is the land where hate should die—No feuds of faith, no spleen of race,No darkly brooding fear should tryBeneath our flag to find a place.Lo! every people here has sentIts sons to answer freedom's call,Their lifeblood is the strong cementThat builds and binds the nation's wall.This is the land where hate should die—Though dear to me my faith and shrine,I serve my country when IRespect the creeds that are not mine.He little loves his land who'd castUpon his neighbor's word a doubt,Or cite the wrongs of ages pastFrom present rights to bar him out.This is the land where hate should die—This is the land where strife should cease,Where foul, suspicious fear should flyBefore the light of love and peace.Then let us purge from poisoned thoughtThat service to the state we give,And so be worthy as we oughtOf this great land in which we live.Denis A. McCarthy.

Trouble In the "Amen Corner"

'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 wordsOf 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 daySeven 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 thingFer 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 lowBut the angels understood him, 'twas all he cared to know.Said York: "We're here, dear brother, with the vestry's approbationTo 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 chorusThat 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.

Duty

The sweetest lives are those to duty wed,Whose deeds, both great and small,Are close knit strands of an unbroken thread,Whose love ennobles all.The world may sound no trumpet, ring no bells;The book of life, the shining record tells.Thy love shall chant its own beatitudes,After its own life-working. A child's kissSet on thy singing lips shall make thee glad;A poor man served by thee shall make thee rich;A sick man helped by thee shall make thee strong;Thou shalt be served thyself by every senseOf service thou renderest.Robert Browning.

The Last Leaf

I saw him once before,As he passed by the door,And againThe pavement stones resound,As he totters o'er the groundWith his cane.They say that in his prime,Ere the pruning-knife of TimeCut him down,Not a better man was foundBy the Crier on his roundThrough the town.But now he walks the streets,And he looks at all he meetsSad and wan,And he shakes his feeble head,That it seems as if he said"They are gone."The mossy marbles restOn the lips that he has prestIn their bloom,And the names he loved to hearHave been carved for many a yearOn the tomb.My grandmamma has said,—Poor old lady, she is deadLong ago,—That he had a Roman nose,And his cheek was like a roseIn the snow.But now his nose is thin,And it rests upon his chin.Like a staff,And a crook is in his back,And a melancholy crackIn his laugh.I know it is a sinFor me to sit and grinAt him here;But the old three-cornered hat,And the breeches, and all that,Are so queer!And if I should live to beThe last leaf upon the treeIn the spring,Let them smile, as I do now,At the old forsaken boughWhere I cling.Oliver Wendell Holmes.

Old Flag Forever

She's up there—Old Glory—where lightnings are sped;She dazzles the nations with ripples of red;And she'll wave for us living, or droop o'er us dead,—The flag of our country forever!She's up there—Old Glory—how bright the stars stream!And the stripes like red signals of liberty gleam!And we dare for her, living, or dream the last dream,'Neath the flag of our country forever!She's up there—Old Glory—no tyrant-dealt scars,No blur on her brightness, no stain on her stars!The brave blood of heroes hath crimsoned her bars.She's the flag of our country forever!Frank L. Stanton.

The Death of the Flowers

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear.Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the withered leaves lie dead;They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread.The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrub the jay,And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day.Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stoodIn brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?Alas! they all are in their graves; the gentle race of flowersAre lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours.The rain is falling where they lie; but the cold November rainCalls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago,And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow;But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,And the yellow sun-flower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood,Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men,And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade and glen.And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will come,To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home,When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,The south wind searches for the flowers, whose fragrance late he bore,And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died,The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side,In the cold, moist earth we laid her when the forest cast the leaf,And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief;Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours,So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.W.C. Bryant.

The Heritage

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 earnA 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 pantsOf 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 partIn 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 sureTo 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 toilThat 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 shineAnd 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 vastBy record of a well-filled past;A heritage, it seems to me,Well worth a life to hold in fee.James Russell Lowell.

The Ballad of East and West

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.

Annabel Lee

It was many and many a year ago,In a kingdom by the sea,That a maiden there lived whom you may knowBy the name of Annabel Lee;And this maiden she lived with no other thoughtThan to love and be loved by me.I was a child, and she was a child,In this kingdom by the sea,But we loved with a love that was more than love,I and my Annabel Lee;With a love that the winged seraphs of heavenCoveted her and me.And this was the reason that, long ago,In this kingdom by the sea,A wind blew out of a cloud, chillingMy beautiful Annabel Lee;So that her highborn kinsmen cameAnd bore her away from me,To shut her up in a sepulchreIn this kingdom by the sea.The angels, not half so happy in heaven,Went envying her and me;Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,In this kingdom by the sea)That the wind came out of the cloud by night,Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.But our love it was stronger by far than the loveOf those who were older than we,Of many far wiser than we;And neither the angels in heaven above,Nor the demons down under the sea,Can ever dissever my soul from the soulOf the beautiful Annabel Lee:For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreamsOf the beautiful Annabel Lee;And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyesOf the beautiful Annabel Lee:And so all the night-tide, I lie down by the sideOf my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,In her sepulchre there by the sea,In her tomb by the sounding sea.Edgar Allan Poe.

April Showers

There fell an April shower, one night:Next morning, in the garden-bed,The crocuses stood straight and gold:"And they have come," the children said.There fell an April shower, one night:Next morning, thro' the woodland spreadThe Mayflowers, pink and sweet as youth:"And they are come," the children said.There fell an April shower, one night:Next morning, sweetly, overhead,The blue-birds sung, the blue-birds sung:"And they have come," the children said.Mary E. Wilkins.

The Voice of Spring

I come, I come! ye have called me long;I come o'er the mountains, with light and song;Ye may trace my step o'er the waking earthBy the winds which tell of the violet's birth,By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass,By the green leaves opening as I pass.I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut flowersBy thousands have burst from the forest bowers,And the ancient graves and the fallen fanesAre veiled with wreaths as Italian plains;But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom,To speak of the ruin or the tomb!I have looked o'er the hills of the stormy North,And the larch has hung all his tassels forth;The fisher is out on the sunny sea,And the reindeer bounds o'er the pastures free,And the pine has a fringe of softer green,And the moss looks bright, where my step has been.I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh,And called out each voice of the deep blue sky,From the night-bird's lay through the starry time,In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes,When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks.From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain;They are sweeping on to the silvery main,They are flashing down from the mountain brows,They are flinging spray o'er the forest boughs,They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves,And the earth resounds with the joy of waves.Felicia D. Hemans.

The Boys

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 lookMade 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.