Graded Memory Selections

POLONIUS’ ADVICE TO LAERTES

Give thy thoughts no tongue,Nor any unproportioned thought his act.Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar.The friends thou hast and their adoption tried,Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel;But do not dull thy palm with entertainmentOf each new-hatched, unfledged comrade.BewareOf entrance to a quarrel; but being in,Bear it that the opposer may beware of thee.Give every man thine ear; but few thine voice;Take each man’s censure; but reserve thy judgment.Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,But not expressed in fancy; rich, not gaudy;For the apparel oft proclaims the man;And they in France, of the best rank and station,Are of a most select and generous chief in that.Neither a borrower nor a lender be;For a loan oft loses both itself and friend.And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.This above all—to thine own self be true,And it must follow, as the night the day,Thou can’st not then be false to any man.—Shakespeare.

THANATOPSIS

To him who in the love of nature holdsCommunion with her visible forms, she speaksA various language; for his gayer hoursShe has a voice of gladness, and a smileAnd eloquence of beauty, and she glidesInto his darker musings, with a mildAnd healing sympathy, that steals awayTheir sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughtsOf the last bitter hour come like a blightOver thy spirit, and sad imagesOf the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart—Go forth, under the open sky, and listTo Nature’s teachings, while from all around—Earth and her waters, and the depths of air—Comes a still voice—Yet a few days, and theeThe all-beholding sun shall see no moreIn all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall existThy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claimThy growth, to be resolved to earth again,And, lost each human trace, surrendering upThine individual being shalt thou goTo mix forever with the elements.To be a brother to the insensible rockAnd to the sluggish clod, which the rude swainTurns with his share, and treads upon. The oakShall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.Yet not to thine eternal resting-placeShalt thou retire alone—nor couldst thou wishCouch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie downWith patriarchs of the infant world—with kings,The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good,Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,All in one mighty sepulchre. The hillsBook-ribbed and ancient as the sun—the valesStretching in pensive quietness between;The venerable woods—rivers that moveIn majesty, and the complaining brooksThat make the meadows green; and, poured round all,Old ocean’s gray and melancholy waste—Are but the solemn decorations allOf the great tomb of man. The golden sun,The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,Are shining on the sad abodes of death,Through the still lapse of ages. All that treadThe globe are but a handful to the tribesThat slumber in its bosom. Take the wingsOf morning—and the Barcan desert pierce,Or lose thyself in the continuous woodsWhere rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,Save his own dashings—yet—the dead are there;And millions in those solitudes, since firstThe flight of years began, have laid them downIn their last sleep—the dead reign there alone.So shalt thou rest—and what if thou withdrawUnheeded by the living—and no friendTake note of thy departure? All that breatheWill share thy destiny. The gay will laughWhen thou art gone, the solemn brood of carePlod on, and each one as before will chaseHis favorite phantom; yet all these shall leaveTheir mirth and their employment, and shall comeAnd make their bed with thee. As the long trainOf ages glide away, the sons of men,The youth in life’s green spring, and he who goesIn the full strength of years, matron, and maid,And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man,Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,By those, who in their turn shall follow them.So live, that when thy summons comes to joinThe innumerable caravan, that movesTo that mysterious realm, where each shall takeHis chamber in the silent halls of death,Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothedBy an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,Like one who wraps the drapery of his couchAbout him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.—Bryant.

THE AMERICAN FLAG

When Freedom, from her mountain height,Unfurled her standard to the air,She tore the azure robe of night,And set the stars of glory there.She mingled with its gorgeous dyesThe milky baldric of the skies,And striped its pure, celestial whiteWith streakings of the morning light;Then, from his mansion in the sun,She called her eagle bearer down,And gave into his mighty handThe symbol of her chosen land.Majestic monarch of the cloud!Who rear’st aloft thy regal form,To hear the tempest trumpings loudAnd see the lightning lances driven,When strive the warriors of the storm,And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven—Child of the sun! to thee ’tis givenTo guard the banner of the free;To hover in the sulphur smoke,To ward away the battle-stroke;And bid its blending shine afar,Like rainbows on the clouds of war,The harbingers of victory!Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly,The sign of hope and triumph high!When speaks the signal trumpet tone,And the long line comes gleaming on,Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet,Has dimmed the glistening bayonet,Each soldier eye shall brightly turnTo where thy sky-born glories burn,And, as his springing steps advance,Catch war and vengeance from the glance;And when the cannon-mouthings loudHeave in wild wreaths the battle-shroud,And gory sabres rise and fall,Like shoots of flame on midnight’s pall,Then shall thy meteor glances glow,And cowering foes shall shrink beneathEach gallant arm that strikes belowThat lovely messenger of death.Flag of the seas! on ocean waveThy stars shall glitter o’er the brave,When death, careering on the gale,Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail,And frightened waves rush wildly backBefore the broadside’s reeling rack;Each dying wanderer of the seaShall look at once to heaven and thee,And smile to see thy splendors flyIn triumph o’er his closing eye.Flag of the free heart’s hope and home,By angel hands to valor given,Thy stars have lit the welkin dome,And all thy hues were born in heaven.Forever float that standard sheet!Where breathes the foe but falls before us,With Freedom’s soil beneath our feet,And Freedom’s banner streaming o’er us!—Joseph Rodman Drake.

SPEECH AT THE DEDICATION OF THE NATIONAL CEMETERY AT GETTYSBURG

November 18, 1863

Fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth upon this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But in a larger sense we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it far above our power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here; but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us, the living, rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us, to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us, that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion; that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain; that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people, by the people, and for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

—President Lincoln.

TO A SKYLARK

Hail to thee, blithe spirit—Bird thou never wert—That from heaven, or near itPourest thy full heartIn profuse strains of unpremeditated art.Higher still and higherFrom the earth thou springest,Like a cloud of fire:The blue deep thou wingest,And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.In the golden lightningOf the setting sun,O’er which clouds are bright’ning,Thou dost float and run;Like an embodied joy whose race is just begun.The pale purple evenMelts around thy flight;Like a star of heaven,In the broad daylight,Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight.Keen as are the arrowsOf that silvery sphere,Whose intense lamp narrowsIn the white dawn clear,Until we hardly see, we feel, that it is there.All the earth and airWith thy voice is loud,As, when night is bare,From one lonely cloudThe moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow’d.What thou art we know not;What is most like thee!From rainbow clouds there flow notDrops so bright to see,As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.Like a poet hiddenIn the light of thought,Singing hymns unbidden,Till the world is wroughtTo sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not;Like a high-born maidenIn a palace tower,Soothing her love-ladenSoul in secret hourWith music sweet as love, which overflows her bower;Like a glow-worm golden,In a dell of dew,Scattering unbeholdenIts aerial hueAmong the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view;Like a rose emboweredIn its own green leaves,By warm winds deflower’d,Till the scent it givesMakes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves.Sound of vernal showersOn the twinkling grass,Rain-awakened flowers,All that ever wasJoyous, and fresh and clear, thy music doth surpass.Teach us, sprite or bird,What sweet thoughts are thine;I have never heardPraise of lore or wineThat panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.Chorus hymeneal,Or triumphant chant,Match’d with thine, would be allBut an empty vaunt—A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.What object are the fountainsOf thy happy strain?What fields, or waves, or mountains?What shapes of sky or plain?What love of thine own kind? What ignorance of pain?With thy clear, keen joyanceLanguor cannot be;Shadow of annoyanceNever came near thee;Thou lovest, but ne’er knew love’s sad satiety.Waking, or asleep,Thou of death must deemThings more true and deepThan we mortals dream,Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?We look before and after,And pine for what is not;Our sincerest laughterWith some pain is fraught;Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.Yet if we could scornHate, and pride and fear,If we were things bornNot to shed a tear,I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.Better than all measuresOf delightful sound,Better than all treasuresThat in books are found,Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!Teach me half the gladnessThat thy brain must know,Such harmonious madnessFrom my lips would flow,The world should listen then, as I am listening now.—Percy Bysshe Shelley.

THE LAUNCHING OF THE SHIP

Then the Master,With a gesture of command,Waved his hand;And at the word,Loud and sudden there was heard,All around them and below,The sound of hammers, blow on blow,Knocking away the shores and spurs.And see! she stirs!She starts—she moves—she seems to feelThe thrill of life along her keel,And, spurning with her foot the ground,With one exulting, joyous bound,She leaps into the ocean’s arms!And lo! from the assembled crowdThere rose a shout, prolonged and loud,That to the ocean seemed to say,“Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray.Take her to thy protecting arms,With all her youth and all her charms!”How beautiful she is! How fairShe lies within those arms, that pressHer form with many a soft caressOf tenderness and watchful care!Sail forth into the sea, O ship!Through wind and wave, right onward steer!The moistened eye, the trembling lip,Are not the signs of doubt or fear.Sail forth into the sea of life,O gentle, loving, trusting wife,And safe from all adversityUpon the bosom of that seaThy comings and thy goings be!For gentleness and love and trustPrevail o’er angry wave and gust;And in the wreck of noble livesSomething immortal still survives!Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State!Sail on, O Union, strong and great!Humanity with all its fears,With all the hopes of future years,Is hanging breathless on thy fate!We know what Master laid thy keel,What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel,Who made each mast, and sail, and rope,What anvils rang, what hammers beat,In what a forge and what a heatWere shaped the anchors of thy hope!Fear not each sudden sound and shock,’Tis of the wave and not the rock;’Tis but the flapping of the sail,And not a rent made by the gale!In spite of rock and tempest’s roar,In spite of false lights on the shore,Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea!Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee,Our hearts our hopes, our prayers, our tears,Our faith triumphant o’er our fears,Are all with thee,—are all with thee!—Longfellow.

RECESSIONAL

God of our fathers, known of old—Lord of our far-flung battle line—Beneath Whose awful Hand we holdDominion over palm and pine—Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,Lest we forget—lest we forget!The tumult and the shouting dies—The captains and the kings depart,Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,An humble and a contrite heart.Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,Lest we forget—lest we forget!Far-called our navies melt away—On dune and headland sinks the fire—Lo, all our pomp of yesterdayIs one with Nineveh and Tyre!Judge of the nations, spare us yet,Lest we forget—lest we forget!If, drunk with sight of power, we looseWild tongues that have not Thee in awe—Such boasting as the Gentiles use,Or lesser breeds without the Law—Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,Lest we forget—lest we forget!For heathen heart that puts her trustIn reeking tube and iron shard—All valiant dust that builds on dust,And guarding calls not Thee to guard—For frantic boast and foolish word,Thy mercy on Thy people, Lord!Amen.—Kipling.

THE LADDER OF ST. AUGUSTINE

Saint Augustine! well hast thou said,That of our vices we can frameA ladder, if we will but treadBeneath our feet each deed of shame.All common things, each day’s events,That with the hour begin and end,Our pleasures and our discontents,Are rounds by which we may ascend.The low desire, the base design,That makes another’s virtues less;The revel of the ruddy wine,And all occasions of excess;The longing for ignoble things;The strife for triumph more than truth;The hardening of the heart, that bringsIrreverence for the dreams of youth;All thoughts of ill; all evil deeds,That have their root in thoughts of ill;Whatever hinders or impedesThe action of the nobler will.All these must first be trampled downBeneath our feet, if we would gainIn the bright fields of fair renownThe right of eminent domain.We have not wings, we cannot soar;But we have feet to scale and climbBy slow degrees, by more and more,The cloudy summits of our time.The mighty pyramids of stoneThat wedge-like cleave the desert airs,When nearer seen, and better known,Are but gigantic flights of stairs.The distant mountains, that uprearTheir solid bastions to the skies,Are crossed by pathways, that appearAs we to higher levels rise.The heights by great men reached and keptWere not attained by sudden flight,But they, while their companions slept,Were toiling upward in the night.Standing on what too long we boreWith shoulders bent and downcast eyes,We may discern—unseen before—A path to higher destinies.Nor deem the irrevocable PastAs wholly wasted, wholly vain,If, rising on its wrecks, at lastTo something nobler we attain.—Longfellow.

THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS.35

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,Sails the unshadowed main,—The venturous bark that flingsOn the sweet summer wind its purpled wingsIn gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings,And coral reefs lie bare,Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;Wrecked is the ship of pearl!And every chambered cell,Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,Before thee lies revealed,—Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!Year after year beheld the silent toilThat spread his lustrous coil;Still, as the spiral grew,He left the past year’s dwelling for the new,Stole with soft step its shining archway through,Built up its idle door,Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,Child of the wandering sea.Cast from her lap, forlorn!From thy dead lips a clearer note is bornThan ever Triton blew from wreathed horn!While on mine ear it rings,Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:—Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,As the swift seasons roll!Leave thy low-vaulted past!Let each new temple, nobler than the last,Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,Till thou at length art free,Leaving thine outgrown shell by life’s unresting sea!—Oliver Wendell Holmes.

PRESIDENT WILLIAM McKINLEY

To the Young People of Oakland, Cal.

May 24, 1901

“There is nothing better for the United States than Educated Citizenship; and, my young friends, there never was a time in all our history when knowledge was so essential to success as now. Everything requires knowledge. What we want of the young people now is exact knowledge. You want to know whatever you undertake to do a little better than anybody else. And if you will do that, then there is nothing that is not within your reach.

And what you want besides education is Character—Character! There is nothing that will serve a young man or an old man so well as good character. And did you ever think that it is just as easy to form a good habit as it is to form a bad one; and it is just as hard to break a good habit as it is to break a bad one? So get the good ones and keep them. With Education and Character you will not only achieve individual success, but you will contribute largely to the progress of your country.”

BRIEF MEMORY GEMS AND PROVERBS

FIRST AND SECOND GRADES

If at first you don’t succeed,Try, try again.Be kind and be gentleTo those who are old,For dearer is kindnessAnd better than gold.Sing, pretty birds, and build your nests,The fields are green, the skies are clear;Sing, pretty birds, and build your nests,The world is glad to have you here.

A friend in need is a friend indeed.

If a task is once begun,Never leave it till it’s done;Be the labor great or small,Do it well or not at all.Whatever way the wind doth blow,Some heart is glad to have it so,So blow it east, or blow it west,The wind that blows—that wind is best.Dare to do right! dare to be true!For you have a work no other can do;Do it so bravely, so kindly, so well,Angels will hasten the story to tell.To do to others as I wouldThat they should do to meWill make me honest, kind and good,As children ought to be.God make my life a little light,Within the world to glow:A little flame that burneth brightWherever I may go.

Better be an hour too early than a minute too late.

“Help one another,” the snowflakes said,As they cuddled down in their fleecy bed,“One of us here would not be felt,One of us here would quickly melt;But I’ll help you and you help me,And then what a splendid drift there’ll be.”By-and-by is a very bad boy,Shun him at once and forever;For they who travel with By-and-bySoon come to the house of Never.Politeness is to do and sayThe kindest things in the kindest way.And isn't it, my boy or girl,The wisest, bravest plan,Whatever comes, or doesn't come,To do the best you can?

THIRD AND FOURTH GRADES

Beautiful hands are those that doWork that is earnest, brave and trueMoment by moment, the long day through.Kind hearts are gardens,Kind thoughts are roots,Kind words are blossoms,Kind deeds are fruits;Love is the sweet sunshineThat warms into life,For only in darknessGrow hatred and strife.Be good, dear child, and let who will be clever;Do noble deeds, not dream them all day long;And so make life, death, and that vast foreverOne grand, sweet song.—Kingsley.Whene’er a task is set for youDon’t idly sit and view it,—Nor be content to wish it done;Begin at once and do it.

Look up and not down, look forward and not back, look out and not in, and lend a hand.

—Hale.This world is not so bad a worldAs some would like to make it;Though whether good or whether bad,Depends on how we take it.—M. W. Beck.Let us, then, be up and doing,With a heart for any fate;Still achieving, still pursuing,Learn to labor and to wait.—Longfellow.

Dare to be true, nothing can need a lie; A fault which needs it most grows two thereby.

—George Herbert.If wisdom’s ways you’d wisely seek,Five things observe with care,—Of whom you speak, to whom you speak,And how, and when, and where.Cowards are cruel, but the braveLove mercy, and delight to save.—Gay.

If there is a virtue in the world at which we should always aim, it is cheerfulness.

—Bulwer Lytton.’Tis distance lends enchantment to the viewAnd clothes the mountain with its azure hue.—Campbell.Give fools their gold and knaves their power,Let fortune’s bubble rise and fall;Who sows a field, or trains a flower,Or plants a tree is more than all.—Whittier.Our to-days and yesterdaysAre the blocks with which we build.—Longfellow.

Too low they build who build beneath the stars.

—Young.Errors, like straws upon the surface flow;He who would seek for pearls must dive below.—Dryden.The cross, if rightly borne, shall beNo burden, but support to thee.—Whittier.Oh, deem it not an idle thingA pleasant word to speak;The face you wear, the thoughts you bring,A heart may heal or break.Lives of great men all remind usWe can make our lives sublime,—And, departing, leave behind usFootprints on the sands of time.One by one thy duties wait thee,Let thy whole strength go to each;Let no future dreams elate thee,—Learn thou first what these can teach.

FIFTH AND SIXTH GRADES

Count that day lost whose low descending sunViews from thy hand no worthy action done.—Robart.Honor and shame from no condition rise;Act well your part; there all the honor lies.—Pope.

Success does not consist in never making blunders, but in never making the same one a second time.

—Shaw.

Whatever is worth doing at all is worth doing well.

—Chesterfield.

One cannot always be a hero, but one can always be a man.

—Goethe.The heights by great men reached and kept,Were not attained by sudden flight;But they, while their companions slept,Were toiling upward in the night.—Longfellow.All that’s great and good is doneJust by patient trying.—Phœbe Cary.No star is lost we ever once have seen:We always may be what we might have been.—Adelaide Proctor.

Often in a wooden house a golden room we find.

—Longfellow.Too much of joy is sorrowful,So cares must needs abound,The vine that bears too many flowersWill trail upon the ground.—Alice Cary.

Life is too short for aught but high endeavor.

—Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

To climb steep hills requires slow pace at first.

—Shakespeare.Cloud and sun together make the year;Without some storms no rainbow could appear.—Alice Cary.The noblest service comes from nameless hands,And the best servant does his work unseen.—Oliver Wendell Holmes.He who seeks to pluck the starsWill lose the jewels at his feet.—Phœbe Cary.For he who is honest is noble,Whatever his fortunes or birth.—Alice Cary.There’s never a leaf or a blade too meanTo be some happy creature’s palace.—James Russell Lowell.No endeavor is in vain.Its reward is in the doing;And the rapture of pursuingIs the prize the vanquished gain.—Longfellow.Press on! if once and twice thy feetSlip back and stumble, harder try.—Benjamin.Dare to do right; dare to be true;The failings of others can never save you;Stand by your conscience, your honor, your faith—Stand like a hero, and battle till death!

He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit, than he that taketh a city.

—Bible.He prayeth best who loveth bestAll things, both great and small;For the dear God who loveth us,He made and loveth all.—Coleridge.Hours are golden links, God’s token,Reaching heaven, but one by oneTake them; lest the chain be brokenEre the pilgrimage be done.—A. A. Proctor.There is a lesson in each flower,A story in each stream and bower;On every herb on which we tread,Are written words which, rightly read,Will lead us from earth’s fragrant sodTo hope and holiness and God.Oh, many a shaft at random sent,Finds mark the archer little meant!And many a word at random spoken,May soothe, or wound, a heart that’s broken.—Scott.