Poems Teachers Ask For, Book Two

The Flower of Liberty

What flower is this that greets the morn,Its hues from Heaven so freshly born?With burning star and flaming bandIt kindles all the sunset land:O tell us what its name may be,—Is this the Flower of Liberty?It is the banner of the free,The starry Flower of Liberty!In savage Nature's far abodeIts tender seed our fathers sowed;The storm-winds rocked its swelling bud,Its opening leaves were streaked with blood,Till lo! earth's tyrants shook to seeThe full-blown Flower of Liberty!Then hail the banner of the free,The starry Flower of Liberty!Behold its streaming rays unite,One mingling flood of braided light—The red that fires the Southern rose,With spotless white from Northern snows,And, spangled o'er its azure, seeThe sister Stars of Liberty!Then hail the banner of the free,The starry Flower of Liberty!The blades of heroes fence it round,Where'er it springs is holy ground;From tower and dome its glories spread;It waves where lonely sentries tread;It makes the land as ocean free,And plants an empire on the sea!Then hail the banner of the free,The starry Flower of Liberty!Thy sacred leaves, fair Freedom's flower,Shall ever float on dome and tower,To all their heavenly colors true,In blackening frost or crimson dew,—And God love us as we love thee,Thrice holy Flower of Liberty!Then hail the banner of the free,The starry Flower of Liberty!Oliver Wendell Holmes.

The Lamb

Little lamb, who made thee?Dost thou know who made thee,Gave thee life, and made thee feedBy the stream and o'er the mead?Gave thee clothing of delight,—Softest clothing, woolly, bright?Gave thee such a tender voice,Making all the vales rejoice?Little lamb, who made thee?Dost thou know who made thee?Little lamb, I'll tell thee;Little lamb, I'll tell thee;He is called by thy name,For he calls himself a lamb.He is meek and He is mild;He became a little child:I a child, and thou a lamb,We are called by His name.Little lamb, God bless thee!Little lamb, God bless thee!William Blake.

The Roll Call

"Corporal Green!" the orderly cried;"Here!" was the answer, loud and clear,From the lips of the soldier standing near,And "Here" was the answer the next replied."Cyrus Drew!"—then a silence fell—This time no answer followed the call,Only the rear man had seen him fall,Killed or wounded he could not tell.There they stood in the failing light,These men of battle, with grave dark looks,As plain to be read as open books,While slowly gathered the shades of night.The fern on the hillside was splashed with blood,And down in the corn, where the poppies grewWere redder stains than the poppies knewAnd crimson-dyed was the river's flood."Herbert Kline!" At the call there cameTwo stalwart soldiers into the line,Bearing between them Herbert Kline,Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name."Ezra Kerr!"—and a voice said "Here!""Hiram Kerr!"—but no man replied.They were brothers, these two; the sad winds sighed,And a shudder crept through the cornfield near."Ephraim Deane!" then a soldier spoke;"Deane carried our regiment's colors," he said;"Where our ensign was shot, I left him dead,Just after the enemy wavered and broke."Close by the roadside his body lies;I paused a moment and gave him a drink,He murmured his mother's name I think,And Death came with it and closed his eyes."'Twas a victory; yes, but it cost us dear—For that company's roll when called that night,Of a hundred men who went into the fight,Numbered but twenty that answered "Here!"N.G. Shepherd.

A Prayer for a Little Home

God send us a little homeTo come back to when we roam—Low walls and fluted tiles,Wide windows, a view for miles;Red firelight and deep chairs;Small white beds upstairs;Great talk in little nooks;Dim colors, rows of books;One picture on each wall;Not many things at all.God send us a little ground—Tall trees standing round,Homely flowers in brown sod,Overhead, Thy stars, O God!God bless, when winds blow,Our home and all we know.London "Spectator."

I Have Drank My Last Glass

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-nightWith no fumes of liquor their spirits to blight;And, with tears in my eyes, I will beg my poor wifeTo 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 nowThat 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 skyBidding 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 waitOn 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 creptAway 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, boysI have drank my last glass.My darling child saved me! Her faith and her loveAre 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 GodNo 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.

Highland Mary

Ye banks, and braes, and streams aroundThe castle o' Montgomery,Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,Your waters never drumlie!There simmer first unfauld her robes,And there the langest tarry;For there I took the last fareweelO' my sweet Highland Mary.How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,How rich the hawthorn's blossom,As, underneath their fragrant shade,I clasp'd her to my bosom!The golden hours, on angel wings,Flew o'er me and my dearie;For dear to me as light and lifeWas my sweet Highland Mary!Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace,Our parting was fu' tender;And, pledging aft to meet again,We tore oursels asunder;But, oh, fell death's untimely frost,That nipp'd my flower sae early!Now green's the sod and cauld's the clay,That wraps my Highland Mary!Oh, pale, pale now, those rosy lips,I aft ha'e kiss'd, sae fondly!And closed for aye the sparkling glanceThat dwalt on me sae kindly!And mouldering now in silent dust,That heart that lo'ed me dearly;But still within my bosom's coreShall live my Highland Mary!Robert Burns.

A Night with a Wolf

Little one, come to my knee!Hark, how the rain is pouringOver the roof, in the pitch-black night,And the wind in the woods a-roaring!Hush, my darling, and listen,Then pay for the story with kisses;Father was lost in the pitch-black night,In just such a storm as this is!High up on the lonely mountains,Where the wild men watched and waitedWolves in the forest, and bears in the bush,And I on my path belated.The rain and the night togetherCame down, and the wind came after,Bending the props of the pine-tree roof,And snapping many a rafter.I crept along in the darkness,Stunned, and bruised, and blinded,—Crept to a fir with thick-set boughs,And a sheltering rock behind it.There, from the blowing and rainingCrouching, I sought to hide me:Something rustled, two green eyes shone,And a wolf lay down beside me.Little one, be not frightened;I and the wolf together,Side by side, through the long, long nightHid from the awful weather.His wet fur pressed against me;Each of us warmed the other;Each of us felt, in the stormy dark,That beast and man was brother.And when the falling forestNo longer crashed in warning,Each of us went from our hiding-placeForth in the wild, wet morning.Darling, kiss me in payment!Hark, how the wind is roaring;Father's house is a better placeWhen the stormy rain is pouring!Bayard Taylor.

She Was a Phantom of Delight

She was a Phantom of delightWhen first she gleamed upon my sight;A lovely Apparition sentTo be a moment's ornament;Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;But all things else about her drawnFrom May-time and the cheerful Dawn;A dancing Shape, an Image gay,To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.I saw her upon nearer view,A Spirit, yet a Woman too!Her household motions light and free,And steps of virgin-liberty;A countenance in which did meetSweet records, promises as sweet;A Creature not too bright or goodFor human nature's daily food;For transient sorrows, simple wiles,Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles.And now I see with eye sereneThe very pulse of the machine;A Being breathing thoughtful breath,A Traveler between life and death;The reason firm, the temperate will,Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;A perfect Woman, nobly planned,To warn, to comfort, and command;And yet a Spirit still, and brightWith something of angelic light.William Wordsworth.

The Rhodora

(On Being Asked Whence Is The Flower)In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,To please the desert and the sluggish brook.The purple petals, fallen in the pool,Made the black water with their beauty gay;Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,And court the flower that cheapens his array.Rhodora! if the sages ask thee whyThis charm is wasted on the earth and sky,Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing,Then Beauty is its own excuse for being:Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!I never thought to ask, I never knew:But, in my simple ignorance, supposeThe self-same Power that brought me there brought you.Ralph Waldo Emerson.

There Was a Boy

There was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffsAnd islands of Winander!—many a time,At evening, when the earliest stars beganTo move along the edges of the hills,Rising or setting, would he stand alone,Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake;And there, with fingers interwoven, both handsPressed closely palm to palm and to his mouthUplifted, he, as through an instrument,Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls,That they might answer him,—And they would shoutAcross the watery vale, and shout again,Responsive to his call,—with quivering peals,And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loudRedoubled and redoubled; concourse wildOf jocund din! and, when there came a pauseOf silence such as baffled his best skill,Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hungListening, a gentle shock of mild surpriseHas carried far into his heart the voiceOf mountain-torrents; or the visible sceneWould enter unawares into his mindWith all its solemn imagery, its rocks,Its woods, and that uncertain heaven receivedInto the bosom of the steady lake.This boy was taken from his mates, and diedIn childhood, ere he was full twelve years old.Pre-eminent in beauty is the valeWhere he was born and bred: the church-yard hangsUpon a slope above the village-school;And through that church-yard when my way has ledOn Summer-evenings, I believe, that thereA long half-hour together I have stoodMute—looking at the grave in which he lies!William Wordsworth.

The Quangle Wangle's Hat

On the top of the Crumpetty TreeThe 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 faceOf the Quangle Wangle Quee.The Quangle Wangle saidTo himself on the Crumpetty Tree,"Jam, and jelly, and breadAre the best of food for me!But the longer I live on this Crumpetty TreeThe plainer than ever it seems to meThat very few people come this wayAnd that life on the whole is far from gay!"Said the Quangle Wangle Quee.But there came to the Crumpetty TreeMr. and Mrs. Canary;And they said, "Did ever you seeAny 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 nestOf whatever material suits you best,Mr. Quangle Wangle Quee!"And besides, to the Crumpetty TreeCame 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 begWe 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 HatOf the Quangle Wangle Quee.And the Quangle Wangle saidTo himself on the Crumpetty Tree,"When all these creatures moveWhat a wonderful noise there'll be!"And at night by the light of the Mulberry MoonThey 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.

The Singing Leaves

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 hairDim 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 crimsonWith 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."IIHe mounted and rode three days and nightsTill 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-topsA music of seas far away.Only the pattering aspenMade a sound of growing rain,That fell ever faster and faster.Then faltered to silence again."Oh, where shall I find a little foot-pageThat would win both hose and shoon,And will bring to me the Singing LeavesIf they grow under the moon?"Then lightly turned him Walter the page,By the stirrup as he ran:"Now pledge you me the truesome wordOf a king and gentleman,"That you will give me the first, first thingYou 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 breastA 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 heartA packet small and thin,"Now give you this to the Princess Anne,The Singing Leaves are therein."IIIAs the King rode in at his castle-gate,A maiden to meet him ran,And "Welcome, father!" she laughed and criedTogether, the Princess Anne."Lo, here the Singing Leaves," quoth he,"And woe, but they cost me dear!"She took the packet, and the smileDeepened down beneath the tear.It deepened down till it reached her heart,And then gushed up again,And lighted her tears as the sudden sunTransfigures the summer rain.And the first Leaf, when it was opened,Sang: "I am Walter the page,And the songs I sing 'neath thy windowAre my only heritage."And the second Leaf sang: "But in the landThat is neither on earth nor sea,My lute and I are lords of moreThan 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 flushedWith 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 landsHe held of his lute in fee.James Russell Lowell.

Awakening

Never yet was a springtime,Late though lingered the snow,That the sap stirred not at the whisperOf the south wind, sweet and low;Never yet was a springtimeWhen the buds forgot to blow.Ever the wings of the summerAre folded under the mold;Life that has known no dyingIs Love's to have and to hold,Till sudden, the burgeoning Easter!The song! the green and the gold!Margaret E. Sangster.

Wolsey's Farewell to His Greatness

(From "King Henry VIII")Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness!This is the state of man: to-day he puts forthThe tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms,And bears his blushing honours thick upon him:The third day comes a frost, a killing frost,And,—when he thinks, good easy man, full surelyHis greatness is a-ripening,—nips his root,And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,This many summers in a sea of glory,But far beyond my depth: my high-blown prideAt length broke under me, and now has left meWeary, and old with service, to the mercyOf a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye:I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretchedIs that poor man that hangs on princes' favours!There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,More pangs and fears than wars or women have;And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,Never to hope again.William Shakespeare.

The Newsboy

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 kittenAnd put for home, right strong.And Tom's my dog; he an' TibbyHain't never quarreled yet—They sleep in my bed in winterAn' 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 tigerIf 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 nightSaid newsboys could be PresidentsIf only they acted right);So, if I was President, Mister,The very first thing I'd do,I'd buy poor Tom an' TibbyA 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.

Parting of Marmion and Douglas

Not far advanced was morning day,When Marmion did his troop arrayTo 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 stillBe open, at my sovereign's will,To each one whom he lists, howe'erUnmeet 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 graspThe 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 sparedTo 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 peerTo any lord in Scotland here,Lowland or Highland, far or near,Lord Angus, thou hast lied!"—On the Earl's cheek the flush of rageO'ercame the ashen hue of age:Fierce he broke forth,—"And dar'st thou thenTo 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 skimAlong 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.

The Engineer's Story

Han'som, stranger? Yes, she's purty an' ez peart ez she kin be.Clever? W'y! she ain't no chicken, but she's good enough for me.What's her name? 'Tis kind o' common, yit I ain't ashamed to tell,She's ole "Fiddler" Filkin's daughter, an' her dad he calls her "Nell."I wuz drivin' on the "Central" jist about a year agoOn the run from Winnemucca up to Reno in Washoe.There's no end o' skeery places. 'Taint a road fur one who dreams,With its curves an' awful tres'les over rocks an' mountain streams.'Twuz an afternoon in August, we hed got behind an hour,An' wuz tearin' up the mountain like a summer thunder-shower,Round the bends an' by the ledges, 'bout ez fast ez we could go,With the mountain peaks above us an' the river down below.Ez we come nigh to a tres'le 'crost a holler, deep an' wild,Suddenly I saw a baby, 'twuz the station-keeper's child,Toddlin' right along the timbers with a bold an' fearless tread,Right afore the locomotive, not a hundred rods ahead.I jist jumped an' grabbed the throttle an' I fa'rly held my breath,Fur I felt I couldn't stop her till the child wuz crushed to death,When a woman sprang afore me, like a sudden streak o' light.Caught the boy, an' 'twixt the timbers in a second sank from sight.I jist whis'l'd all the brakes on. An' we worked with might an' main,Till the fire flew from the drivers, but we couldn't stop the train,An' it rumbled on above her. How she screamed ez we rolled by,An' the river roared below us—I shall hear her till I die!Then we stopt; the sun wuz shinin'; I ran back along the ridgeAn' I found her—dead? No! livin'! She wuz hangin' to the bridgeWhere she dropt down thro' the crossties, with one arm about a sill,An' the other round the baby, who wuz yellin' fur to kill!So we saved 'em. She wuz gritty. She's ez peart ez she kin be—Now we're married—she's no chicken, but she's good enough for me.An' ef eny ask who owns her, w'y, I ain't ashamed to tell—She's my wife. Ther' ain't none better than ole Filkin's daughter "Nell."Eugene J. Hall.