Poems Teachers Ask For, Book Two

The Isle of Long Ago

Oh, a wonderful stream is the river of Time,As it runs through the realm of tears,With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme,And a boundless sweep and a surge sublime,As it blends with the ocean of Years.How the winters are drifting, like flakes of snow,And the summers, like buds between;And the year in the sheaf—so they come and they go,On the river's breast, with its ebb and flow,As it glides in the shadow and sheen.There's a magical isle up the river of Time,Where the softest of airs are playing;There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime,And a song as sweet as a vesper chime,And the Junes with the roses are staying.And the name of that isle is the Long Ago,And we bury our treasures there;There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow—There are heaps of dust—but we love them so!—There are trinkets and tresses of hair;There are fragments of song that nobody sings,And a part of an infant's prayer,There's a lute unswept, and a harp without strings;There are broken vows and pieces of rings,And the garments that she used to wear.There are hands that are waved, when the fairy shoreBy the mirage is lifted in air;And we sometimes hear, through the turbulent roar,Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before,When the wind down the river is fair.Oh, remembered for aye be the blessed Isle,All the day of our life till night—When the evening comes with its beautiful smile.And our eyes are closing to slumber awhile,May that "Greenwood" of Soul be in sight!Benjamin Franklin Taylor.

NOTE:  The last line of this poem needs explanation. "Greenwood" is the name of a cemetery in Brooklyn, N.Y. "Greenwood of Soul" means the soul's resting place, or heaven.

The Dying Newsboy

In an attic bare and cheerless, Jim the newsboy dying layOn 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 weptWith 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 careWhen 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.

Break, Break, Break

Break, break, break,On thy cold gray stones, O sea!And I would that my tongue could utterThe thoughts that arise in me.O well for the fisherman's boyThat he shouts with his sister at play!O well for the sailor ladThat he sings in his boat on the bay!And the stately ships go onTo their haven under the hill;But O for the touch of a vanished hand,And the sound of a voice that is still!Break, break, break,At the foot of thy crags, O sea!But the tender grace of a day that is deadWill never come back to me.Alfred Tennyson.

Don't Kill the Birds

Don't kill the birds, the pretty birds,That sing about your door,Soon as the joyous spring has come,And chilling storms are o'er.The little birds, how sweet they sing!Oh! let them joyous live;And never seek to take the lifeThat you can never give.Don't kill the birds, the pretty birds,That play among the trees;'Twould make the earth a cheerless place,Should we dispense with these.The little birds, how fond they play!Do not disturb their sport;But let them warble forth their songs,Till winter cuts them short.Don't kill the birds, the happy birds,That bless the fields and grove;So innocent to look upon,They claim our warmest love.The happy birds, the tuneful birds,How pleasant 'tis to see!No spot can be a cheerless placeWhere'er their presence be.D.C. Colesworthy.

Bill's in the Legislature

I've got a letter, parson, from my son away out West,An' my old heart is heavy as an anvil in my breast,To think the boy whose future I had once so nicely plannedShould wander from the right and come to such a bitter end.I told him when he left us, only three short years ago,He'd find himself a-plowing in a mighty crooked row;He'd miss his father's counsel and his mother's prayers, too,But he said the farm was hateful, an' he guessed he'd have to go.I know there's big temptations for a youngster in the West,But I believed our Billy had the courage to resist;An' when he left I warned him of the ever waitin' snaresThat lie like hidden serpents in life's pathway everywheres.But Bill, he promised faithful to be careful, an' allowedThat he'd build a reputation that'd make us mighty proud.But it seems as how my counsel sort o' faded from his mind,And now he's got in trouble of the very worstest kind!His letters came so seldom that I somehow sort o' knowedThat Billy was a-trampin' of a mighty rocky road;But never once imagined he would bow my head in shame,And in the dust would woller his old daddy's honored name.He writes from out in Denver, an' the story's mighty short—I jess can't tell his mother!—It'll crush her poor old heart!An' so I reckoned, parson, you might break the news to her—Bill's in the Legislature but he doesn't say what fur!

The Bridge Builder

An old man going a lone highway,Came, at the evening cold and gray,To a chasm vast and deep and wide,The old man crossed in the twilight dim,The sullen stream had no fear for him;But he turned when safe on the other sideAnd built a bridge to span the tide."Old man," said a fellow pilgrim near,"You are wasting your strength with building here;Your journey will end with the ending day,Yon never again will pass this way;You've crossed the chasm, deep and wide,Why build this bridge at evening tide?"The builder lifted his old gray head;"Good friend, in the path I have come," he said,"There followed after me to-dayA youth whose feet must pass this way.This chasm that has been as naught to meTo that fair-haired youth may a pitfall be;He, too, must cross in the twilight dim;Good friend, I am building this bridge for him!"Anonymous.

Song of Marion's Men

Our band is few, but true and tried,Our leader frank and bold;The British soldier tremblesWhen Marion's name is told.Our fortress is the good green wood,Our tent the cypress tree;We know the forest round usAs seamen know the sea;We know its walls of thorny vines,Its glades of reedy grass,Its safe and silent islandsWithin the dark morass.Woe to the English soldieryThat little dread us near!On them shall light at midnightA strange and sudden fear:When, waking to their tents on fire,They grasp their arms in vain,And they who stand to face usAre beat to earth again;And they who fly in terror deemA mighty host behind,And hear the tramp of thousandsUpon the hollow wind.Then sweet the hour that brings releaseFrom danger and from toil;We talk the battle overAnd share the battle's spoil.The woodland rings with laugh and shoutAs if a hunt were up,And woodland flowers are gatheredTo crown the soldier's cup.With merry songs we mock the windThat in the pine-top grieves,And slumber long and sweetlyOn beds of oaken leaves.Well knows the fair and friendly moonThe band that Marion leads—The glitter of their rifles,The scampering of their steeds.'Tis life our fiery barbs to guideAcross the moonlight plains;'Tis life to feel the night windThat lifts their tossing manes.A moment in the British camp—A moment—and away—Back to the pathless forestBefore 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 bandWith 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 moreTill we have driven the BritonForever from our shore.William Cullen Bryant.

The Minstrel-Boy

The Minstrel-Boy to the war is gone,In the ranks of death you'll find him;His father's sword he has girded on,And his wild harp slung behind him.—"Land of song!" said the warrior-bard,"Though all the world betrays thee,One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,One faithful harp shall praise thee!"The Minstrel fell!—but the foeman's chainCould not bring his proud soul under;The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,For he tore its chords asunder;And said, "No chains shall sully thee,Thou soul of love and bravery!Thy songs were made for the pure and free,They shall never sound in slavery!"Thomas Moore.

Our Homestead

Our old brown homestead reared its walls,From the wayside dust aloof,Where the apple-boughs could almost castTheir fruitage on its roof:And the cherry-tree so near it grew,That when awake I've lain,In the lonesome nights, I've heard the limbs,As they creaked against the pane:And those orchard trees, O those orchard trees!I've seen my little brothers rockedIn their tops by the summer breeze.The sweet-brier under the window-sill,Which the early birds made glad,And the damask rose by the garden fenceWere all the flowers we had.I've looked at many a flower since then,Exotics rich and rare,That to other eyes were lovelier,But not to me so fair;O those roses bright, O those roses bright!I have twined them with my sister's locks,That are hid in the dust from sight!We had a well, a deep old well,Where the spring was never dry,And the cool drops down from the mossy stonesWere falling constantly:And there never was water half so sweetAs that in my little cup,Drawn up to the curb by the rude old sweep,Which my father's hand set up;And that deep old well, O that deep old well!I remember yet the splashing soundOf the bucket as it fell.Our homestead had an ample hearth,Where at night we loved to meet;There my mother's voice was always kind,And her smile was always sweet;And there I've sat on my father's knee,And watched his thoughtful brow,With my childish hand in his raven hair,—That hair is silver now!But that broad hearth's light, O that broad hearth's light!And my father's look, and my mother's smile,—They are in my heart to-night.Phoebe Gary.

The Ballad of the Tempest

We were crowded in the cabin,Not a soul would dare to sleep,—It was midnight on the waters,And a storm was on the deep.'Tis a fearful thing in winterTo be shattered by the blast,And to hear the rattling trumpetThunder, "Cut away the mast!"So we shuddered there in silence,—For the stoutest held his breath,While the hungry sea was roaringAnd the breakers talked with Death.As thus we sat in darkness,Each one busy with his prayers,"We are lost!" the captain shouted,As he staggered down the stairs.But his little daughter whispered,As she took his icy hand,"Isn't God upon the ocean,Just the same as on the land?"Then we kissed the little maiden,And we spoke in better cheer,And we anchored safe in harbor,When the morn was shining clear.James T. Fields.

Santa Filomena

Whene'er a noble deed is wrought,Whene'er is spoken a noble thought,Our hearts, in glad surprise,To higher levels rise.The tidal wave of deeper soulsInto our inmost being rollsAnd lifts us unawaresOut of all meaner cares.Honor to those whose words or deedsThus help us in our daily needs,And by their overflow,Raise us from what is low!Thus thought I, as by night I readOf the great army of the dead,The trenches cold and damp,The starved and frozen camp,—The wounded from the battle-plain,In dreary hospitals of pain,The cheerless corridors,The cold and stony floors.Lo! in that house of miseryA lady with a lamp I seePass through the glimmering gloom,And flit from room to room.And slow, as in a dream of bliss,The speechless sufferer turns to kissHer shadow, as it fallsUpon the darkening walls.As if a door in heaven should beOpened and then closed suddenly,The vision came and went,The light shone and was spent.On England's annals, through the longHereafter of her speech and song,That light its rays shall castFrom portals of the past.A lady with a lamp shall standIn the great history of the landA noble type of good,Heroic Womanhood.Nor even shall be wanting hereThe palm, the lily, and the spear,The symbols that of yoreSaint Filomena bore.Henry W. Longfellow.

The Knight's Toast

The feast is o'er! Now brimming wineIn lordly cup is seen to shineBefore each eager guest;And silence fills the crowded hall,As deep as when the herald's callThrills 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 nameOf 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 cryTill 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 lastWhen 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 wouldNot breathe her name in careless mood,Thus lightly to another;Then bent his noble head, as thoughTo give that word the reverence due,And gently said: "My Mother!"Sir Walter Scott.

The Old Man Dreams

O for one hour of youthful joy!Give back my twentieth spring!I'd rather laugh a bright-haired boyThan reign a gray-beard king;Off with the spoils of wrinkled age!Away with learning's crown!Tear out life's wisdom-written page,And dash its trophies down!One moment let my life-blood streamFrom boyhood's fount of flame!Give me one giddy, reeling dreamOf life all love and fame!My listening angel heard the prayer,And, calmly smiling, said,"If I but touch thy silvered hair,Thy hasty wish hath sped."But is there nothing in thy trackTo bid thee fondly stay,While the swift seasons hurry backTo find the wished-for day?"Ah! truest soul of womankind!Without thee what were life?One bliss I cannot leave behind:I'll take—my—precious—wife!The angel took a sapphire penAnd wrote in rainbow dew,"The man would be a boy again,And be a husband, too!""And is there nothing yet unsaidBefore the change appears?Remember, all their gifts have fledWith those dissolving years!""Why, yes; for memory would recallMy fond paternal joys;I could not bear to leave them all:I'll take—my—girl—and—boys!"The smiling angel dropped his pen—"Why, this will never do;The man would be a boy again,And be a father too!"And so I laughed—my laughter wokeThe household with its noise—And wrote my dream, when morning broke,To please the gray-haired boys.Oliver Wendell Holmes.

Washington's Birthday

The bells of Mount Vernon are ringing to-day,And what say their melodious numbersTo the flag blooming air? List, what do they say?"The fame of the hero ne'er slumbers!"The world's monument stands the Potomac beside,And what says the shaft to the river?"When the hero has lived for his country, and died,Death crowns him a hero forever."The bards crown the heroes and children rehearseThe songs that give heroes to story,And what say the bards to the children? "No verseCan yet measure Washington's glory."For Freedom outlives the old crowns of the earth,And Freedom shall triumph forever,And Time must long wait the true song of his birthWho sleeps by the beautiful river."Hezekiah Butterworth.

April! April! Are You Here?

April! April! are you here?Oh, how fresh the wind is blowing!See! the sky is bright and clear,Oh, how green the grass is growing!April! April! are you here?April! April! is it you?See how fair the flowers are springing!Sun is warm and brooks are clear,Oh, how glad the birds are singing!April! April! is it you?April! April! you are here!Though your smiling turn to weeping,Though your skies grow cold and drear,Though your gentle winds are sleeping,April! April! you are here!Dora Read Goodale.

A Laughing Chorus

Oh, such a commotion under the groundWhen March called, "Ho, there! ho!"Such spreading of rootlets far and wide,Such whispering to and fro;And, "Are you ready?" the Snowdrop asked,"'Tis time to start, you know.""Almost, my dear," the Scilla replied;"I'll follow as soon as you go."Then, "Ha! ha! ha!" a chorus cameOf laughter soft and low,From the millions of flowers under the ground,Yes—millions—beginning to grow.O, the pretty brave things! through the coldest days,Imprisoned in walls of brown,They never lost heart though the blast shrieked loud,And the sleet and the hail came down,But patiently each wrought her beautiful dress,Or fashioned her beautiful crown;And now they are coming to brighten the world,Still shadowed by Winter's frown;And well may they cheerily laugh, "Ha! ha!"In a chorus soft and low,The millions of flowers hid under the groundYes—millions—beginning to grow.

The Courtin'

God makes sech nights, all white an' stillFur 'z you can look or listen,Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill,All silence an' all glisten.Zekle crep' up quite unbeknownAn' peeked in thru the winder.An' there sot Huldy all alone,'ith no one nigh to hender.A fireplace filled the room's one sideWith 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 outTowards the pootiest, bless her,An' leetle flames danced all aboutThe chiny on the dresser.Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung,An' in amongst 'em rustedThe ole queen's-arm thet gran'ther YoungFetched back from Concord busted.The very room, coz she was in,Seemed warm from floor to ceilin',An' she looked full ez rosy aginEz the apples she was peelin'.'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to lookOn sech a blessed cretur,A dogrose blushin' to a brookAin't modester nor sweeter.He was six foot o' man, A 1,Clear grit an' human natur';None couldn't quicker pitch a tonNor 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 runAll crinkly like curled maple,The side she breshed felt full o' sunEz a south slope in Ap'il.She thought no v'ice hed sech a swingEz 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'-bunnitFelt somehow thru its crown a pairO' 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 flewLike 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 jerkEz 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'esAgin 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 noComes 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 wustHe 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 lipsAn' teary roun' the lashes.For she was jes' the quiet kindWhose naturs never vary,Like streams that keep a summer mindSnowhid in Jenooary.The blood clost roun' her heart felt gluedToo tight for all expressin',Tell mother see how metters stood,An' gin 'em both her blessin'.Then her red come back like the tideDown to the Bay o' Fundy.An' all I know is they was criedIn meetin' come nex' Sunday.James Russell Lowell.

An Old Man's Dreams

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 wayA noisy little brook made pleasantMusic on the summer air,And farther on, the sweet, faint soundOf Whippoorwill Falls rose on the air, and fellLike some sweet chant at vespers.The air is heavyWith the scent of mignonette and rose,And from the beds of flowers the tallWhite lilies point like angel fingers upward,Casting on the air an incense sweet,That brings to mind the old, old storyOf the alabaster box that loving MaryBroke upon the Master's feet.Upon his vine-wreathed porchAn old white-headed man sits dreamingHappy, happy dreams of days that are no more;And listening to the quaint old songWith 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 theSummer air, sweet, dreamy thoughtsOf his "lost youth" come crowding thickly up;And, for a while, he seems a boy again.With feet all bareHe wades the rippling brook, and with a boyish shoutGathers the violets blue, and nodding ferns,That wave a welcome from the other side.With those he wreathesThe sunny head of little Nell, a neighbor's child,Companion of his sorrows and his joys.Sweet, dainty Nell, whose baby lifeSeemed 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 murmursEver 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 ageHas touched the once-brown hair,And left it white as are the chaliced lilies.Children, whose rosy lips once claimedA father's blessing and a mother's love,Have grown to man's estate, save twoWhom God called early home to waitFor them in heaven.And then the old man thinksHow on a night like this, when faintAnd sweet as half-remembered dreamsOld Whippoorwill Falls did murmur softIts evening psalms, when fragrant liliesPointed up the way her Christ had gone,God called the wife and mother home,And bade him wait.Oh! why is it so hard forMan 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 sheavesOf 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 hearThe sweet old song just dyingOn the pulsing evening air:"When other helpers fail,And comforts flee,Lord of the helpless,Oh, abide with me!"Eliza M. Sherman.