Class .^U^XQlI Book iV £_£.. Copyright N° COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. THE / Prize Poetical Speaker Comprising a Select List of Choice Recitations and Readings From the Most Prominent Authors 1^* O^t l&t Specially adapted for Schools and Entertainments Copyright J90J fay HENRY A. DICKERMAN & SON Publishers Boston and New York THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, Two Copied Received NOV, 9 1901 COPVRWHT ENTRY CLASS []*/ XXo. No. COPY B. f -4, ^«« Contents of the Volume. The Baby. George MacDonald 1 Trust in God. Norman Macleod 9 The Greedy Fox. Anonymous 3 The Gray Swan. Alice Cary ... 4 The Ant and the Cricket. Anonymous 8 KollCall. N.G. Shepherd 7 The Miller of Dee. Eva L. Ogden 9 Who Stole the Bird's Nest ? Lydia Maria Child 11 Get Up. Anonymous 13 The Mimic. Anonym6US 14 Little May's Answer. Anonymous 15 An Elegy on the Glory of Her Sex, Mrs. Mary Blaize. Goldsmith 16 Good-Night and Good-Morning. Lord Houghton 17 The Three Sons. Moultrie 17 ~. When the Cows Come Home. Anonymous 19 Battle of Hohenlinden. Campbell 21 What the Mother Heard. Mrs. Carter 22 Mr. Nobody. Anonymous 24 Father William. Southey 25 The Priest and His Mare. Anonymous 26 The Little Speaker. Anonymous 27 Contented John. Emily Taylor 28 The Pet Lamb. Wordsworth 29 Warren's Address Before the Battle of Bunker Hill. J. Pierpont 30 The Bee's Wisdom. Anonymous 31 The Wolf and the Kid. Anonymous 31 Love of Country and Home. J. Montgomery 32 The Spider and the Fly. Mary Howitt 33 The Auction Extraordinary. Lucretia M. Davidson 35 The American Flag. J. R Drake. w 3(3 Whittling. J. Pierpont 38 The Battle 'f Life. Wm. C. Bryant 30 Robert of Lincoln. Wm. C. Bryant 40 TheRetort. Anonymous 41 The Brave Little Flower. Miss Warner 42 Losses. FrancesBrown 43 The Mother's Jewels. R. C. Trench 44 The Twins. Henry S. Leigh 45 Abou Ben Adhem. Leigh Hunt 46 Grammar in Rhyme. Anonymous 47 Patriotism. Walter Scott. . 48 The Way to Be Happy. Anonymous ...,,... 48 vi Contents. The Ship on Fire. Henry Bateman 49 The Two Blacksmiths. Anonymous 52 Katie's Answer. Anonymous 53 Paddle Your Own Canoe. Mrs. S. T. Bolton 54 , The Soldier's Dream. Thomas Campbell 56 The Bivouac of the Dead. Theodore O'Hara 57 Courtship of Larry O'Dee. W. W. Fink 58 The Destruction of Sennacherib. Lord Byron 60 Song of the Mountain Boy. From the German of Uhland 61 Bienzi's Address to the Romans. Mary Russell Mitford 62 Beauty, Wit, and Gold. Thomas Moore 63 The Bird and the Baby. Alfred Tennyson 64 Frogs at School. Anonymous 65 The JolJy Old Crow. Anonymous 65 The Inquiry. Charles Mackay 66 The Lady-Bug and the Ant. Anonymous 67 The Riddler. Charles G. Leland 68 The Captain's Daughter. James T. Fields 69 Monterey. Charles F. Hoffman 70 The Old Clock on the Stairs. Longfellow 71 About the Fairies. Anonymous 73 Address to the Ocean. Lord Byron 74 The Lamb That Was Missed, Anonymous 75 Cleon and I. Charles Mackay 76 The Owl and the Pussy-Cat. Anonymous 77 The Ballad of the O.ysterman. Oliver Wendell Holmes 78 The Boy and the Ring. Anonymous 79 The Use of Flowers. Mary Howitt 8C Lord Ullin's Daughter. Thomas Campbell 81 Carving a Name. Horatio Alger 82 Barbara Frietchie. J. G. Whittier . . 83 The Seminole's Reply. G. W. Patten 85 Psalm of Marriage. Phcebe Cary 86 E Pluribus Unum. G. W. Cutter 87 Lochinvar. Sir Walter Scott 90 Be Content. Anonymous 92 The Glove and the Lions. Leigh Hunt 93 The Fairies. William Allingham 94 The Old Year and the New. Alfred Tennyson 96 Antony's Address to the Romans on the Death of Caesar. Shakespeare 9? Cold Water. Lydia H. Sigourney 1ft) Not on the Battle-field. J. Pierpont 101 The Bells Edgar A. Poe 104 The Birth of Ireland. Anonymous 107 Peter's Ride to the Wedding. Anonymous 108 Little Goldenhair. Anonymous 110 Mrs. Lofty and I. Anonymous Ill Little and Great. Charles Mackay 112 The Hunters. Matthew Arnold 113 Better Things. George MacDonald 114 An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog. Oliver Goldsmith 115 Old Tubal Cain. Charles Mackay 116 Contents. vii Arnold Winkelried. James Montgomery 118 Charge of the Light Brigade at Balaklava . Alfred Tennyson. . . 120 Beautiful Snow. John W. Watson, 122 Bingen on the Rhine. Mrs. Caroline Norton 124 The Bobolink. Anonymous 127 Through Death to Life. Henry Harbaugh 129 After the Battle. Anonymous 130 Cato's Soliloquy on Immortality. Joseph Addison 132 Annie and Willie's Prayer. Sophia P. Snow 133 Sheridan's Ride. T. Buchanan Read 138 Bridge of Sighs. Thomas Hood 140 Bugle Song. Alfred Tennyson 143 The Maddening Bowl. Anonymous 144 Katie Lee and Willie Gray. Anonymous 145 "Rock of Ages." Anonymous 146 A Legend of the Northland. Phcebe Cary 148 Brace's Address. Robert Burns 150 Claribel's Prayer. M. L. Parmelee 15l The Raven. Edgar A. Poe 153 We Are Seven. William Wordsworth 159 The Village Blacksmith. Henry W. Longfellow 161 A Woman's Answer on Being Accused of Being a Maniac on the Subject of Temperance. Anonymous 162 Ivry.— A Song of the Huguenots. T. B. Macaulay 164 Catiline's Defiance. George Croly 167 When Mary Was a Lassie. Anonymous 169 Cuddle Doon. Alexander Anderson 170 Small Beginnings. Charles Mackay 172 A Name in the Sand. George D. Prentice 173 A Pauper's Death-bed. Caroline Bowles Southey 174 The Seven Ages of Man. William Shakespeare 175 The Fishermen. Charles Kingsley 176 Lines on a Skeleton. Anonymous 177 The Fisherman's Song. Anonymous 178 The Battle of Waterloo. Lord Byron 179 Platonic. Anonymous 182 Which Shall It Be ? Anonymous 184 Saturday Night. Anonymous 186 The Silent Warriors. Anonymous 187 Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers. Felicia Hemans 189 Keep It Before the People. A. J. H. Duganne 190 Ye May Drink, if Ye List. Pease 191 Labor Is Worship. Frances S. Osgood — 193 "Look Not upon the Wine When It Is Red," Nathaniel P. Willis 1M The Village Schoolmaster. Oliver Goldsmith 195 Nothing but Leaves. Anonymous 196 The Creeds of the Bells. George W. Bungay 197 Joan of Arc's Farewell to Home. Schiller 198 How He Saved St. Michael's. Mary A. P. Stansbury 200 The Children. Charles S. Dickinson 204 The Love-knot. Anonymous 80C The Churning. B. F. Taylor 207 viii Contents. Fall of Warsaw, 1791 Thomas Campbell 209 The Student. Anonymous .210 Marco Bozzaris. Fitz Greene Halleck 213 The Night Before Christmas. Clement C. Moore 216 The Night After Christmas. Anonymous 218 Sweeping the Floor. Anonymous 220 The Teacher's Dream. W. H. Tenable 221 Letting the Old Cat Die. Anonymous 223 The Housekeeper's Tragedy. Anonymous 225 " Mother's Fool. " Anonymous 226 Molly Carew. Samuel Loyer 127 Up Above and Down Below . Bishop Alexander 229 The Speckled Hen. E. W. Denison .231 Lay of the Madman. Anonymous 233 Saving Mother. Anonymous 236 The Stranger and His Friend. James Montgomery 238 What They Say about Cupid. Anonymous 239 The Old Hat. Anonymous 241 Rough and Smooth. Josephine Pollard 243 The Clown's Baby. St. Nicholas 244 If I Should Die To night. Anonymous 247 Bain on the Roof . Coates Kinney 24S An Order for a Picture. Alice Cary 249 The Kitchen Clock. John Vance Cheney 252 The Petrified Fern. Anonymous 254 Malaria. Isabel H. Reid 255 The Highway Cow. Anonymous 257 Patient Mercy Jones. James T. Fields 259 The Neglected Pattern. Phosbe Cary 263 Under the Snow. Robert Collyer 264 To Whom Shall We Give Thanks ? Mrs. Levi Wade 256 What Constitutes a State ? Sir William Jones 267 The Game of Life. John G. Saxe. 268 The Best Cow in Peril. Anonymous 270 The Stars. W. C. Bryant. 271 Pleasant Weather. Anonymous 273 The Street Musicians. George L. Catlin 273 The Pretty Pictures. Anonymous 276 The Kaiser. W. Howitt 277 A Fever Dream. John M. Harney 278 Bernardine Du Born. Sigourney 280 The Death-fire. Ann S. Stephens .281 Song, from the Lady of the Lake. Walter Scott 283 Small Things. F. Bennoch 284 The Flower and the Song. Anonymous 2S5 The Philosophy of Sport, C. Mackay 286 Speech of Sempronius for War. Joseph Addison 283 The Story of the Gentians. Anonymous 289 Darkness. Lop.d Byron 2S0 Bernardo and King Alphonso. J. G. Lockhart 292 The Maniac. Lewis 294 The American Patriot's Song. Anonymous 296 The Street of Bv-andBye. Mbs. Abdy 297 Contents. ix Parting of Douglas and Marmion . Walter ScOi 299 The Mummy. Smith 301 The Old Oaken Bucket. Samuel Woodworth 303 The Music of the Waves. Anonymous 305 Truest Wisdom. Anonymous 306 "I Can!" Anonymous 307 A New Theory of Frost; or the Story of the Frost-King. A. E. Brackett 308 The Main Truck, or a Leap for Life. Anonymous. 811 THE POETICAL SPEAKER, THE BABY. Where did you come from, baby dear ? Out of the everywhere into the here. Where did you get your eyes so blue ? Out of the sky as I came through. What makes the light in them sparkle and spin? Some of the starry spikes left in. Where did you get that little tear ? I found it waiting when I got here. What makes your forehead so smooth and high? A soft hand stroked it as I went by. What makes your cheek like a warm white rose? Something better than any one knows. Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss I Three angels gave me at once a kiss. Where did you get that pearly ear ? God spoke, and it came out to hear. Where did you get tho^e arms and hands? Love made itself into hooks and bands. Pieces to Speak, Feet, whence did you come, darling things ? From the same box as the cherub's wings. How did they all just come to be you ? God thought about me, and so I grew. But how did you come to us, you dear ? God thought of you, and so I am here. George MacDonald, TRUST IN GOD. Courage, brother ! do not stumble, Though thy path be dark as night ; There's a star to guide the humble ; " Trust in God, and do the right." Let the road be rough and dreary, And its end far out of sight, Foot it bra rely ! Strong or weary, " Trust in God, and do the right." Perish policy and cunning ! Perish all that fears the light ! Whether losing, whether winning, " Trust in God, and do the right." Trust no party, sect or faction ; Trust no leaders in the fight ; But in every word and action, " Trust in God, and do the right." Trust no lovely forms of passion : Fiends may look like angels bright ; Trust no custom, school, or fashion, " Trust in God, and do the right." Simple rule and safest guiding, Inward peace and inward might, TJie Greedy Fox. Star upon our path abiding, " Trust in God, and do the right." Some will hate thee, some will love thee, Some will flatter, some will slight ; Cease from man, and look above thee, " Trust in God, and do the right." Norman Macleod. THE GREEDY FOX. On a winters night, As the moon shone bright, Two foxes went out for prey ; As they trotted along, With frolic and song They cheered their weary way. Through the wood they went, But they could not scent A rabbit or goose astray ; But at length they came To some better game, In a farmer's barn by the way. On a roost there sat Some chickens, as fat As foxes could wish for their dinners ; So the prowlers found A hole by the ground, And they both went in, the sinners! They both went in, With a squeeze and a grin, And the chickens were quickly killed ; And one of them lunched. And feasted, and munched. Till his stomach was fairly filled. Pieces to Speak. The other, more wise, Looked about with both eyes, And hardly would eat at all ; For as he came in, With a squeeze and a grin, He remarked that the hole was small; And, the cunning elf, He said to himself, " If I eat too much, it's plain, As the hole is small, I shall stick in the wall, And never get out again." Thus matters went on Till the night was gone, And the farmer came out with a pole ; The foxes both flew, And one went through, But the greedy one stuck in the hole. In the hole he stuck, So full was his pluck Of the chickens he had been eating — He could not get out, Or turn about, And so he was killed by beating. Anonymous. THE GRAY SWAN. " O, tell me, sailor, tell me true. Is my little lad, my Elihu, A-sailing with your ship ? " The sailor's eves were dim with dew " Your little lad, your Elihu ? " He said with trembling lip : " What little lad ? What ship ? " The Gray Swan. 5 "What little lad ? as if there could be Another such a one as he ! What little lad, do you say ? Why, Elihu, that took to the sea The moment I put him oft' my knee ! It was just the other day The Gray Swan sailed away ! " " The other day ? " — the sailor's eyes Stood open with a great surprise, — "The other day? the Swan ?" His heart began in his throat to rise. " Ay, ay, sir ! here in the cupboard lies The jacket he had on ! " " And so your lad is gone ? " But, my good mother, do you know All this was twenty years ago ? / stood on the Gray Swan's deck, And to that lad I saw you throw, Taking it off, as it might be, so ! The kerchief from your neck." " Ay, and he'll bring it back ! " " And did the little lawless lad, That has made you sick and made you sad, Sail with the Gray Swan's crew ? " " Lawless ! The man is going mad ! The best boy ever mother had ; — Be sure he sailed with the crew ! What would you have him do ? " " And he lias never written line, Nor sent you word, nor made you sign, To say he was alive ? " u Hold ! if 'twas wrong, the wrong was mine ; Besides, he may be in the brine ; And could he write from the grave ? Tut, man ! What would you have ? " Pieces to Speak. " Gone, twenty years, — a long, long cruise ! 'Twas wicked thus your love to abuse ! But if the lad still live, And come back home, think you, you can Forgive him ? " — " Miserable man ! You're mad as the sea, — you rave. What have I to forgive ? " The sailor twitched his shirt so blue> And from within his bosom drew The kerchief. She was wild. " O God, my Father ! is it true ? My little lad, my Elihu ! My blessed boy, my child ! My dead, my living child ! " Alice Cart. THE ANT AND THE CRICKET. A silly young Cricket, accustomed to sing Through the warm, sunny months of gay summer and spring, Began to complain, when he found that at home His cupboard was empty, and winter had come. Not a crumb to be found On the snow-covered ground, Not a flower could he see ; Not a leaf on a tree ; u O, what will become," says the Cricket, " of At last, by starvation and famine made bold, All dripping with wet, and all trembling with cold, Away he set off to a miserly Ant, To see if, to keep him alive, lie would grant Him shelter from rain, — A mouthful of grain. Roll Call 7 He wished only to borrow, He'd repay it to-morrow ; If not, he must die of starvation and sorrow. Says the Ant to the Cricket, " I'm your servant and friend, But we Ants never borrow, we Ants never lend. But tell me, dear sir, did you lay nothing by When the weather was warm ? " Said the Cricket, " Not I ! My heart was so light, That I sang day and night, For all nature looked gay." " You sang, sir, you say ? Go, then," says the Ant, " and dance winter away." Thus ending, he hastily lifted the wicket, And out of the door turned the poor little Cricket. Though this is a fable, the moral is good : If you live without work, you must go without food. Anonymous. ROLL CALL. " Corporal Green ! " the Orderly cried ; " Here ! " was the answer loud and clear, From the lips of the soldier who stood near; — And " Here ! " was the word the next replied. " Cyrus Drew ! " — then a silence fell — This time no answer followed the call ; Only his 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, 8 Pieces to Speak. As plain to be read as open books, While slowly gathered the shades of night. The fern on the hill-sides was splashed with blood, And down in the corn where the poppies grew Were redder stains than the poppies knew ; And crimson-dyed was the river's flood. For the foe had crossed from the other side That day, in the face of a murderous fire That swept them down in its terrible ire — And their life-blood went to color the tide. " Herbert Kline ! " At the call there came Two stalwart soldiers into the line, Bearing between them this Herbert Kline, Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name. " Ezra Kerr ! " — and a voice answered, u Here ! " " Hiram Kerr ! " — but no man replied. They were brothers, these two ; the sad winds sighed, And a shudder crept through the corn-field 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 to the road-side his body lies ; I paused a moment and gave him 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 at night, Of a hundred men who went into the fight, Numbered but twenty that answered '• Here ! " N. G. Shepherd. The Miller of Dee. 9 THE MILLER OF DEE. The moon was afloat, Like a golden boat On the sea-blue depths of the 6ky, When the miller of Dee, With his children three, On his fat, red horse, rode by. " Whither away, O miller of Dee ? Whither away so late ? " Asked the tollman old, with cough and sneeze, As he passed the big toll-gate. But the miller answered him never a word, Never a word spake he. He paid his toll, and he spurred his horse, And rode on with his children three. " He's afraid to tell ! " quoth the old tollman, " He's ashamed to tell ! " quoth he. " But I'll follow you up and find out where You are going, O miller of Dee ! " The moon was afloat, Like a golden boat Nearing the shore of the sky, When, with cough and wheeze, And hands on his knees, The old tollman passed by. " Whither away, O tollman old ? Whither away so fast ? " Cried the milkmaid who stood at the farm- yard bars When the tollman old crept past. The tollman answered her never a word ; Never a word spake he. Scant breath had he at the best to chase After the miller of Dee. 10 Pieces to Speak. " He won't tell where ! " Said the milkmaid fair, " But Til find out ! " cried she. And away from the farm, With her pail on her arm, She followed the miller of Dee. The parson stood in his cap and gown, Under the old oak tree. " And whither away with your pail of milk, My pretty milkmaid ? " said he ; But she hurried on with her brimming pail, And never a word spake she. " She won't tell where ! " the parson cried, " Its my duty to know," said he. And he followed the maid who followed the man Who followed the miller of Dee. After the parson, came his wife, The sexton he came next. After the sexton the constable came, Troubled and sore perplext. After the constable, two ragged boys, To see what the fun would be ; And a little black dog, with only one eye, Was the last of the nine who, with groan and sigh, Followed the miller of Dee. Night had anchored the moon, Not a moment too soon, Under the lee of the sky ; For the wind it blew, And the rain fell, too, And the river of Dee ran high. He forded the river, he climbed the hill, He and his children three * WIio Stole the Bird's Nest ? 11 But wherever he went they followed him still, That wicked miller of Dee ! Just as the clock struck the hour of twelve, The miller reached home again ; And when he dismounted and turned — behold ! Those who had followed him over the wold Came up in the pouring rain. Splashed and spattered from head to foot, Muddy and wet and draggled, Over the hill and up to the mill, That wet company straggled. They all stopped short ; and then out spake The parson, and thus spake he : " What do you mean by your conduct to-night, You wretched miller of Dee ? " " I went for a ride, a nice cool ride, I and my children three ; For I took them along, as I always do," Answered the miller of Dee. " But you, my friends, I would like to know, Why you followed me all the way ? " They looked at each other — " We were out for a walk, A nice cool walk ! " said they. Eva L. Ogden. WHO STOLE THE BIRD'S NEST ? To whit ! To whit ! To whee ! Will you listen to me ? Who stole four eggs I laid, and the nice nest I made? 12 Pieces to Speak. Not I, said the cow, Moo-oo ! Such a thing I'd never do. I gave you a wisp of hay, but didn't take your nest away. Not I, said the cow, Moo-oo ! Such a thing I'd never do. To whit ! To whit ! To whee ! Will you listen to me ? Who stole four eggs I laid, and the nice nest I made % Bobolink ! Bobolink ! Now what do you think ? Who stole a nest away from the plum tree to- day ? Not I, said the dog, Bow-wow ! I wouldn't be so mean, I vow. I gave hairs the nest to make, but the nest I did not take. Not I, said the dog, Bow-wow ! I wouldn't be so mean, I vow. To whit ! To whit ! To whee ! Will you listen to me ? Who stole four eggs I laid, and the nice nest I made ? Coo-oo ! Coo-oo ! Coo-oo ! Let me speak a word too. Who stole that pretty nest from little yellow- breast ? Not I, said the sheep. Oh, no, I wouldn't treat a poor bird so. I gave wool the nest to line, but the nest was none of mine. Baa, baa! said the sheep. Oh, no, I wouldn't treat a poor bird so. Get Up. 13 To whit ! To whit ! To whee ! Will you listen to me ? Who stole four eggs I laid, and the nice nest I made ? Caw ! caw ! cried the crow, I should like to know What thief took away a bird's nest to-day. Cluck ! cluck ! said the hen, don't ask me again ! Why, I haven't a chick would do such a trick. We all gave her a feather, and she wove them together. I'd scorn to intrude on her and her brood. Cluck ! cluck ! said the hen, don't ask me again, Chirr-a-wirr ! Chirr-a-wirr ! We will make a great stir ! Let us find out his name and all cry, For shame ! I would not rob a bird, said little Mary Green ; I think I never heard of anything so mean. 'Tis very cruel, too, said little Alice JSTeal ; I wonder if he knew how sad the bird would feel? A little boy hung down his head and went and hid behind the bed ; For he stole that pretty nest from poor little yel- low-breast ; And he felt so full of shame, he didn'* like to tell his name. Lydia Maria Chilb GET UP. Whose voice is it that rings st> clear, The first in the morning that we hear % " Up ! up ! " it says. " An hour or more I have beerv crowing away at the door. 14 Pieces to Speak. The horse has gone with the boy to plow ; Sarah has started to milk the cow ; Sure there is plenty for all to do, And all are up, my young friend, but you." " Up ! up ! " cries the busy sun ; " Is there not # work enough to be done ? Are there no lessons to learn, I pray, That you should be dozing the time away ? Who would give light to all below, If I were idly to slumber so ? What would become of the hay and corn, Did I thus waste the precious morn ? " " Up ! up ! " cries the buzzing Bee ; " There's work for you as well as for me ; Oh how I prize the morning hour, Gathering sweets from the dewy flower ! Quick comes on the scorching noon, And the sombre night will follow soon. Say, shall it chide for idle hours, For time misused and for wasted powers ? " Anonymous. THE MIMIC. A mimic I knew, who, to give him his due, Was exceeded by none, and was equaled by few. He could bark like a dog ; he could grunt like a hog; Nay, I really believe he could croak like a frog. Then, as for a bird, you may trust to my word, 'Twas the best imitation that ever you heard : It must be confessed that lie copied birds best : You'd have thought he had lived all his life in a nest. It happened one day, that he came in the way Of a sportsman — an excellent marksman, they say; Little May's Answer 15 And near a stone wall, with his little bird-call, The mimic attempted to imitate all. So well did he do it, the birds all flew to it ; But, ah ! he had certainly reason to rue it. It turned out no fun, for the man with the gun, Who was seeking for partridges, took him for one. He was shot in the side, and he feelingly cried, A moment or so ere he fainted and died : " Who for others prepare a trap should beware They do not themselves fall into the snare." Anonymous. LITTLE MAY'S ANSWER. " Now where are you going, little May, little May?" I said to our wee bonny baby ; For her little feet pattered so briskly that day, So fast and so far did they bear her away, I thought she would lose herself, maybe. " For birds' nests I'm going," our baby replied ; " There are lots of nice birdies all round ; Tom says they have nests in the grass where they hide Their little young birdies. He said if I tried, I could find them right down on the ground." " The prairie is wide, little May, little May, And the grass is as high as your head ; There are snakes in it, too — ugly snakes — so they say; I'm afraid you'll be lost if you wander away — Come back and pick roses instead." "Why, God will take care of me— don't be afraid ! " Now what could I say ? 'twas my teaching ; 16 Pieces to Speak. I caught up and carried the dear little maid To a moss-covered stone, 'neath the willow's thick shade, And said," There! you've a pulpit to preach in." Anonymous. AN ELEGY ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX, MRS. MARY BLAIZE. Good people all, with one accord, Lament for Madam Blaize, Who never wanted a good word — From those who spoke her praise. The needy seldom passed her door, And always found her kind ; She freely lent to all the poor, — Who left a pledge behind. She strove the neighborhood to please With manners wondrous winning ; And never followed wicked ways, — Unless when she was sinning. At church, in silks and satins new, With hoop of monstrous size ; She never slumbered in her pew,— * But when she shut her eyes. Her love was sought, I do aver, By twenty beaux and more ; The king himself has followed her, . When she has walk'd before. Now her wealth and finery fled, Her hangers on cut short all ; The doctors found, when she was dead Her last disorder mortal. Let us lament in sorrow sore, For Kent-street well may say, That had she lived a twelvemonth raofr-y. She had not died to-day. Goldsmith, Tlie Ttiree Sons. 17 GOOD-NIGHT AND GOOD-MORNING. A fair little girl sat under a tree, Sewing as long as her eyes could see ; Then smoothed her work and folded it right. And said, " Dear work, good-night ! good- night ! " Then a number of rooks came over her head, Crying, " Caw ! caw ! " on their way to bed ; She said, as she watched their curious flight, " Little black things, good-night ! good-night! n The horses neighed, and the oxen lowed, The sheep's " Baa ! baa ! " came over the road ; All seeming to say, with a quiet delight, " Good little girl, good-night ! good-night ! " She did not say to the sun " Good-night ! " Though she saw him there, like a ball of light ; For she knew that he had God's time to keep All over the world and never could sleep. The tall pink foxglove bowed his head ; The violets curtseyed and went to bed ; And good little Lucy tied up her hair, And said, on her knees, her favorite prayer. And while on her pillow she softly lay, She knew nothing more till again it was day, And all things said to the beautiful sun, " Good-morning ! good-morning ! our work is begun ! " Lord Houghton THE THREE SONS. I have a son, a little son, a boy just five years old, With eyes of thoughtful earnestness and mind of gentle mold. 18 Pieces to Speak. They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways appears, That my child is grave and wise of heart beyond his childish years. I cannot say how this may be — I know his face is fair, And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and serious air. I know his heart is kind and fond, I know he loveth me ; But loveth yet his mother more with grateful fervency. Strange questions does he ask of me when we to- gether walk ; He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children talk. Nor cares he much for childish sports — dotes not on bat or ball ; But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly mimics all. I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three ; I'll not declare how bright and fair his little fea- tures be ; How silver sweet those tones of his as he prattles on my knee. I do not think his light blue eye is like his brother's, keen, Nor his brow so full of childish thought as his hath ever been ; But his little heart's a fountain pure of kind and tender feeling, And his every look's a gleam of light, rich depths of love revealing. When he walks with me, the country folk, who pass us in the street, Will turn in joy and bless my boy, he looks so mild and sweet. WJien the Cows Come Home. Id A playfellow is he to all, and yet, with cheerful tone, Will sing his little song of love when left to sport alone. I have a son, a third sweet son ; his age I cannot tell, For they reckon not by years or months where he is gone to dwell. To us for fourteen anxious months his infant smiles were given, And then he bade farewell to earth and went to live in heaven. I cannot tell what form is his, what look he weareth now, Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining seraph brow. The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss which he doth feel, Are numbered with the secret things which God will not reveal. I know the angels fold him close beneath their glittering wings, And soothe him with a song that breathes of heaven's divinest things. I know that we shall meet our babe (his mother dear and I) When God for aye shall wipe away all tears from every eye. Moultrie. WHEN THE COWS COME HOME. With Mingle, klangle, klingle, Far down the dusky dingle, The cows are coining home ; Now sweet and clear, and faint and low, The airy tinklings come and go, Like chimings from a far-off tower Or patterings of an April shower 20 Pieces to Speak. That make the daisies grow ; Ko-ling, ko-lang, ko-lingle-lingle, Far down the dark'ning dingle, The cows come slowly home ; And old-time friend, and twilight plays, And starry nights and sunny days, Come trooping up the misty ways, When the cows come home. "With jingle, jangle, jingle, Soft tones that sweetly mingle, The cows are coming home ; Mai vine, and Pearl, and Florimel, De Kamp, Red Rose, and Gretchen Schell, Queen Bess, and Sylph, and Spangled Sue — Across the fields I hear her " loo-oo," And clang her silver bell ; Go-ling, go-lang, go-lingle-lingle, With faint, far sounds that mingle, The cows come slowly home ; And mother-song of long gone years, And baby joys and childish fears, And youthful hopes and youthful tears, When the cows come home. With ringle, rangle, ringle, By twos, and threes, and single, The cow r s are coming home ; Thro' violet air we see the town. And the Summer sun a-sliding down, And the maple in the hazel glade Throws down the path a longer shade, And the hills are growing brown ; To-ring, to-rang, to-ringle-ringle, By threes, and fours, and single, The cows come slowly home ; The same sweet sound of wordless psalm, The same sweet June-day rest and calm, The same sweet smell of buds and balm, When the oows come home. Battle of Hohenlinden. 21 With tingle, tangle, tingle, Thro' fern and periwinkle, The cows are coming home ; A-loitering in the checkered stream, Where the sun-rays glance and gleam, Clarine, Peach-bloom, and Phoebe Phillis Stand knee-deep in the creamy lilies, In a drowsy dream ; To-link, to -lank, to-linkle-linkle, O'er banks with buttercups a-twinkle, The cows come slowly home ; And up thro' Memory's deep ravine Come the brook's old song and its old-time sheen, And the crescent of the silver Queen, When the cows come home. With klingle, klangle, klingle, With " loo-oo," and " moo-oo," and jingle, The cows are coming home ; And over there on Merlin hill, Sounds the plaintive cry of the whip-poor-will And the dew-drops lie on the tangled vines, And over the poplars Venus shines, And over the silent mill. Ko-ling, ko-lang, ko-lingle-lingle, With ting-a-ling and jingle, The cows come slowly home. Let down the bars ; let in the train Of long-gone songs, and flowers, and rain, For dear old times come back again, When the cows come home. Anonymous. BATTLE OF HOHENLINDEISr. On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 22 Pieces to Speak. But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat, at dead of night, Commanding tires of death to light The darkness of her scenery. By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, Each horseman drew his battle-blade, And furious every charger neighed, To join the dreadful revelry. Then shook the hills with thunder riven, Then rushed the steed to battle driven, And, louder than the bolts of Heaven, Far flashed the red artillery. But redder yet that light shall glow, On Linden's hills of stained snow, And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun Shout in their sulphurous canopy. The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave ! Wave Munich, all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry ! Few, few shall part where many meet ! The snow shall be their winding-sheet ; And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. Campbell. WHAT THE MOTHER HEARD. As I walked over the hills one day, I listened and heard a mother-sheep say : " In all the green world there i Katie's Answer. 53 We engage to remove any moment you say." " To each I will give fifty dollars to go." The smiths shook their heads — " That won't do — no, no ! " " Come, come, my friends, you must not be tough — You'll surely consider one hundred enough ? " They whispered awhile — " Come, two hundred say, And we will remove this very day." " Well, agreed," said he. The money he paid, Well pleased with the very fine bargain he'd made. " My friends," he said, " I bid you farewell — I wish you success wherever you dwell ; And from the next place to which you may go, May you never remove while the bellows you blow ; May your anvils ring as you strike the bar — But tell me, I pray, do you go very far ? " " Oh, no," said the smiths, " that's not our de- sign — I move to Jack's shop, and Jack moves to mine." Anonymous. KATIE'S ANSWER. Och, Katie's a rogue, it is thrue, But her eyes, like the sky, are so blue An' her dimples so shwate, An' her ankles so nate, She dazed and she bothered me too. Till one mornin' we wint for a ride ; Whin demure as a bride, by my side The darlint she sat, Wid the wickedest hat 'Neath a purty girl's chin ever tied. 54 The Poetical Speaker. An' me heart, arrah thin how it bate ; For my Kate looked so temptin' an' shwate Wid cheeks like the roses, An' all the red posies That grow in her garden so nate. But I sat juat as mute as the dead Till she said, wid a toss of her head, " If I'd known that to-day Ye'd have nothing to say, I'd have gone with my cousin instead." Thin I felt myself grow very bold ; For I knew she'd not scold if I told Of the love in my heart, That would never depart, Though I lived to be wrinkled and old. An' I said : " If I dared to do so, I'd let go of the baste an' I'd throw Both arms round your waist An' be stalin' a taste Of thim lips that are coaxing me so." Thin she blushed a more illegant red, As she said without raising her head, An' her eyes lookin' down Neath her lashes so brown, " Would ye like me to drive, Mister Ted ? J; Anonymous. PADDLE YOUR OWN CANOE. Voyager upon life's sea, To yourself be true, And where'er your lot may be, Paddle your own canoe. Never, though the winds may rave, Falter nor look back, But upon the darkest wave lieave a shining track. Paddle Your Own Canoe. M Nobly dare the wildest storm, Stem the hardest gale ; Brave of heart and strong of arm You will never fail. When the world is cold and dark, Keep an aim in view, And toward the beacon-mark Paddle your own canoe. Every wave that bears you on To the silent shore, From its sunny source has gone, To return no more. Then let not an hour's delay Cheat you of your due ; But, while it is called to-day, Paddle your own canoe. Would you wrest the wreath of fame From the hand of Fate ; Would you write a deathless name, With the good and great ; Would you bless your fellow-men, Heart and soul imbue With the holy task, and then Paddle your own canoe. Would you crush the tyrant Wrong, In the world's free fight, With a spirit brave and strong, Battle for the Eight ; And to break the chains that bind The many to the few — To enfranchise slavish mind, Paddle your own canoe. Nothing great is lightly won^ Nothing won is lost, — Every good deed, nobly done Will repay the cost. 5S Tlie Poetical Speaker. Leave to Heaven, in humble trust, All you will to do ; But, if you succeed, you must Paddle your own canoe. Mrs. S. T. Boltow. THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. Our bugles sang truce, for the night cloud had lowered, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground over- powered, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, And thrice ere the morning I dreamed it again. Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track ; 'Twas autumn, and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. I flew to the pleasant fields, traversed so oft In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn- reapers sung. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore From my home and my weeping friends never to part ; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er, And my wife sobbed aloud in her fullness of heart. The Bivouac of the Dead. 57 u Stay, stay with us — rest, thou art weary and worn ; " And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay ; But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. Campbell. THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD. The muffled drum's sad roll lias beat The soldier's last tattoo ! No more on life's parade shall meet That brave and fallen few ; On Fame's eternal camping-ground Their silent tents are spread ; And Glory guards with silent round The bivouac of the dead. No rumor of the foe's advance Now swells upon the wind ; Nor troubled thought at midnight haunts Of loved ones left behind ; No vision of the warrior's strife The warrior's dream alarms ; No braying horn, no screaming fife At dawn shall call to arms. Their shivered swords are red with rust, Their plumed heads are bowed ; Their haughty banner, trailed in dust, Is now their martial shroud ; And plenteous funeral tears have washed The red stains from each brow ; And the proud forms by battle gashed Are free from anguish now. The neighing troop, the flashing blade The bugle's stirring blast, The charge, the dreadful cannonade, The din and shout are passed ; 58 The Poetical Speaker. Nor War's wild notes, nor Glory's peal Shall thrill with tierce delight Those hearts that never more may feel The rapture of the fight. Like the fierce northern hurricane That sweeps his great plateau, Flushed with the triumph yet to gain, Came down the serried ioe ; Who heard the thunder of the fray Break o'er the field beneath, Knew well the watchword of that day Was " Victory or Death ! " Now 'neath their parent turf they rest Far from the gory field, Borne to a Spartan mother's breast On many a bloody shield ; The sunshine of their native sky Smiles sadly on them here, And kindred eyes and hearts watch by The heroes' sepulchre. Eost on, embalmed and sainted dead ! Dear is the blood you gave — No impious footsteps here shall tread The herbage of your grave. Nor shall your glory be forgot While Fame her record keeps, Or Honor points the hallowed spot Where Valor proudly sleeps. Theodore O'Hara. : COURTSHIP OF LARRY O'DEE. Now the Widow McGee And Larry O'Dee Had two little cottages, out on the green, With just enough room for two pig-pens between. The widow was young, and the widow was fair, Courtship of Larry O'Dee. 59 With the brightest of eyes and the brownest of hair, And it frequently chanced, when she came in the morn, With the swill for her pig, Larry came with the corn, And some of the ears that he tossed from his hand In the pen of the widow were certain to land. One morning said he : 41 Och ! Misthress McGee, Its a washte of good lumber this running two rigs, Wid a fancy petition betwane our two pigs ! " " Tndade, sure it is ! " answered Widow McGee, With the sweetest of smiles upon Larry O'Dee. " And thin it looks kind o' hard-hearted and mane Eapin two frindly pigs so exsaidin'ly near, That whinever one grunts thin the other can hear, And yit kape a cruel petition betwane ! " " Shwate Widow McGee," Answered Larry O'Dee, " If ye fale in yer heart we are mane to the pigs, Ain't we mane to oursilves to be runnin' two rigs ? Och ! it made me heart ache when I paped through the cracks Of me shanty, last March, at yez shwingin' yer ax, An' a bobbin yer head, an' a sh torn pin' yer fate, Wid yer purty white hands jisht as red as a bate, A sphlittin' yer kindlin'-wood out in the shtorm, Whin one little shtove it would kape us both "Now, piggy," said she, " Larry's courtin o' me, CO The Poetical Speaker. Wid his dilicate, tinder allusion to you ; So now yez musht tell me jusht what I musht do. For, if I'm to say yes, shtir the shwill wid yer shnout ; But if I'm to say no, yez musht kape yer nose out. Now, Larry, for shame ! to be bribin' a pig By a-tossin' a handful of corn in its shwig ! " " Me darlint, the piggy says yes ! " answered he ; And that was the courtship of Larry O'Dee. W, W. Fink. THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, "When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen ; Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. For the angel of death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed ; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and And their hearts but once heaved, and forever were still ! Bong of the Mountain-Boy. 61 And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide, But through them there rolled not the breath of his pride ; And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray on the rock-beating surf. And there lay the rider, distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail ; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord. Byron. SONG OF THE MOUNTAIN-BOY. The mountain shepherd-bo}' am I ! Castles and lakes beneath me lie ! The sun's first rosy beams are mine ; At eve his latest on me shine ! I am the mountain-boy ! The flowing torrent here has mirth ; I drink it fresh from out the earth ; It gushes from its rocky bed, I catch it with my arms outspread ! I am the mountain-boy ! To me belongs the mountain height ; Around me tempests wing their flight ; From north and south their blasts they call My song is heard above them all ! I am the mountain-boy ! 62 The Poetical Speaker. Thunder and lightnings under me, The blue expanse above I see ; I greet the storms with friendly tone : " Oh leave my father's cot alone ! I am the mountain-boy ! " And when the tocsin calls to arms, And mountain bale-fires spread alarms, Then I descend and join the throng, And swing my sword, and sing my song : I am the mountain-boy ! From the German of Uhland. KIENZI'S ADDRESS TO THE ROMANS. Friends ! I come not here to talk. Ye know too well The story of our thraldom. We are slaves ! The bright sun rises to his course, and lights A race of slaves ! He sets, and his last beam Falls on a slave. Not such as, swept along By the full tide of power, the conqueror leads To crimson glory and undying fame ; — But base, ignoble slaves ! — slaves to a horde Of petty tyrants, feudal despots ; lords, Rich in some dozen paltry villages ; Strong in some hundred spearmen ; only great Ik that strange spell — a name ! Each hour, dark fraud, Or ^pen rapine, or protected murder, Cry oat against them. Bat this very day, An honest man, my neighbor, — there he stands, — Was struck — struck like a dog, by one who wore The badge of Ursini ! because, forsooth, He tossed not high his ready cap in air, Nor lifted up his voice in servile shouts, At sight of that great ruffian ! Be we men, And suffer such dishonor ? Men, and wash not The stain away in blood ? Such shames are common. Beauty, Wit, arid Gold. 63 I Lave known deeper wrongs. I, that speak to you — I had a brother once, a gracious boy, Full of all gentleness, of calmest hope, Of sweet and quiet joy ; there was the look Of Heaven upon his face, which limners give To the beloved disciple. How I loved That gracious boy ! Younger by fifteen years, Brother at once and son ! He left my side, A summer bloom on his fair cheeks — a smile Parting his innocent lips. In one short hour, The pretty, harmless boy was slain ! I saw The corse, the mangled corse, and then I cried For vengeance ! Rouse, ye Romans ! Rouse, ye slaves ! Have ye brave sons ? — Look in the next fierce brawl To see them die ! Have ye fair daughters ? — Look To see them live, torn from your arms, distained, Dishonored ; and if ye dare call for justice, Be answered by the lash ! Yet, this is Rome, That sate on her seven hills, and from her throne Of beauty ruled the world ! Yet, Ave are Romans. Why, in that elder day, to be a Roman Was greater than a King ! And once again — Hear me, ye walls, that echoed to the tread Of either Brutus ! — once again I swear The Eternal City shall be free ! Mary Russell Mttford. BEAUTY, WIT, AND GOLD. In a bower a widow dwelt ; At her feet three suitors knelt ; Each adored the widow much, Each essayed her heart to touch ; One had wit, and one had gold, And one was cast m beauty's mold ; 64 Tlic Poetical Speaker. Guess which was it won the prize, Purse, or tongue, or nandsome eyes \ First appeared the handsome man, Proudly peeping o'er her fan ; Red his lips and white his skin — Could such beauty fail to win ? Then stepped forth the man of gold ; Cash he counted, coin he told, "Wealth the burden of his tale — Could such golden projects fail ? Then the man of wit and sense Wooed her with his eloquence, Now she blushed, she knew not why ; Now a tear was in her eye ; Then she smiled to hear him speak ; Then the tear was on her cheek ; Beauty, vanish ! Gold, depart ! Wit has won the widow's heart. Moons. THE BIRD AND THE BABY. What does little birdie say In her nest at peep of day ? Let me fly, says little birdie, Mother, let me fly away. Birdie, rest a little longer, Till the little wings are stronger. So it rests a little longer, Then it flies away. What does little baby say, In her bed at peep of day % Baby says, like little birdie, Let me rise and fly away. Baby, sleep a little longer, Till the little wings are stronger. If she sleeps a little longer, Baby too shall fly away. Alfred Tennyson, Tfie Jolly Old Crotv. 65 FROGS AT SCHOOL. Twenty froggies went to school Down beside a rushy pool, — Twenty little coats of green ; Twenty vests, all white and clean. " "We must be in time," said they : " First we study then we play : That is how we keep the rule, When we froggies go to rohool." Master Bullfrog, grave anu stern, Called the classes in their turn ; Taught them how to nobly strive, Likewise how to leap and dive ; From his seat upon the log, Showed them how to say " Ker-chog ! " Also how to dodge a blow From the sticks that bad boys throw. Twenty froggies grew up fast ; Bullfrogs they became at last ; Not one dunce among the lot ; Not one lesson they forgot ; Polished in a high degree, As each froggie ought to be. Now they sit on other logs, Teaching other little frogs. Anonymous. THE JOLLY OLD CROW. On the limb of an oak sat a jolly old crow, And chattered away with glee, with glee, As he saw the old farmer go out to sow, And he cried, " It's all for me, for me ! " Look, look, how he scatters his seeds around ; He is wonderful kind to the poor, the poor ; If he'd empty it down in a pile on the ground, I could find it much better, I'm sure, I'm sure H6 Tlie Poetical Speaker. " I've learned all the tricks of this wonderful man, Who has such a regard for the crow, the crow, That he lays out his grounds in a regular plan, And covers his corn in a row, a row ! " He must have a very great fancy for me ; He tries to entrap me enough, enough ; But I measure his distance as well as he, And when he comes near, I'm off, I'm off!" Anonymous. THE INQUIRY. Tell me, ye winged winds, that round my path- way roar, Do ye not know some spot where mortals weep no more ? Some lone and pleasant dell, some valley in the west, Where, free from toil and pain, the weary soul may rest ? The loud wind dwindled to a whisper low, And sigh'd for pity as it answer'd — " No." Tell me, thou mighty deep, whose billows round me play — Know'st thou some favor'd spot, some island far away, Where weary man may find the bliss for which he sighs — Where sorrow never lives and friendship never dies ? The loud waves rolling in perpetual flow Stopp'd for awhile, and sigh'd to answer — " No." Then thou, serenest moon, that, with such lovely face, Dost look upon the earth, asleep in night's em- brace, The Lady-Bug and the Ant W Tell me, in all thy round, hast thou not seen some spot Where miserable man might find a happier lot? Behind the cloud the moon withdrew in woe, And a voice, sweet, but sad, responded — "No." Tell me, my secret soul — oh, tell me, Hope and Faith, Is there no resting-place from sorrow, sin and death !— Is there no happy spot where mortals may be bless'd, Where grief may find a balm, and weariness a rest ? Faith, Hope and Love, best boons to mortals given, Waved their bright wings, and whisper' d — " Yes, in Heaven ! " Charles Mackay. THE LADY-BUG AND THE ANT. The Lady-bug sat in the rose's heart, And smiled with pride and scorn, As she saw a plain-dressed Ant go by, With a heavy grain of corn ; So she drew the curtains of damask round, And adjusted her silken vest, Making her glass of a drop of dew, That lay in the rose's breast. Then she laughed so loud, that the Ant looked up, And seeing her haughty face, Took no more notice, but travelled on At the same industrious pace : — But a sudden blast of autumn came, And rudely swept the ground, And down the rose with the Lady-bug bent, And scattered its leaves around. 68 Tlie Poetical Speaker. Then the houseless Lady was much amazed, For she knew not where to go, And hoarse November's early blast Had brought with it rain and snow : Her wings were chilled, and her feet were cold, And she wished for the Ant's warm cell, And what she did in the wintry snow I'm sure I cannot tell. But the careful Ant was in her nest, With her little ones by her side ; She taught them all like herself to toil, Nor mind the sneer of pride ; And I thought, as I sat at the close of the day, Eating my bread and milk, It was wiser to work and improve my time, Than be idle and dress in silk. Anonymous. THE RIDDLER. There went a rider on a roan, By rock and hill, and afl alone, And asked of men these questions three : " Who may the greatest miller be ? What baker baked ere Adam's birth ? What washer washes the most on earth ? " And still the rider went his way By cities old and castles gray, In morning red or moonlight dim, Unto the sea where ships do swim ; And yet no man could answer him. He reined his horse upon the sand : " There is no lord in any land Can answer right my questions three : — Old fisher, sitting by the sea, Canst tell me where those craftsmen be ? " The Captain's Daughter. 6 Then 6poke the fisher of the mere : " The earth is dark, the water clear, And where the sea against the land Is grinding rocks and shells to sand, I see the greatest miller's hand. " The baker who baked before the morn When Adam was in Eden born, Is Heat, that God made long before, Which dries the sand upon the shore, And hardens it to rock once more. " And the water, falling night and day, Is the washer, washing all away ; All melts in time before the rain, The mountain sinks into the plain : So the great world comes and goes again." " Thou, Silver Beard, hast spoken well, With wisdom most commendable ; So bind thee with this golden band ! " The light was red upon the strand ; The rider's road lay dark in-land. Chakles G. Leland. THE CAPTAIN'S DAUGHTER. 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 thins: in winter To be shattered by the blast, And to hear the rattling trumpet Thunder, " Cut away the mast ! " So we shuddered there in silence : For the stoutest held his breath, While the hungry sea was roaring, And the breakers talked with Death. 70 TJie Poetical Speaker. And as thus we sat in darkness, Each one busy in 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, u 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. MONTEREY. We were not many — we who stood Before the iron sleet that day ; Yet many a gallant spirit would Give half his years if he but could Have been with us at Monterey. Now here, now there, the shot it hailed In deadly drifts of fiery spray. Yet not a single soldier quailed When wounded comrades round them wailed Their dying shout at Monterey. And on — still on our column kept Through walls of flame its withering way : Where fell the dead, the living stepped, Still charging on the guns that swept The slippery streets of Monterey. The foe himself recoiled aghast, When, striking where the strongest lay, We swooped his Hanking batteries past, And braving full their murderous blast, Stormed home the towers of Monterey. The Old Clock on the Stairs. 71 Our banners on those towers wave, And there our evening bugles play ; Where orange boughs above their grave, Keep green the memory of the brave Who fought and fell at Monterey. We were not many — we who pressed Beside the brave who fell that day ; But who of us has not confessed He'd rather share their warrior rest Than not have been at Monterey ? Charles F. Hoffman. THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. Somewhat back from the village street Stands the old-fashioned country-seat. Across its antique portico Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw ; And from its station in the hall An ancient timepiece says to all, — " For ever — never ! Never — for ever ! " Half-way up the stairs it stands, And points and beckons with its hands, From its case of massive oak, Like a monk, who, under his cloak, Crosses himself, and sighs, alas ! With sorrowful voice to all who pass, — " For ever — never ! Never — for ever ! " By day its voice is low and light ; But in the silent dead of night, Distinct as a passing footstep's fall, It echoes along the vacant hall, Along the ceiling, along the floor, And seems to say, at each chamber-door,- " For ever — never ! Never — for ever ! " 72 The Poetical Speaker, Through days of sorrow and of mirth, Through days of death aud days of birth, Through every swift vicissitude Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood, And as if, like God, it all things saw, It calmly repeats those words of awe, — " For ever — never ! Never — for ever I " In that mansion used to be Free hearted Hospitality ; His great fires up the chimney soared ; The stranger feasted at his board ; But, like the skeleton at the feast, That warning timepiece never ceased, — " For ever — never ! Never — for ever ! " There groups of merry children played There youths and maidens dreaming strayed; O precious hours ! O golden prime, And affluence of love and time ! Even as a miser counts his gold, Those hours the ancient timepiece told, — " For ever — never ! Never — for ever ! " From that chamber, clothed in white, The bride came forth on her wedding night ; There in that silent room below, The dead lay in his shroud of snow ; And in the hush that followed the prayer, SVas heard the old clock on the stair, — " For ever — never ! Never — for ever ! " All are scattered now and fled, Some are married, some are dead ; And when I ask, with throbs of pain, u Ah ! when shall they all meet again ! " About the Fairies. 78 As in the days long since gone by, The ancient timepiece makes reply, — " For ever — never ! Never — for ever ! " Never here, for ever there, Where all parting, pain, and care, And death and time shall disappear, — For ever there, but never here ! The horologe of Eternity Sayeth this incessantly, — " For ever — never ! Never — for ever ! " Longfellow. ABOUT THE FAIRIES. Pray, where are the little bluebells gone, That lately bloomed in the wood ? Why, the little fairies have each taken one, And put it on for a hood. And where are the pretty grass-stalks gone, That waved in the summer breeze ? Oh, the fairies have taken them every one, To plant in their gardens, like trees. And where are the great big bluebottles gone, That buzzed in their busy pride ? Oh, the fairies have caught them every one, And have broken them in, to ride. And they've taken the glowworms to light their halls, And the cricket to sing them a song, And the great red rose-leaves to paper their walls, And they're feasting the whole night long. But when spring comes back with its soft, mild ray, And the ripple of gentle rain, 74 The Poetical Speaker. The fairies bring back what they've taken away, And give it us all again. Anonymous. ADDRESS TO THE OCEAN. Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — roll ! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; Man marks the earth with ruin — his control Stops with thy shore ; — upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, He sinks into thy depths witli bubbling groan, Without a grave, un knelled, un coffined, and un- known. His steps are not upon thy paths, — thy fields Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise And shake him from thee ; the vile strength he wields For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, And send'st him, shivering, in thy playful spray, And howling, to his gods, where haply lies His petty hope in some near port or bay, And dashest him again to earth : — there let him lay. The armaments which thunderstrike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, And monarchs tremble in their capitals, The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war ; These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, The}' melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. The Lamb Tliat Was Missed. 75 Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee ; — Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are " they ? Thy waters wasted them while they were free, And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts : not so thou — Unchangeable — save to thy wild waves' play — Time writes no wrinkles on thine azure brow — Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollestnow. Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time, Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm, Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime Dark-heaving — boundless, endless, and sub- lime ; The image of Eternity — the throne Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. Byron. THE LAMB THAT WAS MISSED. At the shepherd's doorway stands his little son, Sees the sheep come trooping home, counts them one by one ; But he starts in sorrow when no trace is shown Of the little snow-white lamb, left alone, alone. Up the hill runs Henry, through the drifting snow, Minds not though the icy winds fierce and fiercer blow. He is near the summit ; hark ! he hears a moan — Yes, he finds the little lamb, left alone, alone, 76 The Poetical Speaker. See the poor thing panting, struggling on the ground ; Round the pretty creature's neck Henry's arms are wound ; Soon within his bosom, all its bleatings done, Home he bears the little lamb, left alone, alone. Oh, the happy faces by the shepherd's fire ! High without the tempest roars, but the laugh rings higher. Young and old together make that joy their own, In their midst the little lamb, left alone, alone ! Anonymous. CLEON AND I. Cleon hath a million acres — Ne'er a one have I ; Cleon dwelleth in a palace — In a cottage, I. Cleon hath a dozen fortunes — Not a penny, I ; But the poorer of the twain is Cleon, and not I. Cleon, true, possesseth acres, But the landscape, I ; Half the charms to me it yieldeth Money cannot buy ; Cleon harbors sloth and dulness, Freshening vigor, I ; He in velvet, I in fustian, — Richer man am I. Cleon is a slave to grandeur — Free as thought am I ; Cleon fees a score of doctors — Need of none have I ; Wealth-surrounded, care-environed, Cleon fears to die ; Death may come, he'll find me ready, Happier man am I, TJie Old and the Piissy-Cat. 11 Cleon sees no charms in Nature — In a daisy, I ; Cleon bears no anthem ringing In the sea and sky ; Nature sings to me forever — Earnest listener, I ; State for state, with all attendants. Who would change ? — Not I. Charles Mackay. THE OWL AND THE PUSSY-CAT. The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea In a beautiful pea-green boat ; They took some honey and plenty of money Wrapped up in a five-pound note. The Owl looked up to the moon above, And sang to a small guitar, " O lovely Pussy ! O Pussy, my love ! What a beautiful Pussy you are, — You are, What a beautiful Pussy you are ! " Puss said to the Owl, " You elegant fowl ! How wonderful sweet you sing! O let us be married, — too long we have tar- ried, — But what shall we do for a ring ? " They sailed away for a year and a day To the land where the bong-tree grows, And there in the wood a piggy-wig stood With a ring in the end of his nose, — His nose, With a ring in the end of his nose. " Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shil- ling Your ring? " Said the piggy, " I will.'' So they took it away, and were married next day 78 The Poetical Speaker. By the turkey who lives on the hill. They dined upon mince and slices of quince, Which they ate with a runcible spoon, And hand in hand on the edge of the sand They danced by the light of the moon, — The moon, They danced by the light of the moon. Anonymous. THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN. It was a tall young oysterman lived by the river- side, His shop was just upon the bank, his boat was on the tide ; The daughter of a fisherman, that was so straight and slim. Lived over on the other bank, righ t opposite to him. It was the pensive oysterman that saw a lovely maid, Upon a moonlight evening, a sitting in the shade ; He saw her wave her handkerchief, as much as if to say, "I'm wide awake, young oysterman, and all the folks away." Then up arose the oysterman and to himself said he: " I guess I'll leave the skiff at home, for fear that folks should see ; I read it in the story-book, that, for to kiss his dear, Leander swam the Hellespont, — and I will swim this here." And he has leaped into the waves, and crossed the shining stream, And he has clambered up the bank, all in the moonlight gleam ; The Boy and the Ring. 79 O there were kisses sweet as dew, and words as soft as rain, — But they have heard her father's step, and in he leaps again ! Out spcke the ancient fisherman, — u O what was tnaftj my daughter?" " 'Twas nothing but a pebble, sir, I threw into the water." " And what is that, pray tell me, love, that pad- dles off so fast ? " " It's nothing but a porpoise, sir, that's been a swimming past." Out spoke the ancient fisherman, — " Now bring me my harpoon ! I'll get into my fishing-boat, and fix the fellow soon." Down fell that pretty innocent, as falls a snow- white lamb, Her hair drooped round her pallid cheek, like seaweed on a clam. Alas for those two loving ones ! she waked not from her swound, And he was taken with a cramp, and in the waves was drowned ; But fate has metamorphosed them, in pity of their woe, And now they keep an oystershop for mermaids down below. Oliver Wendell Holmes. THE BOY AND THE RING. Fair chance held fast is merit. Once a king Of Persia had a jewel in a ring. He set it on the dome of Azud high, And, when they saw it flashing in the sky, Made proclamation to his royal troop That who should send an arrow through the hoop That held the gem should have the ring to wear. 80 TJie Poetical Speaker. It happened that four hundred archers were In the king's company about the king. Each took his aim, and shot, and missed the ring. A boy at play upon the terraced roof Of a near building bent his bow aloof At random, and, behold ! the morning breeze His little arrow caught and bore with ease Right through the circlet of the gem. The king, Well pleased, unto the boy assigned the ring. Then the boy burnt his arrows and his bow. The king, astonished, said, " Why dost thou so, Seeing thy first shot hath had great success ? " He answered, " Lest my second make that less." Anonymous. THE USE OF FLOWERS. God might have made the earth bring forth enough for great and small — The oak tree and the cedar tree — without a flower at all : Then wherefore, wherefore were they made, all dyed with rainbow light, All fashioned with supremest grace, upspringing day and night — Springing in valleys green and low, and on the mountain high, And in the silent wilderness where no man passes by ? Our outward life requires them not — then where- fore had they birth % To minister delight to man ! to beautify the earth ! To him whose bones are mouldering there. J. PlBBPONT. THE BELLS. Hear the sledges with the bells — Silver bells ! What a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night ! While the stars that oversprinkle All the heavens, seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight ; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells, From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells — From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells Hear the mellow wedding bells — Golden bells ! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight ! From the molten-golden notes, And all in tune, What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats On the moon ! Oh, from out the sounding cells, Tfie Bells. 105 What a gush of euphony voluminously wells ! How it swells ! How it dwells On the Future ! how it tells Of the rapture that impels To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, bells, bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells — To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells ! Hear the loud alarum bells — Brazen bells ! What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells ! In the startled ear of night How they scream out their affright ! Too much horrified to speak, They can only shriek, shriek, Out of tune, In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic Leaping higher, higher, higher, [fire With a desperate desire, And a resolute endeavor Now — now to sit or never. By the side of the pale-faced moon. Oh, the bells, bells,, bells ! What a tale their terror tells Of Despair ! How they clang, and clash, and roar ! What a horror they outpour On the bosom of the palpitating air ! Yet the ear it fully knows, By the twanging, And the clanging, How the danger ebbs and flows ; Yet the ear distinctly tells, In the jangling. And the wrangling, How the danger sinks and swells. 106 Tlie Poetical Speaker. By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells — Of the bells— Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells — In the clamor and the clangor of the bells ! Hear the tolling of the bells — Iron bells ! What a world of solemn thought their monody compels ! In the silence of the night, How we shiver with affright At the melancholy menace of their tone ! For every sound that floats From the rust within their throats Is a groan. And the people — ah, the people — They that dwell up in the steeple, All alone, And who tolling, tolling, tolling, In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone — They are neither man nor woman — They are neither brute nor human — They are Ghouls : And their king it is who tolls ; And he rolls, rolls, rolls, Kolls, A paean from the bells ! And his merry bosom swells With the paean of the bells ! And he dances, and he yells ; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the paean of the bells — Of the bells : Keeping time, time, time, Jn a sort of Bunic rhvme ? The Birth of Ireland. 107 To the throbbing of the bells — Of the bells, bells, bells — To the sobbing of the bells ; Keeping time, time, time, As he knells, knells, knells, In a happy Runic rhyme, To the rolling of the bells — Of the bells, bells, bells — To the tolling of the bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells — Bells, bells, bells— To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. Edgar A. Poe. THE BIRTH OF IRELAND. "With due condescension, I'd call your attention to what I shall mention of Erin so green, And, without hesitation, I'll show how that nation became, of creation, the gem and the queen. " 'Twas early one morning, without any warning. that Van us was born in the beautiful Say ; And, by the same token, and sure 'twas provok- ing, her pinions were soaking, and wouldn't give play. " Old Neptune, who knew her, began to pursue her, in order to woo her — the wicked old Jew — And almost had caught her atop of the water — great Jupiter's daughter ! — which never would do. " But Jove, the great janius, looked down and saw Tan us and Neptune so heinous pursuing her wild, And lie spoke out in thunder he'd rend him asunder — and sure 'twas no wonder — for tazing his child. 108 TJie Poetical Speaker. " A star that was flying hard by him espying, he caught with small trying and down let it snap ; It fell quick as winking on Neptune a-sinking, and gave him, I'm thinking, a bit of a rap. " That star it was dryland, both lowland and highland, and formed a sweet island, the land of my birth : Thus plain is the story that, sent down from glory, old Erin asthore is the gem of the earth ! " Upon Erin nately jumped Yanus so stately, but fainted ka$e lately so hard she was pressed ; "Which much did bewilder, but, ere it had killed her, her father distilled her a drop of the best. " That sup was victorious ; it made her feel glorious — a little uproarious, I fear it might prove — So how can ye blame us that Ireland's so famous for drinking and beauty, for fighting and love?" Anonymous. PETER'S RIDE TO THE WEDDING. Peter would ride to the wedding — he would, So he mounted his ass — and his wife She was to ride behind, if she could, " For," says Peter, " the woman, she should Follow, not lead through life." " He's mighty convenient, the ass, my dear, And proper and safe — and now You hold by the tail, while I hold by the ear, And we'll ride to the kirk in time, never fear, If the wind and the weather allow," Peter's Ride to the Wedding. 109 The wind and the weather were not to be blamed, But the ass had adopted the whim That two at a time was a load never framed For the back of one ass, and he seemed quite ashamed That two should stick fast upon him. 11 Come, Dobbin," says Peter, " I'm thinking we'll trot." " I'm thinking we won't," says the ass, In language of conduct, and stuck to the spot As if he had shown he would sooner be shot Than lift up a toe from the grass. Says Peter, says he, " I'll whip him a little," — u Try it, my dear," says she, — But he might just as well have whipped a brass kettle ; The ass was made of such obstinate mettle That never a step moved he. " I'll prick him, my dear, with a needle," said she, " I'm thinking he'll alter his mind," — The ass felt the needle, and up went his heels ; " I'm thinking," says she, u he's beginning to feel Some notion of moving — behind." " Now lend me the needle and I'll prick his ear, And set t'other end, too, agoing." The ass felt the needle, and upward he reared; But kicking and rearing was all, it appeared, He had any intention of doing. Says Peter, says he, " We get on rather slow ; While one end is up t'other sticks to the ground ; 110 The Poetical Speaker. But I'm thinking a method to move him I know, Let's prick head and tail together, and so Give the creature a start all around." So said, so done ; all hands were at work, And the ass he did alter his mind. For he started away with so sudden a jerk, That in less than a trice he arrived at the kirk, But he left all his lading behind. Anonymous. LITTLE GO-uDENHAIR. Goldenhair climbed up on grandpapa's knee ; Dear .little Goldenhair, tired was she, All the day busy as busy could be. Up in the morning as soon as 'twas light, Out with the birds and butterflies bright, Skipping about till the coming of night. Grandpapa toyed with the curls on her head. " What has my darling been doing," he said, " Since she arose with the sun from her bed ? " " Pitty much," answered the sweet little one. " I cannot tell so much things I have done, Played with my dolly and feeded rny bun. " And then I jumped with my little jump-rope, And I made out of some water and soap Bootif ul worlds, mamma's castles of hope. " Then I have readed in my picture-book, And Bella and I we went to look For the smooth little stones by the side of the brook. " And then I corned home and eated my tea, And I climbed up on grandpapa's knee, And I jes as tired as tired can be." Mrs. Lofty and I. Ill Lower and lower the little head pressed, Until it had dropped upon grandpapa's breast; Dear little Goldenhair, sweet be thy rest 1 We are but children ; things that we do Are as sports of a babe to the Infinite view, That marks all our weakness, and pities it too. God grant that when night overshadows our way, And we shall be called to account for our day, He shall find us as guileless as Goldenhair's lay. And O, when aweary, may we be so blest, And sink like the innocent child to our rest, And feel ourselves clasped to the Infinite breast! Anonymous. MRS. LOFTY AND I. Mrs. Lofty keeps a carriage, So do I ; She has dapple grays to draw it ; None have I ; She's no prouder with her coachman Than am I With my blue-eyed laughing baby, Trundling by ; I hide his face lest she should see The cherub boy, and envy me. Her fine husband has white fingers, Mine has not ; He could give his bride a palace, — Mine a cot ; Hers comes home beneath the starlight, Ne'er cares she ; Mine comes in the purple twilight, Kisses me, And prays that He who turns life's sands Will hold His loved ones in His hands. liS Tlie Poetical Speaker. Mrs. Lofty has her jewels, So have I ; She wears hers upon her bosom, — Inside I ; She will leave hers at Death's portal, By-and-by ; I shall bear my treasure with me "When I die ; For I have love, and she has gold ; She counts her wealth ; — mine can't be told. She has those who love her station, None have I ; But I've one true heart beside me — Glad am I ; I'd not change it for a kingdom, No, not I ; God will weigh it in his balance, By-and-by ; And the difference define 'Twixt Mrs. Lofty's wealth and mine. Anonymous. LITTLE AND GREAT. A little spring had lost its way Amid the grass and fern ; A passing stranger scooped a well, "Where weary men might turn. He walled it in and hung with care A ladle at the brink : He thought not of the deed he did, But judged that toil might drink. He passed again — and lo ! the well, By summers never dried, Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues, And saved a life beside. Anonymous. The Hunter ». 118 THE HUNTERS. In the bright October morning Savoy's Duke had left his bride ; From the Castle, past the drawbridge, Flowed the hunters' merry tide. Steeds are neighing, gallants glittering. Gay, her smiling lord to greet, From her mullioned chamber casement Smiles the Duchess Marguerite. From Vienna by the Danube Here she came, a bride, in spring. Now the autumn crisps the forest ; Hunters gather, bugles ring. Hark ! the game's on foot, they scatter : Down the forest riding lone, Furious, single horsemen gallop. Hark ! a shout — a crash — a groan ! Pale and breathless, came the hunters ; On the turf, dead lies the boar, But the Duke lies stretched beside him, Senseless, weltering in his gore. In the dull October evening, Down the leaf -strewn forest road, To the Castle, past the drawbridge, Came the hunters with their load. In the hall, with sconces blazing, Ladies waiting round her seat, Clothed in smiles, beneath the dais Sat the Duchess Marguerite. Hark ! below the gates unbarring ! Tramp of men and quick commands ! — " 'Tis my lord come back from hunting." And the Duchess claps her hands. 114 T)ie Poetical Speahcf. Slow and tired came the hunters ; Stopped in darkness in the court. — " Ho, this way, ye laggard hunters ! To the hall ! What sport, what sport ? " Slow they entered with their Master; In the hall they laid him down. On his coat were leaves and blood-stains, On his brow an angry frown. Dead her princely youthful husband, Lay before his youthful wife ; Bloody 'neath the flaring sconces : And the sight froze all her life. In Vienna by the Danube Kings hold revel, gallants meet. Gay of old amid the gayest Was the Duchess Marguerite. In Vienna by the Danube Feast and dance her youth beguiled. Till that hour she never sorrowed ; But from then she never smiled. Matthew Arnold. BETTER THINGS. Better to smell the violet cool, than sip the glow- ing wine ; Better to hark a hidden brook, than watch a dia- mond shine. Better the love of a gentle heart, than beauty's favor proud ; Better the rose's living seed, than roses in a crowd. Better to love in loneliness, than to bask in love all day ; Better the fountain in the heart, than the f oun' tain by the way. An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog. 115 Better be fed by a mother's hand, than eat alone at will ; Better to trust in God, than say : " My goods my storehouse till." Better to be a little wise, than in knowledge to abound ; Better to teach a child, than toil to fill perfec- tion's round. Better to sit at a master's feet, than thrill a list- ening State ; Better suspect that thou art proud, than be sure that thou art great. Better to walk the real unseen, than watch the hour's event ; Better the " Well done ! " at the last, than the air with shouting rent. Better to have a quiet grief, than a hurrying de- light; Better the twilight of the dawn, than the noon- day burning bright. Better a death when work is done, than earth's most favored birth ; Better a child in God's great house, than the king of all the earth. George MacDonald. AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. Good people all of every sort, Give ear unto my song ; And if you find it wondrous short, It cannot hold you long. In Islington there lived a man, Of whom the world might say, That still a goodly race he ran Whene'er he went to pray. 116 The Poetical Speaker. A kind and gentle heart had he, To comfort friends and foes ; The naked every day he clad When he put on his clothes. And in that town a dog was found, As many dogs there be, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree. This dog and man at first were friends ; But when a pique began, The dog to gain his private ends, Went mad, and bit the man. Around from all the neighboring streets The wondering neighbors ran, And swore the dog had lost his wits, To bite so good a man. The wound it seemed both sore and sad To every Christian eye ; And while they swore the dog was mad, They swore the man would die. But soon a wonder came to light, That showed the rogues they lied : The man recovered of the bite, The dog it was that died. Oliver Goldsmith. OLD TUBAL CAIN. Old Tubal Cain was a man of might In the days when the earth was young ; By the fierce red light of his furnace bright The strokes of his hammer rung ; And he lifted high his brawny hand On the iron glowing clear, Till the sparks rushed out in scarlet showers As he fashioned the sword and spear ; Old Tubal Cain. 117 And he sang, " Hurrah for my handiwork I Hurrah for the spear and sword ! Hurrah for the hand that wields them well, For he shall be king and lord ! " To Tubal Cain came many a one, As he wrought by his roaring fire ; And each one prayed for a strong steel blade, As the crown of his heart's desire. And he made them weapons sharp and strong, Till they shouted loud for glee, And gave him gifts of pearl and gold, And spoils of the forest-tree ; And they sang, " Hurrah for Tubal Cain, Who has given us strength anew ! Hurrah for the smith, and hurrah for the fire, And hurrah for the metal true ! " But a sudden change came o'er his heart Ere the setting of the sun ; And Tubal Cain was filled with pain For the evil he had done. He saw that men, with rage and hate, Made war upon their kind — That the land was fed with the blood they shed, And their lust for carnage blind ; And he said, " Alas ! that ever I made, Or that skill of mine should plan, The spear and sword for man, whose joy Is to slay his fellow-man." And for many a day old Tubal Cain Sat brooding o'er his woe ; And his hand forebore to smite the ore, And his furnace smouldered low ; But he rose at last with a cheerful face, And a bright courageous eye, And he bared his strong arm for the work, US The Poetical Speaker. "While the quick flames mounted high ; And he said, " Hurrah for my handiwork! " And the fire-sparks lit the air ; " Not alone for the blade was the bright steel made ! " And he fashioned the first ploughshare ! And men, taught wisdom from the past, In friendship joined their hands ; Hung the sword in the hall, and the spear on the wall, And ploughed the willing lands ; And sang, " Hurrah for Tubal Cain ! Our staunch good friend is he ; And for the ploughshare and the plough To him our prize shall be ! But when oppression lifts its hand, Or a tyrant would be lord, Though we may thank him for the plough, We'll not forget the sword ! " Charles Mackay. ARNOLD WLNKELRIED. In the battle of Sempach, in the fourteenth century, this martyr-patriot, perceiving that there was no other means of breaking the heavy-armed lines of the Austrians than by gathering as many of the spears as he could grasp to- gether, opened, by this means, a passage for his fellow- combatants, who, with hammers and hatchets, hewed down the mailed men-at-arms, and won the victory. " Make way for liberty ! " he cried — Made way for liberty, and died ! In arms the Austrian phalanx stood, A living wall, a human wood ; Impregnable their front appears, All horrent with projected spears. Opposed to these, a hovering band Contended for their fatherland, Arnold Winkelried. 119 Peasants, whose new-found strength had broke From manly necks the ignoble yoke ; Marshalled once more at Freedom's call, They came to conquer or to fall. And now the work of life and death Hung on the passing of a breath ; The lire of conflict burned within ; The battle trembled to begin ; Yet, while the Austrians held their ground, Point for assault was nowhere found ; Where'er the impatient Switzers gazed, The unbroken line of lances blazed ; That line 'twere suicide to meet, And perish at their tyrants' feet. How could they rest within their graves, To leave their homes the haunts of slaves % Would they not feel their children tread, With clanking chains, above their head ? It must not be ; this day, this hour, Annihilates the invader's power ! All Switzerland is in the field — She will not fly ; she cannot yield ; She must not fall ; her better fate Here gives her an immortal date. Few were the numbers she could boast, But every freeman was a host. And felt as 'twere a secret known That one should turn the scale alone, While each unto himself was he On whose sole arm hung victory. It did depend on one, indeed ; Behold him — Arnold Winkelried ! There sounds not to the trump of Fame The echo of a nobler name. Unmarked, he stood amid the throng, Jn rumination deep and long, 120 The Poetical Speaker. Till yon might see. with sudden grace, The very thought come o'er his face ; And, by the motion of his form. Anticipate the bursting storm ; And, by the uplifting of his brow. Tell where the bolt would strike, and how. But 'twas no sooner thought than done — The field was in a moment won ! " Make way for liberty ! " he cried, Then ran, with arms extended wide, As if his dearest friend to clasp ; Ten spears he swept within his grasp. " Make way for liberty ! " he cried ; Their keen points crossed from side to side ; He bowed among them, like a tree, And thus made way for liberty. Swift to the breach his comrades fly — " Make way for liberty ! " they cry, And through the Austrian phalanx dart, As rushed the spears through Arnold's heart, While, instantaneous as his fall, Rout, ruin, panic seized them all. An earthquake could not overthrow A city with a surer blow. Thus Switzerland again was free — Thus death made way for liberty ! James Montgomery. CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE AT BALAKLAVA. Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. " Forward, the Light Brigade ! " " Charge for the guns ! " he said : Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. Charge of the Light Brigade at Balaklava. 121 " Forward, the Light Brigade ! " Was there a man dismayed ? Not though the soldier knew Some one had blundered : Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die, Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them, Volleyed and thundered ; Stormed at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell Rode the six hundred : Flashed all their sabres bare, Flashed as they turned in air, Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wondered : Plunged in the battery-smoke, Right through the line they broke; Cossack and Russian Reeled from the sabre-stroke Shattered and sundered. Then they rode back, but not — Not the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them Volleyed and thundered ; Stormed at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell, Thev that had fought so well 122 The Poetical Speaker. Came through the jaws of Death Back from the mouth of Hell, All that was left of them, Left of six hundred. When can their glory fade ! O, the wild charge they made ! All the world wondered. Honor the charge they made ! Honor the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred ! Alfred Tennyson. BEAUTIFUL SNOW. Oh ! the snow, the beautiful snow, Filling the sky and the earth below ; Over the house-tops, over the street, Over the heads of the people you meet ; Dancing, Flirting, Skimming along. Beautiful snow ! it can do nothing wrong. Flying to kiss a fair lady's cheek ; Clinging to lips in a frolicsome freak. Beautiful snow, from the heavens above Pure as an agel and fickle as love ! Oh ! the snow, the beautiful snow ! How the flakes gather and laugh as they go ! Whirling about in its maddening fun, It plays in its glee with every one. Chasing, Laughing, Hurrying by It lights up the face and it sparkles the eye ; And even the dogs, with a bark and abound, Snap at the crystals that eddy around. The town is alive, and its heart in a glow. To welcome the coming of beautiful snow. Beautiful Snow. 128 How the wild crowd goes swaying along, Hailing each other with humor and song ! How the gay sledges like meteors flash by — Bright for a moment, then lost to the eye, Kinging, Swinging, Dashing they go Over the crest of the beautiful snow : Snow so pure when it falls from the sky, To be trampled in mud by the crowd rush- ing by : To be trampled and tracked by the thou- sands of feet Till it blends with the filth in the horrible street. Once I was pure as the snow — but I fell : Fell, like the snow-flakes, from heaven — to hell : Fell, to be tramped as the filth of the street : Fell, to be scoffed, to be spit on, and beat. Pleading, Cursing, Dreading to die, Selling my soul to whoever would buy, Dealing in shame for a morsel of bread, Hating the living and fearing the dead. Merciful God ! have I fallen so low ? And yet I was once like this beautiful snow ! Once I was fair as the beautiful snow, With an eye like its crystals, a heart like its glow ; Once I was loved for my innocent grace — Flattered and sought for the charm of my face. Father, Mother, Sisters all, God, and myself, I have lost by my fall 134 Tlie Poetical Speaker. The veriest wretch that goes shivering by Will take a wide sweep, lest I wander too nigh ; For all that is on or about me, I know There is nothing that's pure but the beauti- ful snow. How strange it should be that this beautif a. snow Should fall on a sinner with nowhere to go ! How strange it would be, when the night comes again, If the snow and the ice struck my desperate brain ! Fainting, Freezing, Dying alone ! Too wicked for prayer, too weak for my moan To be heard in the crash of the crazy town, Gone mad in their joy at the snow's coming down ; To lie and to die in my terrible woe, With a bed and a shroud of the beautiful snow ' John W. Watson. BINGEN ON THE RHINE. A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, There w r as lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears ; But a comrade stood beside him, while his life- blood ebbed away, And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say. The dying soldier faltered, as he took that com- rade's hand, And he said, " I never more shall se? my own, mv native land : Bingen on the Rhine. 125 Take a message, and a token, to some distant friends of mine, For I was born at Bingen — at Bingen on the Rhine ! " Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around To hear my mournful story in the pleasant vine- yard ground, That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done, Full many a corpse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting sun. And midst the dead and dying were some grown old in wars, The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars : But some were young — and suddenly beheld life's morn decline ; And one had come from Bingen — fair Bingen on the Rhine ! " Tell my mother that her other sons shall com- fort her old age, And I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage : For my father was a soldier, and even as a child My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of strug- gles fierce and wild : And when he died and left us to divide his scanty hoard, I let them take whate'er they would, but kept my father's sword ; And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine, On the cottage-wall at Bingen — calm Bingen on the Rhine ! " Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head, TJO Tlie Poetical Speaker When the troops are marching home again, with glad and gallant tread ; But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye, For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die. And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame ; And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine) For the honor of old Bingen — dear Bingen on the Rhine ! " There's another — not a sister : in the happy days gone by, You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye ; Too innocent for coquetry — too fond for idle scorning — Oh ! friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning ; Tell her the last night of my life (for ere the moon be risen My body will be out of pain — my soul be out of prison), I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine On the vine-clad hills of Bingen — fair Bingen on the Rhine ! " I saw the blue Rhine sweep along — I heard, or seemed to hear, The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear ; And down the pleasant river, and up the slant- ing hill, The echoing chorus sounded, through the even- ing calm and still ; The Bobolink 107 And her glad blue eyes were on me as we passed with friendly talk Down many a path beloved of yore, and well- remembered walk. And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine : Butjwe'li meet no more at Bingen — loved Bing- en on the Rhine ! " His voice grow faint and hoarser — his grasp was childish weak — His eyes put on a dying look — he sigh'd and ceased to speak : His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled — The soldier of the Leigon, in a foreign land — was dead ! And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corpses strown ; Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine, As it shone on distant Bingen — fair Bingen on the Rhine! Mrs. Caroline Norton. THE BOBOLINK. Once on a golden afternoon, With radiant faces and hearts in tune, Two fond lovers, in dreaming mood, Threaded a rural solitude. "Wholly happy, they only knew That the earth was bright and the sky was blue, That light and beauty and joy and song Charmed the way as they passed along : The air was fragrant with woodland scents ; The squirrel frisked on the roadside fence ; And hovering near them, " Chee, chee, chink?" Queried the curious bobolink, 128 Tlie Poetical Speaker. Pausing and peering with sidelong head, As saucily questioning all they said ; While the ox-eye danced on its slender stem. And all glad nature rejoiced with them. Over the odorous fields were strewn Wilting windrows of grass new mown, And rosy billows of clover bloom Surged in the sunshine and breathed perfume. Swinging low on a slender limb, The sparrow warbled his wedding hymn, And balancing on a blackberry briar The bobolink sang with his heart on fire, — " Chink ? If you wish to kiss her, do ! Do it, do it ! You coward, you ! Kiss her ! kiss, kiss her ! Who will see ? Only we three ! we three ! we three ! " Tender garlands of drooping vines, Through dim vistas of sweet-breathed pines, Past wide meadow-fields, lately mowed, Wandered the indolent country road. The lovers followed it, listening still, And loitering slowly, as lovers will, Entered a gray-roofed bridge that lay Dusk and cool, in their pleasant way. Fluttering lightly from brink to brink, Followed the garrulous bobolink, Rallying loudly with mirthful din The pair who lingered unseen within. And when from the friendly bridge at last Into the road beyond they passed, Again beside them the tempter went, Keeping the thread of his argument, — " Kiss her ! kiss her ! Chink-a-chee-chee ! I'll not mention it ! Don't mind me ! " But ah ! they noted — nor deemed it strange — In his rollicking chorous a trifling change, — " Do it ! do it ! " — with might and main Warbled the tell-tale— " Do it again ! " Anonymous, Tlirough Death to Life. 120 THROUGH DEATH TO LIFE. Have you heard the tale of the Aloe plant, Away in the sunny clime ? By humble growth of a hundred years It reaches its blooming time ; And then a wondrous bud at its crown Breaks into a thousand flowers; This floral queen, in its blooming seen, Is the pride of the tropical bowers. But the plant to the flower is a sacrifice, For it blooms but once, and in blooming dies. Have you further hearu of this Aloe plant That grows in the sunny clime, How every one of its thousand flowers, As they drop in the blooming time, Is an infant plant that fastens its roots In the place where it falls on the ground ; And, fast as the} 7 drop from the dying stem, Grow lively and lovely around ? By dying it liveth a thousandfold hi the young that spring from the death of the old. Have you heard the tale of the Pelican, The Arab's Gimel el Bahr, That lives in the African solitudes, Where the birds that live lonely are ? Have you heard how it loves its tender young, And cares and toils for their good % It brings them water from fountains afar, And" fishes the seas for their food. In famine it feeds them — what love can de- vise ! — The blood of its bosom, and feeding them dies. Have you heard the tale they tell of the Swan, The snow-white bird of the lake ? It noiselessly floats on the silvery wave, It silently sits in the brake ; 130 tfhe Poetical Speaker. For it saves its song till the end of life, And then, in the soft still even, 'Mid the golden light of the setting sun, It sings as it soars into heaven ! And the blessed notes fall back from the skies; 'Tis its only song, for in singing it dies. You have heard these tales ; shall I tell yo« one A greater and better than all ? Have you heard of Him whom the heavens adore, Before whom the hosts of them fall ? How He left the choirs and anthems above, For earth in its wailings and woes, To suffer the shame and pain of the cross, And die for the life of his foes ? O prince of the noble ! O sufferer divine ! What sorrow and sacrifice equal to Thine ! Henry Harbaugh. AFTER THE BATTLE. The drums are all muffled, the bugles are still ; There's a pause in the valley, a halt on the hill ; And bearers of standards swerve back with a thrill Where sheaves of the dead bar the way ; For a great field is reaped, Heaven's garners to fill, And stern Death holds his harvest to-day. There's a voice in the wind like a spirit's low cry ; 'Tis the muster-roll sounding — and who shall reply For those whose wan faces glare white to the sky, With eyes fixed so steadfast and dimly, After the Battle. lSl As they wait the last trump, which they may not defy ! Whose hands clutch the sword-hilt so grimly. The brave heads late lifted are solemnly bowed, As the riderless chargers stand quivering and cowed — As the burial requiem is chanted aloud, The groans of the death-stricken drowning, "While Victory looks on like a queen pale and proud Who waits till the morning her crowning. There is no mocking blazon, as clay sinks to clay; The vain pomps of peace-time are all swept away In the terrible face of the dread battle-day ; Nor coffins nor shroudings are here ; Only relics that lay where thickest the fray — A rent casque and a headless spear. Far away, tramp on tramp, sounds the march of the foe, Like a storm-wave retreating, spent, fitful and slow T ; With sound like their spirits that faint as they go By the red-glowing river, whose waters Shall darken with sorrow the land where they flow To the eyes of her desolate daughters. They are fled — they are gone ; but oh ! not as they came ; In the pride of those numbers they staked on the game, Never more shall they stand in the vanguard of fame, Never lift the stained sword which they drew; Never more shall they boast of a glorious name, Never march with the leal and the true. *32 Tlie Poetical SpeaK&r. Where the wreck of our legions lay stranded and torn, They stole on our ranks in the mist of the morn ; Like the giant of Gaza, their strength it was shorn Ere those mists have rolled up to the sky ; From the flash of the steel a new day-break seemed bom, As we sprang up to conquer or die. The tumult is silenced ; the death-lots are cast, And the heroes of battls are slumbering their last: Do you dream of yon pale form that rode on the blast ? "Would ye see it once more, oh ye brave ! Yes — the broad road to honor is red where ye And of glory ye asked — but a grave ! Anonymous. CATO'S SOLILOQUY ON IMMORTALITY. It must be so. — Plato, thou reasonest well ; Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, This longing after immortality ? Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror, Of falling into nought ? Why shrinks the soul Back on herself, and startles at destruction ? 'Tis the divinity that stirs within us, 'Tis Heaven itself, that points out an hereafter, And intimates eternity to man. Eternity ! — thou pleasing, dreadful thought J Through what variety of untried being, Through what new scenes and changes must we pass ! The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me! But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. Annie and Willie's Pi oyer. 133 Here will I bold. If there's a Power above us — And that there is, all Nature cries aloud Through all her works — He must delight in vir- tue ; And that which he delights in must be happy. But when ? or where ? This world was made for Caesar. I'm weary of conjectures — this must end 'em. Thus am I doubly armed. My death and life, My bane and antidote, are both before me. This* in a moment brings me to my end ; But thisf informs me I shall never die. The soul, secure in her existence, smiles At the drawn dagger, and defies its point. The stars shall fade away, the sun himself Grow dim with age, and Nature sink in years, But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, Unhurt amid the war of elements, The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds. Joseph Addison. ANKFE AND WILLIE'S PRAYER. 'Twas the eve before Christmas; " Good night," had been said. And Annie and Willie had crept into bed ; There were tears on their pillows, and tears in their eyes, And each little bosom was heaving with sighs, For to-night their stern father's command had been given That they should retire precisely at seven Instead of at eight ; for they troubled him more With questions unheard of than ever before ; He had told them he thought this delusion a sin, No such being as " Santa Clans" ever had been, And he hoped after this he should never more hear, *The dagger. fPlato's Treatise. 134 The Poetical Speaker. How he scrambled down chimneys with pres- ents, each year. And this was the reason that two little heads So restlessly tossed on their soft downy beds. Eight, nine, and the clock on the steeple tolled ten — Not a word had been spoken by either till then ; When Willie's sad face from the blanket did peep, And whispered, " Dear Annie, is you fast asleep ? " " Why, no, brother Willie," a sweet voice re- plies, " I've tried it in vain, but I can't shut my eyes ; For somehow, it makes me so sorry because Dear papa has said there is no ' Santa Claus ' ; Now we know there is, and it can't be denied, For he came every year before mamma died : But then, I've been thinking that she used to And God would hear everything mamma would say, And perhaps she asked him to send Santa Claus here With the sacks full of presents he brought every year." " Well, why tant we pay dest as mamma did then, — And ask Him to send him with presents aden ? " " I've been thinking so, too," and, without a word more Four little bare feet bounded out on the floor, And four little knees the soft carpet pressed, And two tiny hands were clasped close to each breast. " Now, Willie, you know we must firmh 7 believe That the presents we ask for we're sure to re- ceive ; You must wait just as still till I say the 'Amen,' Annie and Willies Prayer. 135 And by that you will know that your turn has come then. Dear Jesus, look down on my brother and me, And grant us the favor we are asking of Thee, I want a wax dolly, a tea-set and ring, And an ebony work-box that shuts with a spring: Bless papa — dear Jesns, and cause him to see That Santa Claus loves us far better than he ; Don't let him get fretful and angry again, At dear brother Willie, and Annie. Amen ! " " Peas Desus, 'et Santa Taus turn down to-night, And bing us some pesents before it is 'ight ; I want he should div me a nice 'ittle sed, With bight, shiny 'unners, and all painted yed ; A box full of tandy, a book and a toy, Amen, — and then, Desus, I'll be a dood boy." Their prayers being ended, they raised up their heads, And with hearts light and cheerful again sought their beds ; And were soon lost in slumber both peaceful and deep, And with fairies in dreamland were roaming in sleep. Eight, nine, and the little French clock had struck ten, Ere the father had thought of his children again ; He seems now to hear Annie's half-suppressed sighs, And to see the big tears stand in Willie's blue eyes ; " I was harsh with my darlings," he mentally said, " And should not have sent them so early to bed ; But then I was troubled — my feelings found vent, For bank-stock to-day has gone down ten per cent. 136 live Poetical Speaker. But of course they've forgotten their troubles ere this, And that I denied them the thrice-asked-for kiss; But just to make sure I'll steal up to their door, For I never spoke harsh to my darlings before." So saying, he softly ascended the stairs And arrived at the door to hear both of their prayers. His Annie's "bless papa" draws forth the big tears, And Willie's grave promise falls sweet on his ears. " Strange, strange I'd forgotten," said he with a sigh, "How I longed when a child to have Christmas draw nigh. I'll atone for my harshness," he inwardly said, " By answering their prayers, ere I sleep in my bed." Then he turned to the stairs, and softly went down, Threw off velvet slippers and silk dressing-gown; Donned hat, coat, and boots, and was out in the street, A millionaire facing the cold, driving sleet; Nor stopped he until he had bought everything, From the box full of candy to the tiny gold ring. Indeed, he kept adding so much to his store, That the various presents outnumbered a score ; Then homeward he turned with his holiday load, And with Aunt Mary's aid in the nursery 'twas stowed. Miss Dolly was seated beneath a pine-tree, By the side of a table spread out for a tea ; A work-box well filled in the center was laid, And on it the ring for which Annie had prayed ; A soldier in uniform stood by a sled Annie ami Willie's Prayer. 137 With bright, shining runners, and all painted red ; There were balls, dogs, and horses, books pleas- ing to see, And birds of all colors were perched in the tree, While Santa Clans laughing stood up in the top, As if getting ready more presents to drop. And as the fond father the picture surveyed, He thought, for his trouble he had amply been paid ; And he said to himself as he brushed off a tear, ** I'm happier to-night than I've been for a year, I've enjoyed more true pleasure than ever be- fore — What care I if bank-stocks fall ten per cent. more ? Hereafter I'll make it a rule, I believe, To have Santa Claus visit us each Christmas eve." So thinking he gently extinguished the light, And tripped down the stairs to retire for the night. As soon as the beams of the bright morning sun Put the darkness to flight, and the stars, one by one ; Four little blue eyes out of sleep opened wide, And at the same moment the presents espied ; Then out of their beds they sprang with a bound, And the very gifts prayed for were all of them found ; They laughed and they cried in their innocent "glee; And shouted for " papa " to come quick and see What presents old Santa Claus brought in the night, (Just the things that they wanted) and left before light ; " And now," added Annie, in a voice soft and low, 138 TJie Poetical Speaker. " You'll believe there's a Santa Claus, papa, I know " ; While dear little Willie climbed up on his knee, Determined no secret between them should be, And told in soft whispers how Annie had said, That their blessed mamma so long ago dead, Used to kneel down and pray by the side of her chair, And that God, up in Heaven, had answered her prayer ! " Then we dot up, and payed dust as well as we tould, And Dod answered our payers ; now wasn't he dood ? " "I should say that he was if he sent you all these, And knew just what presents my children would please, — Well, well, let him think so, the dear little elf, 'Twould be cruel to tell him I did it myself." Blind father ! who caused your proud heart to relent, And the hasty word spoken so soon to repent ? 'Twas the Being who made you steal softly up- stairs, And made you his agent to answer their prayers. Sophia P. Snow. SHERIDAN'S RIDE. Up from the south, at break of day, Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, The affrighted air with a shudder bore, Like a herald in haste to the chieftain's door, The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar, Telling the battle was on once more, And Sheridan twenty miles away. And wider still those billows of war Thundered along the horizon's bar ; And louder yet into Winchester rolled Sheridan's Ride. 139 The roar of that red sea uncontrolled, Making the blood of the listener cold, As he thought of the stake in that h'ery fray, And Sheridan twenty miles away. But tli ere is a road from Winchester town, A good, broad highway leading down ; And there, through the flush of the morning light, A steed as black as the steeds of night Was seen to pass, as with eagle flight, As if he knew the terrible need ; He stretched away with his utmost speed ; Hills rose and fell ; but his heart was gay, With Sheridan fif teen miles away. Still sprang from those swift hoofs, thundering south, The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth ; Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster, Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster. The heart of the steed and the heart of the mas- ter Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, Impatient to be where the battle-field calls ; Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, With Sheridan only ten miles away. Under his spurning feet, the road Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, And the landscape sped away behind Like an ocean flying before the wind ; And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire, Swept on, with his wild eye full of fire. But, lo ! he is nearing his heart's desire ; He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, With Sheridan only five miles away. 140 The Poetical Speaker. The first that the General saw were the groups Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops ; What was done ? what to do ? a glance told him both. Then striking his spurs with a terrible oath, He dashed down the line 'mid a storm of huzzas, And the wave of retreat checked its course there, because The sight of the master compelled it to pause. With foam and with dust the black charger was gray ; By the flash of his eye, and the red nostril's play He seemed to the whole great army to say, " I have brought you Sheridan all the way From Winchester down, to save the day." Hurrah ! hurrah for Sheridan ! Hurrah ! hurrah for horse and man ! And when their statues are placed on high, Under the dome of the Union sky, The American soldier's Temple of Fame, There with the glorious General's name Be it said, in letters both bold and bright : " Here is the steed that saved the day By carrying Sheridan into the tight, From Winchester — twenty miles away ! " T. Buchanan Read. BRIDGE OF SIGHS. Drowned, drowned. — Hamlet. One more Unfortunate, Weary of breath, Kashly importunate, Gone to her death ! Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care, — Fashioned so slenderly, Young and so fair ! Bridge of Sighs. 141 Look at her garments Clinging like cerements ; Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing ; Take her up instantly, Loving, not loathing. — Touch her not scornfully ; Think of her mournfully, Gently and humanly ; Not of the stains of her, All that remains of her Now is pure womanly. Make no deep scrutiny Into her mutiny Rash and undutiful : Past all dishonor, Death has left on her Only the beautiful. Still, for all slips of hers, One of Eve's family — Wipe those poor lips of here, Oozing so clammily. Loop up her tresses Escaped from the comb, Her fair auburn tresses ; Whilst wonderment guesses Where was her home ? Who was her father ? Who was her mother ? Had she a sister ? Had she a brother ? Or was there a dearer one Still, and a nearer one Yet, than all other ? Alas ! for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun ! 142 Tlte Poetical Speaker. Oh ! it was pitiful ! Near a whole city full, Home she had none. Sisterly, brotherly, Fatherly, motherly Feelings had changed : Love, by harsh evidence, Thrown from its eminence ; Even God's providence Seeming estranged. Where l j lamps quiver So far in che river, With many a light From window and casement, From garret to basement. She stood, with amazement, Houseless by night. The bleak winds of March Made her tremble and shiver But not the dark arch, Or the black flowing river ; Mad from life's history, Glad to death's mystery, Swift to be hurled — Anywhere, anywhere Out of the world ! In she plunged boldly, No matter how coldly The rough river ran, — Over the brink of it, Picture it — think of it, Dissolute man ! Lave in it, drink of it Then, if you can ! Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care ; Fashioned so slenderly, Bugle Song. 148 Young, and so fair ! Ere her limbs frigidly Stiffen too rigidly* Decently, — kindly, — Smooth and compose them ; And her eyes, close thein, Staring so blindly ! Dreadfully staring Through muddy impurity, As when with the daring Last look of despairing Fixed on fuwrity. Perishing gloomily, Spurred by contumely, Cold inhumanity, Burning insanity, Into her rest. — Cross her hands humbly, As if praying dumbly, Over her breast ! Owning her weakness, Her evil behavior, And leaving, with meekness, Her sins to her Saviour ! Thomas Hood. BUGLE SONG. The splendor falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story ; The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying : Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. O hark, O hear ! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, further going ; O sweet and far, from cliff and scar, 144 Tlie Poetical Speaher. The horns of Elfland faintly blowing ! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying : Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. O love, they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river : Our eciioes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, And answer echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. Alfred Tennyson. THE MADDENING BOWL. Oh ! take the maddening bowl away, Remove the poisonous cup ! My soul is sick — its burning ray Hath drunk my spirit up : Take — take it from my loathing lip, Ere madness fires my brain ; Take — take it hence, nor let me sip Its liquid death again ! Oh ! dash it on the thirsty earth, For I will drink no more ; It cannot cheer the heart with mirth That grief hath wounded sore ; For serpents wreath its sparkling brim, And adders lurk below ; It hath no soothing charm for him Who sinks oppressed with woe. Then, hence ! away, thou deadly foe,— I scorn thy base control. Away, away ! I fear thy blow, Thou palsy of the soul ! Henceforth I drink no more of thee, Thou bane of Adam's race ; But to a heavenly fountain flee, And drink the dews of grace. Anonymous. Katie Lee and Willie Gray. 146 KATIE LEE AND WILLIE GRAY. Two brown heads with tossing curls, Red lips shutting over pearls, Bare feet, white and wet with dew, Two eyes black and two eyes blue — Little boy and girl were they, Katie Lee and Willie Gray. They were standing where a brook, Bending like a shepherd's crook, Flashed its silver, and thick ranks Of willow fringed its mossy banks — Half in thought and half in play, Katie Lee and Willie Gray. They had cheeks like cherry red, — He was taller, 'most a head ; She with arms like wreaths of snow Swung a basket to and fro, As they loitered, half in play, Katie Lee and Willie Gray. "Pretty Katie," Willie said, And there came a dash of red Through the brownness of the cheek, " Boys are strong and girls are weak, And I'll carry, so I will, Katie's basket up the hill." Katie answered with a laugh, " You shall only carry half ; " Then said, tossing back her curls, " Boys are weak as well as girls." Do you think that Katie guessed Half the wisdom she expressed ? Men are only boys grown tall ; Hearts don't change much, after all ; And when, long years from that day, Katie Lee and Willie Gray Stood again beside the brook Bending like a shepherd's crook — 146 The Poetical Speaker. Is it strange that Willie said, While again a dash of red Crowned the brownness of his cheek, " I am strong and you are weak ; Life is but a slippery steep, Hung with shadows cold and deep. " Will you trust me, Katie dear ? Walk beside me without fear ? May I carry, if I will, All your burdens up the hill ? " And she answered, with a laugh, " No, but you may carry half." Close beside the little brook, Bending like a shepherd's crook, Working with its silver hands Late and early at the sands, Stands a cottage, where, to-day, Katie lives with Willie Gray. In the porch she sits, and lo ! Swings a basket to and fro, Vastly different from the one That she swung in years agone ; This is long, and deep, and wide, And has rockers at the side. Anonymous. " ROCK OF AGES." " Kock of ages, cleft for me," Thoughtlessly the maiden sung, Fell the words unconsciously From her girlish, gleeful tongue, Sung as little children sing, Sung as sing the birds in June ; Fell the words like light leaves sown On the current of the tune — " Kock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee." "Rock of Ages." 14? Felt her soul no need to hide — Sweet the Bong as song could be, And she had no thought beside; All the words unheedingly Fell from lips untouched by care, Dreaming not that each might be On some other lips a prayer — " Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee." " Kock of Ages, cleft for me — " 'Twas a woman sung them now, Pleadingly and prayerfully ; Every word her heart did know ; Rose the song as storm-tossed bird Beats with weary wing the air, Every note with sorrow stirred, Every syllable a prayer — " Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee." " Rock of Ages, cleft for me — " Lips grown aged sung the hymn Trustingly and tenderly, Yoice grown weak and eyes grown dim — u Let me hide myself in Thee." Trembling though the voice, and low, Rose the sweet strain peacefully As a river in its flow ; Sung as only they can sing, Who life's thorny paths have pressed ; Sung as only they can sing, Who behold the promised rest. " Rock of Ages, cleft for me," Sung above a coffin-lid ; Underneath, all restfully All life's cares and sorrows hid. Never more, O storm-tossed soul, Never more from wind or tide, 148 Tlie Poetical Speaker. Never more from billow's roll Wilt thou need thyself to hide. Con Id the sightless, sunken eyes, Closed beneath the soft gra} r hair, Could the mute and stiffened lips, Move again in pleading prayer, Still, aye still the words would be, " Let me hide myself in Thee." Anonymous. A LEGEND OF THE NORTHLAND. Away, away in the Northland, Where the hours of the day are few, And the nights are so long in winter, They cannot sleep them through ; Where they harness the swift reindeer To the sledges when it snows ; And the children look like bears 1 cubs, In their funny, furry clothes ; They tell them a curious story, — I don't believe 'tis true ; And yet you may learn a lesson, If I tell the tale to you. Once, when the good St. Peter Lived in the world below, And walked about it, preaching, Just as he did, you know ; He came to the door of a cottage, In traveling around the earth, Where a little woman was making cakes In the ashes on the hearth. So she made a very little cake, But, as it baking lay, She looked at it, and thought it seemed Too large to give away. A Legend of tlie Northland. 149 Therefore she kneaded another, And still a smaller one ; But it looked, when she turned it over, As lanre as the first had done. B' Then she took a tiny scrap of dough, And rolled and rolled it flat ; And baked it thin as a wafer, — But she couldn't part with that. For she said, " My cakes that seem so small When I eat them myself, Are yet too large to give away," So she put them on a shelf. Then good Saint Peter grew angry, For he was hungry and faint; And surely such a woman Was enough to provoke a saint. And he said, " You are far too selfish To dwell in a human form, To have both food and shelter, And fire to keep you warm. " Now you shall build as the birds do, And shall get your scanty food By boring and boring and boring All day in the hard dry wood." Then she w r ent up through the chimney, Never speaking a word ; And out of the top flew a woodpecker, For she was changed to a bird. She had a scarlet cap on her head, And that was left the same, But all the rest of her clothes were burned Black as a coal in the flame. And every country school-boy Has seen her in the wood, 150 The Poetical Speaker. "Where she lives in the trees to this very day, Boring and boring for food. And this is the lesson she teaches : Live not for yourselves alone, Lest the needs you will not pity Shall one day be your own. Give plenty of what is given you, Listen to pity's call ; Don't think the little you give is great, And the much you get is small. Now, my little boy, remember that, And try to be kind and good, When you see the woodpecker's sooty dress, And see her scarlet hood. You mayn't be changed to a bird, though you live As selfishly as you can ; But you will be changed to a smaller thing — A mean and selfish man. Phoebe Cary. BRUCE'S ADDRESS. Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, whom Bruce has often led, Welcome to your gory bed, Or to glorious victory. Now's the day, and now's the hour ; See the front o' battle lower. See {Approach proud Edward's power- Edward ! chains and slavery ! Wha will be a traitor knave ? Wha can fill a coward's grave ? Wha sae bate as be a slave ? Traitor ! coward ! turn and fiee ! ClaribeVs Prayer. 151 Wha for Scotland's king and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand, or freeman fa', Caledonian ! on wf me. By oppression's woes and pains ! By your sons in servile chains ! We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be — shall be free ! Lay the proud usurpers low ! Tyrants fall in every foe ! Liberty's in every blow ! Forward ! let us do, or die ! Robert Burns. CLARIBEL'S PRAYER. The day, with cold, gray feet, clung shivering to the hills, While o'er the valley still night's rain-fringed curtains fell ; But waking Blue Eyes smiled : " 'Tis ever as God wills ; He kuoweth best ; and be it rain or shine, 'tis well ; Praise God ! " cried always little Claribel. Then sunk she on her knees ; with eager, lifted hands, Her rosy lips made haste some dear request to tell: " O Father, smile, and save this fairest of all lands, And make her free, whatever hearts rebel. Amen ! Praise God ! " cried little Claribel. "And, Father," — still arose another pleading prayer, — " O, save my brother in the rain of shot and shell ! 152 The Poetical Speaker. Let not the death-bolt, with its horrid, streaming hair, Dash light from those sweet eyes I love so well ! Amen ! Praise God ! " wept little Claribel. " But, Father, grant that when the glorious fight is done, And up the crimson sky the shouts of f reed- men swell, Grant that there be no nobler victor 'neath the sun Than he whose golden hair I love so well ; Amen ! Praise God ! " cried little Claribel. When the gray and dreary day shook hands with grayer night, The heavv air was thrilled with clangor of a bell." *' O, shout ! " the herald cried, his worn eyes brimmed with light ; " 'Tis victory ! O, what glorious news to tell !" " Praise God ! He heard my prayer," cried Claribel. " But, pray you, soldier, was mv brother in the fight And in the fiery rain ? O, fought he brave and well ? " " Dear child," the herald cried, " there was no braver sight Than his voung form, so grand 'mid shot and shell." " Praise God ! " cried trembling little Claribel, " And rides he now with victor's plumes of red. While trumpets' golden throats his coming steps foretell ? " The herald dropped a tear. " Dear child," he softly said, The Raven. 153 "Thy brother evermore with conquerors shall dwell." "Praise God! He heard my prayer," cried Claribel. "With victors, wearing crowns and bearing palms," he said. And snow of sudden fear upon the rose lips fell; "O, sweetest herald, say my brother lives!" she plead. "Dear child, he walks with angels, who in strength excel ; Praise God, who gave this glory, Claribel." The cold, gray day died sobbing on the weary hills, "While bitter mourning on the night-wind rose and fell. "O child," — the herald wept, — "'tis as the dear Lord wills ; He knoweth best, and, be it life or death, 'tis well. " "Amen! Praise God!" sobbed little Claribel. M. L. Pabmeleb. THE KAVEN. Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore! While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door, "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door ; Only this — and nothing more." 154 Hie Poetical Speaker. Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow ; — vainly I had tried to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Lenore — For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore — Nameless here forevermore. And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before, So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, " 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door- Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door ; This it is and nothing more." Presently my soul grew stronger ; hesitating then no longer, " Sir," said I, " or Madam, truly your forgive- ness I implore ; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you." — Here I opened wide the door ; — Darkness there and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before ; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillnees gave no token, Tlie Raven,. 155 And the only word there spoken wa6 the whis- pered word, u Lenore ! " This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore ! " Merely this and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul with- in me burning, Soon I heard again a tapping, somewhat louder than before. " Surely," said I, ;; surely that is something at my window lattice ; Let me see, then, what thereat is — and this mystery explore — Let my heart be still a moment — and this mystery explore ; — 'Tis the wind, and nothing more ! " Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he ; not an instant stopped or stayed he, But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber-door — Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber-door — Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebon bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the coun- tenance it wore, " Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, " art sure no craven, Ghastly, grim, and ancient liaven, wandering from the Nightly shore — Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore ! " Quoth the B^vsn, " Nevermore." 156 TJie Poetical Speaker. Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear dis- course so plainly, Though its answer little meaning — little rele- vancy bore ; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber-door — Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber-door, With such name as "Nevermore." But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing farther then he uttered ; not a feather then he fluttered — Till I scarcely more than muttered, " Other friends have flown before — On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before." Then the bird said, " Nevermore." Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, " Doubtless," said I, " what it utters is its only stock and store Caught from some unhappy master whom un- merciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his song one burden bore — Till the dirges of his Hope the melancholy burden bore — Of k Never '—of ' Nevermore.' " But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust, and door ; TJie Raven. 157 Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore — What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking " Nevermore." This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core ; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp- light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp- light gloating o'er — She shall press, ah, nevermore ! Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by seraphim whose faint footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. " Wretch," I cried, " thy God hath lent thee— by these angels he hath sent thee Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy mem- ories of Lenore ! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore ! " Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." " Prophet ! " said I, " thing of evil ! prophet still, if bird or devil ! — Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted — On this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore — 158 The Poetical Speaker. Is there — is there balm in Gilead ? — tell me, tell me, I implore ! " Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." " Prophet ! " said I, " thing of evil, — prophet still, if bird or devil ! By that Heaven that bends above us — by that God we both adore — Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, wdthin the distant Aiden, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore — Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." "Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend ! " I shrieked, upstarting — " Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore ! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken ! Leave my loneliness unbroken ! quit the bust above my door ! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door ! " Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber-door ; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor ; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted — nevermore ! Edgar A. Poe. We Are Seven. 159 WE ARE SEVEN. I met a little cottage girl, She was eight years old, she said ; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head. She had a rustic, woodland air, And she was wildly clad ; Her eyes were fair, and very fair — Her beauty made me glad. " Sisters and brothers, little maid, How many may yon be ? " " How many ? seven in all," she said, And wondering looked at me. " And where are they, I pray you tell ? " She answered, " Seven are we ; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea ; * Two of us in the churchyard lie, My sister and my brother : And in the churchyard cottage I Dwell near them with my mother." " You say that two at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea, Yet ye are seven ; I pray you tell, Sweet maid, how this may be ? " Then did the little maid reply : " Seven boys and girls are we ; Two of ns in the churchyard lie, Beneath the churchyard tree." "You run about, my little maid, Your limbs they are alive ; If two are in the churchyard laid, Then ye are only live." 160 The Poetical Speaker. " Their graves are green, they may be seen," The little maid replied, " Twelve steps or more from my mothers door, And they are side by side. " My stockings there I often knit, My 'kerchief there I hem ; And there upon the ground I sit — I sit and sing to them. " And often after sunset, sir, When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer And eat my supper there. " The first that died was little Jane : In bed she moaning lay, Till God released her of her pain, And then she went away. " So in the churchyard she was laid ; And, when the grass was dry, Together round her grave we played, My brother John and I. "And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side." " How many are you, then," said I, " If they two are in heaven ? " The little maiden did reply, " O master ! we are seven." " But they are dead — those two are dead ; Their spirits are in heaven " : 'Twas throwing words away ; for still The little maid would have her will, And said, " Nay, we are seven." William Wordsworth. The Village Blacksmith. 161 THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. Under a spreading chestnut tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, "With large and sinewy hands ; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands. His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His face is like the tan ; His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man. Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow ; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, With measured beat and slow, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, When the evening sun is low. And children coming home from school Look in at the open door ; They love to see the flaming forge, And hear the bellows roar, And catch the burning sparks that fly Like chaff from a threshing-floor. He goes on Sunday to the church, And sits among his boys ; He hears the parson pray and preach, He hears his daughter's voice, Singing in the village choir, And it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like her mother's voice, Singing in Paradise ! He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies ; And with his hard, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes. the Poetical Speaker*. Toiling — rejoicing — sorrowing, Onward th rough Jife he goes; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close ; Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night's repose. Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou hast taught ! Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought ; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought. Henry W. Longfellow. A WOMAN'S ANSWER ON BEING ACCUSED OF BEING A MANIAC ON THE SUBJECT OF TEMPERANCE. Go, feel what I have felt ; Go, bear what I have borne — Sink 'neath a blow a father dealt, And the cold world's proud scorn, Then suffer on from year to year — Thy sole relief the scorching tear. Go, kneel as I have knelt ; Implore, beseech, and pray — Strive the besotted heart to melt, The downward course to stay ; Be dashed, with bitter curse, aside ; Your prayers burlesqued, your tears defied. Go, weep as I have wept, O'er a loved father's fall — See every promised blessing swept, Youth's sweetness turned to gall ; Life's fading flowers strewed all the way, That brought me up to woman's day. A Woman's Answer. lGtf Go, see what I have seen, Behold the strong man bow, With gnashing teeth, lips bathed in blood, And cold and livid brow ; Go catch his withering glance, and see There mirrored his soul's misery. Go to thy mother's side, And her crushed bosom cheer ; Thy own deep anguish hide ; Wipe from her cheek the bitter tear; Mark her worn frame and withered brow, The gray that streaks her dark hair now ; With fading frame and trembling limb, And trace the ruin back to him Whose plighted faith, in early youth, Promised eternal love and truth ; But who, forsworn, hath yielded up That promise to the cursed cup, And led her down through love and light, And all that made her promise bright, And chained her there, 'mid want and strife, That lowly thing — a drunkard's wife ! And stamped on childhood's brow so mild That withering blight — the drunkard's child Go, hear, and feel, and see, and know All that my soul hath felt and known, Then look upon the wine-cup's glow, See if its beauty can atone ; Think if its flavor you will try. When all proclaim, " 'Tis drink and die." Tell me I hate the bowl — Hate is a feeble word : I loathe — abhor — my very soul With strong disgust is stirred, Whene'er I see, or hear, or tell Of the dark beverage of hell. Anonymous. 164 The Poetical Speaker. IVRY.-A SONG OF THE HUGUENOTS. Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom ah glories are ! And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre ! Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, Through thy cornfields green, and sunny vines, oh pleasant land of France ! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourn- ing daughters ; As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy. Hurrah ! Hurrah ! a single field hath turned the chance of war, Hurrah ! Hurrah ! for Ivry, and Henry of Na- varre. Oh ! how our hearts were beating, when at the dawn of day, We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array ; With all its priest-led citizens, and- all its rebel peers, And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears. There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land ; And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand : And as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood, And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood ; Ivry.—A Song of tlie Huguenots. 165 And we cried unto the living God who rules the fate of war, To fight for his own holy name, and Henry of Navarre. The King is come to marshal us, all in his armor drest, And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest. He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye ; He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, Down all our line, in deafening shout, " God save our Lord, the King," " And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well lie ma} T , For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray, Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidot the ranks of war, And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre." Hurrah ! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din, Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin. The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint Andre's plain, With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, Charge for the golden lilies ! upon them with the lance ! A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, 166 77k? Poetical Speaker. A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest ; And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star, Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre. Now, God be praised, the day is ours. Mayenne hath turned his rein, D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. Tiie Flemish count is slain. Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale ; The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail. And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van, " Remember St. Bartholomew," was passed from man to man. But out spake gentle Henry, " No Frenchman is my foe : Down, down, with every foreigner, but let your brethren go." Oh ! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war. As our Sovereign Lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre ? Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France to-day ; And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey. But we of the religion have borne us best in fight; And the good Lord of Rosny hath ta'en the cor- net white. Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en, The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false Lorraine. Catiline's Defiance. 107 Up with it high ; unfurl it wide ; that all the host may know How God hath humbled the proud house which wrought his church such woe. Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest point of war, Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henry of Navarre. Ho ! maidens of Vienna ; ho ! matrons of Lu- cerne ; "Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return. Ho ! Philip, send for charity, thy Mexican pis- toles, That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls. Ho ! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright ; Ho ! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night. For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave, And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valor of the brave. Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are ; And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre. T. B. Macaulay. CATILINE'S DEFIANCE. Conscript fathers ! I do not rise to waste the night in words ; Let that plebeian talk ; 'tis not my trade ; But here I stand for right — let him show proofs — For Roman right ; though none, it seems, dare stand 16G The Poetical Speaker. To take their share with me. Ay, cluster there! Cling to your master, judges, Romans, slaves ! His charge is false ; — I dare him to his proofs. You have my answer. Let my actions speak ! But this I will avow, that I have scorned, And still do scorn, to hide my sense of wrong ! Who brands me on the forehead, breaks my sword, Or lays the bloody scourge upon my back, Wrongs me not half so much as he who shuts The gates of honor on me — turning out The Roman from his birthright ; and, for what ? [Looking round him. To fling your offices to every slave ! Vipers, that creep where man disdains to climb, And, having wound their loathsome trac 1 : to the top Of this huge, mouldering monument of Rome, Hang hissing at the nobler man below! Come, consecrated lictors, from your thrones ; [To the Senate. Fling down your sceptres ; take the rod and axe, And make the murder as you make the law ! Banished from Rome ! What's banished, but set free From daily contact of the things I loathe ? " Tried and convicted traitor ! " Who says this ? Who'll prove it, at his peril, on my head ? Banished ! I thank you for 't. It breaks my chain ! I held some slack allegiance till this hour ; But now my sword's my own. Smile on, my lords ! I scorn to count what feelings, withered hopes, Strong provocations, bitter, burning wrongs, I have within my heart's hot cells shut up, To leave you in your lazy dignities. When Mary Was a Lassie. 169 Bat here I stand and scoff you ! here, I fling Hatred and full defiance in your face ! Your consul's merciful. For this, all thanks. He dares not touch a hair of Catiline ! " Traitor ! " I go ; but I return. This— trial ! Here I devote your Senate ! I've had wrongs To stir a fever in the blood of age, Jr make the infant's sinews strong as steel. This day's the birth of sorrow ! This hour's work Will breed proscriptions ! Look to your hearths, my lords ! For there, henceforth, shall sit, for household gods, Shapes hot from Tartarus! — all shames and crimes : Wan treachery, with his thirsty dagger drawn ; Suspicion, poisoning his brother's cup ; Naked rebellion, with the torch and axe, Making his wild sport of your blazing thrones ; Till anarchy comes down on you like night, And massacre seals Rome's eternal grave. I go ; but not to leap the gulf alone. I go ; but, when I come, 'twill be the burst Of ocean in the earthquake — rolling back In swift and mountainous ruin. Fare you well ; You build my funeral pile ; but your best blood Shall quench its flame ! Back, slaves ! [To the lictors. I will return. George Croly. WHEN MARY WAS A LASSIE. The maple trees are tinged with red, The birch with golden yellow, And high above the orchard wall Hang apples, rich and mellow ; 170 TJte Poetical Speaker. And that's the way through yonder lane That looks so still and grassy, — The wa} T I took one Sunday eve, When Mary was a lassie. You'd hardly think that patient face, That looks so thin and faded, Was once the very sweetest one That ever bonnet shaded ; But when I went through yonder lane, That looks so still and grassy, Those eyes were bright, those cheeks were fair. When Mary was a lassie. But many a tender sorrow since, And many a patient care, Have made those furrows on the face That used to be so fair. Four times to yonder churchyard, Through the lane so still and grassy We've borne and laid away our dead, — Since Mary was a lassie. And so you see I've grown to love The wrinkles more than roses ; Earth's winter flowers are sweeter far Than all spring's dewy posies ; They'll carry us through yonder lane That looks so still and grassy, — Adown the lane I used to go, When Mary was a lassie. Anonymous. CUDDLE DOON. The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht, Wi' mickle faucht an' din ; " Oh, try and sleep, ye waukrife rogues, Your faither's com in' in.." Cuddle Doon. 171 They never heed a word I speak ; I try to gie a froon, But aye I hap them up, an' cry, " Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon." Wee Jamie wi' the curly head, He aye sleeps next the wa', Bangs up an' cries, " I want a piece" — The rascal starts them a'. I rin' an' fetch them pieces, drinks ; They stop awee the soun', Then draw the blankets up an' cry, " Noo, weanies, cuddle doon." But ere five minutes gang, wee Rab Cries out frae' neath the claes, " Mither, mak' Tarn gie ower at ance, He's kittlin wi' his taes." The mischief's in that Tarn for tricks, He'd bother half the toon, But aye I hap them up an' cry, in; aye "Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon." At length they hear their faither's fit, An' as he steeks the door They turn their faces to the wa', While Tarn pretends to snore. " Hae a' the weans been gude ? " he asks As he pits off his shoon ; " The bairnies, John, are in their beds, An' lang since cuddle doon." An' just afore we bed oursel's. We look at oor wee lambs ; Tain has his airm roun' wee Rab's neck, An' Rab his airm roun' Tarn's. I lift wee Jamie up the bed, An' as I straik each croon I whisper, till my heart fills up, " Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon." 172 TJie Poetical Speaker. The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht Wi' mirth that's dear to rae ; But sune the big warl's cark an' care Will quaten doon their glee. Yet come what will to ilka ane, May He who sits aboon, Aye whisper, though their pows be bauld, " Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon." Alexander Anderson. SMALL BEGINNINGS. A traveller through a dusty road strewed acorns on the lea ; And one took root and sprouted up, and grew into a tree. Love sought its shade at evening time, to breathe its early vows ; And age was pleased, in heats of noon, to bask beneath its boughs ; The dormouse loved its dangling twigs, the birds sweet music bore ; It stood a glory in its place, a blessing evermore. A little spring had lost its way amid the grass and fern, A passing stranger scooped a well, where weary men might turn ; He walled it in, and hung with care a ladle at the brink ; He thought not of the deed he did, bnt judged that toil might drink. He passed again, and lo ! the well, by summers never dried, Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues, and saved a life beside. A dreamer dropped a random thought; twasold, and yet 'twas new ; A simple fancy of the brain, but strong in being true. A Name in the Sand. 178 It shone upon a gonial mind, and lo ! its light became A lamp of life, a beacon ray, a monitory flame. The thought was small, its issue great ; a watch- fire on the hill, It sheds its radiance far adown, and cheers the valley still ! A nameless man, amid a crowd that thronged the daily mart, Let fall a word of hope and love, unstudied, from the heart ; A whisper on the tumult thrown, — a transitory breath, — It raised a brother from the dust ; it saved a soul from death. O germ ! O fount ! O word of love ! O thought at random cast ! Ye were but little at the first, but mighty at the last. Charles Mackay. A NAME IN THE SAND. Alone I walked the ocean strand ; A pearly shell was in my hand ; I stooped and wrote upon the sand My name — the year — the day. As onward from the spot I passed, One lingering look behind 1 cast — A wave came rolling, high and fast, And washed my lines away. And so, methought, 'twill shortly be With every mark on earth from me ; A wave of dark oblivion's sea "Will sweep across the place Where I have trod the sandy shore Of time, — and been, to be no more ; — Of me, my name, the name I bore, To leave no track nor trace. 174 lite Poetical Speaker. And yet, with Him who counts the sands, And holds the waters in His hands, I know a lasting record stands Inscribed against my name, Of all this mortal part has wrought, Of all this thinking soul has thought, — And from these fleeting moments caught,- For glory or for shame. George D. Prentice. THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED. Tread softly ! bow the head — In reverent silence bow ! No passing bell doth toll ; Yet an immortal soul Is passing now. Stranger, however great, With holy reverence bow ! There's one in that poor shed — One by that paltry bed — Greater than thou. Beneath that beggar's roof, Lo ! Death doth keep his state Enter ! — no crowds attend ; Enter ! — no guards defend This palace gate. That pavement damp and cold No smiling courtiers tread ; One silent woman stands, Lifting with meagre hands A dying head. No mingling voices sound — An infant wail alone ; A sob suppressed — again That short deep gasp — and then The parting groan ! The Seven Ages of Man. 175 Oh, change ! — oh ! wondfona change ! Burst are the prison bars ! This moment, there, so low, So agonized, and now Beyond the stars ! Oh, change ! — stupendous change ! There lies the soulless clod ! The sun eternal breaks ; The new immortal wakes — Wakes with his God ! Caroline Bowles Southey. THE SEVEN AGES OF MAN. All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players ; They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant, Mewling and puking in his nurse's arms : And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then, the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then, the soldier, Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honor, sudden, and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the jus- tice, In fair round belly with good capon lined, With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances ; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slippered pantaloon, With spectacles on nose and pouch on side; His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide 176 TJte Poetical Speaker. For his shrunk shank ; and his big manly voice, Turning again towards childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange, eventful history, Is second childishness, and mere oblivion : Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. William Shakespeare. THE FISHERMEN. Three fishers went sailing out into the west — Out into the west as the sun went down : Each thought of the woman who loved him the best, And the children stood watching them out of the town ; For men must work, and women must weep, And there's little to earn, and many to keep, Though the harbor bar be moaning. Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower, And trimmed the lamps as the sun went down ; And they looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, And the rack it came rolling up, ragged and brown ; But men must work, and women must weep, Though storms be sudden, and w T aters deep, And the harbor bar be moaning. Three corpses lay out on the shining sands In the morning gleam as the tide went down. And the women are weeping and wringing their hands, For those who will never come back to the town ; For men must work, and women must weep, — And the sooner it 's over, the sooner to sleep, — And good-by to the bar and its moaning. Charles Kingsley. Lines on a Skeleton, 177 LINES ON A SKELETON. Behold this ruin ! 'Twas a skull Once of ethereal spirit full ; This narrow cell was life's retreat ; This space was thought's mysterious seat. What beauteous visions filled this spot ; What dreams of pleasure long forgot ! Nor hope, nor love, nor joy, nor fear, Has left one trace of record here. Beneath this mouldering canopy Once shone the bright and busy eye. But start not at the dismal void, Nor sigh for greatness thus destroyed. If with no lawless fire it gleamed, But through the dews of kindness beamed, That eye shall be for ever bright, When stars and suns are sunk in night. Within this hollow cavern hung The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue. If falsehood's honey it disdained, And where it could not praise was chained ; If bold in virtue's cause it spoke, Yet gentle concord never broke ; This silent tongue shall plead for thee When time unveils eternity. Say, did these fingers delve the mine, Or with its envied rubies shine ? To hew the rock or wear the gem, Can little now avail to them ; But if the page of truth they sought, Or comfort to the mourner brought, These hands a richer meed shall claim Than all that wait on wealth or fame. Avails it whether bare or shod These feet the paths of duty trod ? If from the bowers of ease they fled, To seek affliction's humble shed ; 178 Tlie Poetical Speaker. If grandeur's guilty bribe they spurned, And home to virtue's cot returned ; These feet with angels' wings shall vie, And tread the palace of the sky. Anonymous. THE FISHERMAN'S SONG. [This spirited lyric appeared anonymously in an old Irish magazine.] Away — away o'er the feathery crest Of the beautiful blue are we : For our toil-lot lies on its boiling breast, And our wealth's in the glorious sea : And we've hymned in the grasp of the fiercest night, To the God of the sons of toil, As we cleft the wave by its own white light, And away with its scaly spoil. Then oh for the long and the strong oar- sweep We have given, and will again ; For when children's weal lies in the deep, Oh ! their fathers m,ust be men. And we'll think, as the blast grows loud and long, That we hear our offspring's cries — And we'll think, as the surge grows tall and strong, Of the tears in their mothers' eyes : And we'll reel through the clutch of the shiver- ing green, For the warm, warm clasp at home — For the soothing smile of each heart's own queen, And her arms, like the flying foam. Then oh for the long and strong oar-sweep We have given, and will again ; For when children's weal lies in the deep, Oh ! their fathers must be men. The Battle of Waterloo. 170 Do we yearn for the land when tossed on this ? Let it ring to the proud one's tread : Far worse than the waters and winds may hiss Where the poor man gleans his bread. If the adder-tongue of the upstart knave Can bleed what it may not bend, 'Twere better to battle the wildest wave, That the spirit of storms could send, Than be singing farewell to the bold oar- sweep We have given, and will again ; If our souls should bow to the mighty deep Oh ! they'll never to savage men. And if death, at times, through a foamy cloud, On the brown-browed boatman glares, He can pay him his glance with a soul as proud As the form of a mortal bears ; And oh 'twere glorious, sure, to die, In our toils for some on shore, With a hopeful eye fixed calm on the sky, And a hand on the broken oar. Then oh, for a long, strong, steady sweep ; Hold to it — hurrah — dash on : If our babes must fast till we rob the deep, 'Tis time that we had begun. THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO. There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men ; A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when Music 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 ris- ing knell ! 180 The Poetical Speaker. 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 unconlined ; No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleas- ure meet To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet — But, hark ! — that heavy sound breaks in once more As if the clouds its echo would repeat ; And 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 dis- tress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blushed at the praise of their own loveli- ness ; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated ; who shall guess If evermore 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 car, Went 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 drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star ; The Battle of Waterloo. 181 While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering, with white lips — " The foe ! they come ! they come ! " And wild and high the " Cameron's gather- ing " rose ! The war-note of Lochiel, which Albvn's hills Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes : — How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, Savage and shrill ! But with the breath which tills Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers With the fierce native daring, which instils The stirring memory of a thousand years, And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clans- man's ears ! And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave, — alas ! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass Which now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure, w T hen this fiery mass Of living valor, rolling on the foe And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low. 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 marshalling in arms — the day, Battle's magnificently-stern array ! 182 TJie Poetical Speaker. The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent The 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. PLATONIC. I had sworn to be a bachelor, she had sworn to be a maid, For we quite agreed in doubting whether matri- mony paid ; Besides, we had our higher love — fair Science ruled my heart, And she said her young affections were all bound up in Art. So we laughed at those wise men who say that friendship can not live 'Twixt man and woman, unless each has some- thing more to give ; We would be friends, and friends as true as e'er were man and man, I'd be a second David, and she Miss Jonathan. We scorned all sentimental trash — vows, kisses, tears, and sighs ; High friendship, such as ours, might well such childish arts despise. We liked each other, that was all, quite all there was to say, So we just shook hands upon it in a business sort of way. We shared our secrets and our joys, together hoped and feared, With common purpose sought the goal that young ambition reared ; Platonic. 183 We dreamed together of the days, those dream- bright days to come ; We were strictly confidential, and we called each other " chum." And many a day we wandered together o'er the hills, I seeking bugs and butterflies, and she the ruined mills, And rustic bridges, and the like, that picture- makers prize, To run in with their waterfalls and groves and summer skies. And many a quiet evening, in hours of full re- lease, We floated down the river or loafed beneath the trees, And talked in long gradation from the poets to the weather, While the western skies and my cigar burned slowly out together. Yet through it all no whispered word, no tell-tale glance or sigh Told aught of warmer sentiment than friendly sympathy. We talked of love as coolly as we talked oi nebulae, And thought no more of being one than we did of being three. * * -:<- * * * " Well, good-by, chum ! " I took her hand for the time had come to go — My going meant our parting, when to meet we did not know. I had lingered long and said farewell with a very heavy heart, For although we were but friends, 'tis hard for honest friends to part. 184 The Poetical Speaker. "Good-by, old fellow! don't forget your friends beyond the sea, And some day, -when yon have lots of time, drop a line or two to me." The words came lightly, gayly, but a great sob just behind Welled upward with a story of quite a different kind. And then she raised her eyes to mine, great liquid eyes of blue, Filled to the brim and running o'er, like violet cups of dew. One long, long glance and then I did what I never did before — Perhaps the tears meant friendship, but I'm sure the kiss meant more ! Anonymous. WHICH SHALL IT BE? Which shall it be ? which shall it be ? I looked at John — John looked at me. (Dear patient John, who loves me yet As well as though my locks w T ere jet.) And when I found that I must speak, My voice seemed strangely low and weak, " Tell me again what .Robert said 1 " And then Ilist'ning, bent my head. This is the letter : " I will give A house and land while you shall live, If, in return for, out of seven, One child to me for aye is given." I looked at John's old garments w r orn, I thought of all that John had borne Of poverty, and work, and care, Which I, though willing, could not share ; Which Shall It Be 9 185 I thought of seven mouths to feed, Of seven little children's need, And then of this. " Come, John," said I, " We'll choose among them as the lie Asleep ; " so, walking hand in hand, Dear John and I surveyed our band. First to the cradle lightly stepped, Where Lillian, the baby, slept ; Her damp curls lay like gold alight, A glory 'gainst the pillow white. Soft her father stooped to lay His rough hand down in loving way ; When dream or whisper made her stir, And huskily, John : " Not her — not her." We stooped beside the trundle-bed, And one long ray of lamp-light shed Athwart the boyish faces there, In sleep so beautiful and fair ; I saw on Jamie's rough, red cheek A tear undried. Ere John could speak, " He's but a baby, too," said I, And kissed him as we hurried by. Pale, patient Robbie's angel face Still in his sleep bore suffering's trace. " No, for a thousand crowns not him," We whispered, while our eyes were dim. Poor Dick ! bad Dick ! our wayward son, Turbulent, reckless, idle one — Could he be spared ? Nay, He who gave, Bids us befriend him to the grave. Only a mother's heart can be Patient enough for such as he ; " And so," said John, u I would not dare To send him from our bedside prayer." 186 The Poetical Speaker. Then stole we softly up above. And knelt by Mary, child of love ; " Perhaps for her 'twould better be," I said to John quite silently. He lifted up a curl that lay Across her cheek in willful way, And shook his head. " Nay, love, not thee ! " The while my heart beat audibly. Only one more, our oldest lad, Trusty and truthful, good and glad — So like his father. " No, John, no, I cannot, will not, let him go." And so we wrote in courteous way, We could not give one child away ; And afterward toil lighter seemed, Thinking of that of which we had dreamed. Happy, in truth, that not one face We missed from its accustomed place ; Thankful to work for all the seven, Trusting the rest to One in heaven. Anonymous. SATURDAY NIGHT. Placing the little hats all in a row, Ready for church on the morrow, you know ; Washing wee faces and little black fists, Getting them ready and fit to be kissed ; Putting them into clean garments and white — That is what mothers are doing to-night. Spying out holes in the little worn hose, Laying by shoes that are worn through tiie toes, .Looking o'er garments so faded and thin — Who but a mother knows where to begin ? Changing a button to make it look right — That is what mothers are doing to-night. The Silent Warriors. 187 Calling her little ones all round her chair, Hearing them lisp forth their evening prayer, Telling them stories of Jesus of old, "Who loved to gather the lambs to his fold ; Watching, they listen with weary delight — That is what mothers are doing to-night. Creeping so softly to take a last peep, After the little ones all are asleep ; Anxious to know if the children are warm, Tucking the blanket round each little form ; Kissing each little face rosy and bright — That is what mothers are doing to-night. Kneeling down gently beside the white bed, Lowly and meekly she bows down her head, Praying as only a mother can pray, " God guide and keep them from going astray." Anonymous. THE SILENT WARRIORS. The sun shone in at the window, On the printer's case and type, And the heaps of mystic letters Were bathed in its golden light ; And I thought of the truths there hidden, Of the mighty power there laid, In those piles of dusky metal, When in marshaled ranks arrayed. For by them our souls find voices For truths the ages have taught ; In volumes the dead have treasured, In words in immortal thought ; And they have tongues for our sorrows, And songs for our joys or woe, And in them life's records are written, Of all that we mortals know. 188 Hie Poetical Speaker. As the knights who, clad in their armor, Went forth in the olden days To war 'mid the down trod nations, With wrongs that stood in their ways ; Thus our thoughts in this dusky metal Are clad in their coats of mail. To conquer the wrongs that oppress us. Or evils our follies entail. The sun in its golden glory, Went down 'neath the rim of night, And each leaden shape was gleaming In iiames of its dying light ; Then stars in their hosts came marching, As their silver lances fell And flashed on the dull, cold metal, Where truths we know not dwell. A child in his feeble wisdom, Might place them with tiny hand, But a king with his steel-armed legions In vain would their force withstand ; For they are the silent warriors, Whose tents are folded away, Whose footprints go down through the ages Whose mandates the world shall obey. And a thought in my soul seemed striving, As our own good angel strives, To warm the clay that infolds us And wake from our sluggish lives ; That we, too, are symbols waiting The touch of the Master's hand, When the truths that sleep within us May light up each darkened land ; And each soul in its earthly journey May toil with hope sublime, To leave for the unborn nations Great thoughts on the scroll of time. ASONTMOUS. Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers. 189 LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS. The breaking waves dashed high On the stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky Their giant branches tossed ; And the heavy night hung dark The lil lis and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moored their bark On the wild New England shore. Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted, came ; Not with the roll of the stirring drums, And the trumpet that sings of fame : Not as the flying come. In silence and in fear ; They shook the depth of the desert's gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer. Amid the storm they sang, And the stars heard, and the sea ; And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free. The ocean eagle soared From his nest by the white wave's foam, And the rocking pines of the forest roared : This was their welcome home. There were men with hoary hair Amid that pilgrim band, Why have they come to wither there, Away from their childhood's land ? There was woman's fearless eye, Lit by her deep love's truth ; There was manhood's brow, serenely high, And the fiery heart of youth. i90 The Poetical Speaker. What sought they thus, afar ? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war ? They sought a faith's pure shrine ! Ay, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trod ! They have left unstained what there they found — Freedom to worship God ! Felicia Hemans. KEEP IT BEFORE THE PEOPLE. Keep it before the people ! That Earth was made for Man ! That flowers were strown, And fruits were grown, To bless, and never to ban — That sun and rain, And corn and grain, Are yours and mine, my brother ! Free gifts from heaven, And freely given To one as well as another ! Keep it before the people ! That man is the image of God ! His limbs or soul Ye may not control With shackle or shame or rod ! We may not be sold For silver or gold, Neither you nor I, my brother! For freedom was given By God, from heaven, To one as well as another ! May Drink, If Ye List 101 Keep it before the people ! That famine and crime and woe For ever abide, Still side by side "With luxury's dazzling show! That Lazarus crawls From Dives' halls, And starves at his gate, my brother ! Yet life was given By God, from heaven, To one as well as another ! Keep it before the people ! That the poor man claims his meed — The right of soil, And the right of toil, From spur and bridle freed ! The right to bear, And the right to share, With you and me, my brother ! Whatever is given By God, from heaven, To one as well as another ! A. J. H. DUGANNB. YE MAT DRINK, IF YE LIST. Ye may drink, if ye list, The red sparkling wine, From beakers that gleam With the gems of the vine ; Ye may quaff, if ye will, When the foam bends the brim, From a flagon or goblet, Till your eye shall grow dim ; But I've sworn on the altar, And my soul is now free, Nor beaker, nor flagon, Nor goblet for me. 392 The Poetical Speaker. Ye may light the avenger On ruin's wild path, Like a raging volcano, In the blaze of its wrath ; But your fire-crested waves, All gory with blood, Shall be hissing like serpents, And quenched ip the flood ; For I've sworn on the altar. And my soul is now free, This hand shall ne'er falter In its warfare with thee. But Nature's pure nectar Is the draught that I sip, — What God has appointed To moisten the lip ; And the gleam of its glory, Through the cycles of years, Shall dry the rivers of shame, And the fountains of tears ; For I've sworn on the altar, In youth's radiant glow, Not to lay down my arms Till I've conquered the foe. Then come to the altar. And come to the shrine, Dash down your red goblets, And your flagons of wine ; Young heroes are thronging Where the battle's begin:, And the sheen of their banners Flashes bright in the sun. When the shock of the onset, As a rock meets the flood, Shall roll back the fountains And rivers of blood. Pease. Labor Is Worship. 1U3 LABOR IS WORSHIP. Pause not to dream of the future before us ; Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o'ei us; I] ark, how Creation's deep, musical chorus, Unintermitting, goes up into heaven ! Never the ocean wave falters in flowing; Never the little seed stops in its growing; More and more richly the rose-heart keeps glosv- Till from its nourishing stem it is riven. " Labor is worship ! " — the robin is singing , " Labor is worship ! " — the wild bee is ringing : Listen ! that eloquent whisper upspringing Speaks to thy soul from out Nature's great heart. From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower ; From the rough sod blows the soft-breathing flower ; From the small insect, the rich coral bower ; Only man, in the plan, shrinks from his part. Labor is life ! 'Tis the still water faileth ; Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth ; Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust as- saileth ; Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon. Labor is glory ! — the flying cloud lightens ; Only the waving wing changes and brightens ; Idle hearts only the dark future frightens ; Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou keep them in tune ! Labor is rest from the sorrows that greet us, Rest from all petty vexations that meet us, Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat us, Rest from world-sirens that lure us to ill. 194 TJie Poetical Speaker. Work — and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pil- low ; Work — thou shalt ride over Care's coming bil- low ; Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weeping- willow ; Work with a stout heart and resolute will ! Labor is health ! Lo ! the husbandman reaping, How through his veins goes the life current leap- ing, How his strong arm, in its stalwart pride sweep- ing, True as a sunbeam, the swift sickle guides ! Labor is wealth — in the sea the pearL groweth ; Rich the queen's robe from the frail cocoon floweth ; From the fine acorn the strong forest bloweth ; Temple and statue the marble block hides. Droop not, though shame, sin, and anguish are around thee ! Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound thee I Look to yon pure heaven smiling beyond thee ! Rest not content in thy darkness — a clod ! Work — for some good, be it ever so slowly ; Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly ; Labor ! — all labor is noble and holy ; Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God ! "Frances S. Osgood. 'LOOK NOT UPON THE WINE WHEN IT IS RED." Look not upon the wine when it Is red within the cup ; Stay not for pleasure when she fills Her tempting beaker up ; Though clear its depths, and rich its glow, A spell of madness lurks below. Tlie Village Schoolmaster. 195 They say 'tis pleasant on the lip, And merry on the brain ; They say it stirs the sluggish blood, And dulls the tooth of pain : Ay, but within its gloomy deeps A stinging serpent unseen sleeps. Its rosy lights will turn to fire, Its coolness change to thirst; And by its mirth within the brim A sleepless worm is nursed. There's not a bubble at the brim That does not carry food to him. Then dash the burning cup aside And spill its purple wine ; Take not its madness to thy lips — Let not its curse be thine. 'Tis red and rich, but grief and woe Are hid those rosy depths below. Nathaniel P. Willis. THE VILLAGE SCHOOLMASTER. Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, With blossomed furze unprofitably gay, There, in his noisy mansion skilled to rule, The village master taught his little school. A man severe he was. and stern to view ; I knew him well, and every truant knew : "Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace The day's disasters in his morning face ; Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee, At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; Full well the busy whisper, circling round, Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned. Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught, 196 Tlie Poetical Speaker. The love he bore to learning was his fault. The village all declared how much he knew ; 'Twas certain he could write and cipher too 5 Lands he could measure, terms and tides pre- sage, And e'en the story ran — that he could gauge : In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill, For e'en though vanquished he could argue still ; While words of learned length, and thunder- ing sound, Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around ; And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, That one small head could carry all he knew. But past is all his fame. The very spot Where many a time he triumphed is forgot. Oliver Goldsmith. NOTHING BUT LEAVES. Nothing but leaves ; the spirit grieves Over a wasted life ; Sin committed while conscience slept, Promises made but never kept, Hatred, battle, and strife ; Nothing hut leaves ! Nothing but leaves ; no garnered sheaves Of life's fair, ripened grain ; Words, idle words, for earnest deeds ; We sow our seeds — lo ! tares and weeds ; We reap with toil and pain Nothing hut leaves ! Nothing but leaves ; memory weaves No vail to screen the past : As we retrace our weary way, Counting each lost and misspent day — We find, sadly, at last, Nothing hut leaves ! The Creeds of the Bells. 197 And shall we meet the Master so, Bearing our withered leaves ? The Saviour looks for perfect fruit, — We stand before him, humbled, mute ; Waiting the words he breathes, — " Nothing but leaves ? " Anonymous. THE CREEDS OF THE BELLS. How sweet the chime of Sabbath bells ! Each oil© its creed in music tells, In tones that iioat upon the air, As soft as song, as pure as prayer. And I will put in simple rhyme The language of the golden chime : JVIy happy heart with rapture swells Responsive to the bells, sweet bells. " In deeds of love excel ! excel ! " Chimed out from ivied towers a bell ; " This is the church not built on sands, Emblem of one not built with hands ; Its forms and sacred rites revere, Come worship here ! come worship here ! In rituals and faith excel ! " Chimed out the Episcopalian bell. " O heed the ancient landmarks well ! " In solemn tones exclaimed a bell ; " No progress made by mortal man Can change the just, eternal plan ; With God there can be nothing new ; Ignore the false, embrace the true, While all is well ! is well ! is well ! " Pealed out the good old Dutch church bell. " O swell ! ye purifying waters, swell ! " In mellow tones rang out a bell, u Though faith alone in Christ can save, Man must be plunged beneath the wave, 198 The Poetical Speaker. To show the world unfaltering faith In what the Sacred Scriptures saith : O swell ! ye rising waters, swell ! " Pealed out the clear-toned Baptist bell. " Not faith alone, but works as well, Must test the soul ! " said a soft bell ; " Come here and cast aside your load, And work your way along the road, With faith in God, and faith in man, And hope in Christ, where hope began ; Do well ! do well ! do well ! do well ! " Rang out the Unitarian bell. " Farewell ! farewell ! base world, farewell! " In touching tones exclaimed a bell ; " Life is a boon, to mortals given To iit the soul for bliss in Heaven ; Do not invoke the avenging rod, Come here and learn the way to God ; Say to the world, Farewell ! farewell ! " Pealed forth the Presbyterian bell. " To all the truth we tell ! we tell ! " Shouted in ecstasies a bell ; " Come, all ye weary wanderers, see ! Our Lord has made salvation free ! Hepent, believe, have faith, and then Be saved, and praise the Lord, Amen ! Salvation's free, we tell ! we tell ! " Shouted the Methodistic bell. George W. Bungay. JOAN OF ARC'S FAREWELL TO HOME. Farewell, ye mountains, ye beloved glades, Ye lone and peaceful valleys, fare ye well ! Through you Johanna never more may stray ! For aye Johanna bids you now farewell. Ye meads which I have watered, and ye trees Joan of Arc's Farewell to Rome. 190 Which I have planted, still in beauty bloom ! Farewell, ye grottos, and ye crystal springs ! Sweet echo, vocal spirit of the vale, Who sang'st responsive to my simple strain, Johanna goes, and ne'er returns again. Ye scenes where all my tranquil joys I knew, Forever now I leave you far behind ! Poor foldless lambs, no shepherd now have you! O'er the wide heath stray henceforth uncon- fined! For I to danger's field of crimson hue Am summoned hence, another flock to find. Such is to me the Spirit's high behest ; No earthly vain ambition fires my breast. For who in glory did on Horeb's height Descend to Moses in the bush of flame, And bade him stand in royal Pharaoh's sight — Who once to Israel's pious shepherd came, And sent him forth his champion in the fight — Who aye hath loved the lowly shepherd train — He from these leafy boughs thus spake to me; " Go forth ! Thou shalt on earth my witness be. " Thou in rude armor must thy limbs invest, A plate of steel upon thy bosom wear ; Yain earthly love may never stir thy breast, Nor passion's sinful glow be kindled there. Ne'er with the bride-wreath shall thy locks be dressed. Nor on thy bosom bloom an infant fair. But war's triumphant glory shall be thine ; Thy martial fame all women shall outshine. " For, when in fight the stoutest hearts de- spair, When direful ruin threatens France, forlorn. 200 TJie Poetical Speaker. Then thou aloft my oriflamme shall bear And swiftly as the reaper mows the corn Thou shalt lay low the haughty conqueror ; His fortune's wheel thou rapidly shalt turn, To Gaul's heroic sons deliv'rance bring, Relieve beleaguered Rheims, and crown thy king ! " The heavenly spirit promised me a sign ; He sends the helmet, it hath come from him. Its iron filleth me with strength divine — I feel the courage of the cherubim ; As with the rushing of a mighty wind, It drives me forth to join the battle's din ; The clanging trumpets sound, the chargers rear, And the loud war-cry thunders in mine ear. Schilleb. HOW HE SAVED ST. MICHAEL'S. 'Tw 7 as long ago — ere the signal gun That blazed above Fort Sumter had wakened the north as one ; Long ere the wondrous pillar of battle-cloud and fire Had marked where the unchained millions marched on to their heart's desire. On roofs and glittering turrets, that night as the sun w r ent down, The mellow glow of the twilight shone like a jewelled crown, And, bathed in the living glory, as the people lifted their eyes, They saw the pride of the city, the spire of St. Michael's, rise High over the lesser steeples, tipped with a golden ball, That hung like a radiant planet caught in its earth ward fall ; How He Saved St. Michaels. 201 First glimpse of home to the sailor who made the harbor round, And hist slow-fading vision dear to the outward bound. The gently-gathering shadows shut out the wan- ing light ; The children prayed at their bedsides, as they were wont each night; The noise of buyer and seller from the busy mart was gone, And in dreams of a peacef id morrow the city slumbered on. But another light than sunrise aroused the sleep- ing street, For a cry was heard at midnight, and the rush of trampling feet ; Men stared in each other's faces, thro' mingled fire and smoke, While the frantic bells went clashing clamorous, stroke on stroke. By the glare of her blazing roof-tree the house- less mother fled, With the babe she pressed to her bosom shriek- ing in nameless dread, While the fire-king's wild battalions scaled wall and capstone high, And planted their glaring banners against an inky sky. From the death that raged behind them, and the crush of ruin loud, To the great square of the city, were driven the surging crowd, Where yet firm in all the tumult, unscathed by the fiery flood, With its heavenward pointing finger the church of St. Michael's stood. 202 Tlie Poetical Speaker. But e'en as they gazed upon it, there rose a sud- den wail, A cry of horror blended witli the roaring of the gale, On whose scorching wings updriven, a single flaming brand. Aloft on the towering steeple clung like a bloody hand. " "Will it fade ? " the whisper trembled from a thousand whitening lips ; Far out on the lurid harbor they watched it from the ship?, A baleful gleam, that brighter and ever brighter shone, Like a flickering, trera6ling will-o'-the-wisp to a steady beacon grown. u Uncounted gold shall be given to the man whose brave right hand, For the love of the perilled city, plucks down yon burning brand ! " So cried the Mayor of Charleston, that all the people heard, But they looked each one at his fellow, and no man spoke a word. Who is it leans from the belfry, with face up- turned to the sky — Clings to a column and measures the dizzy spire with his eye ? "Will he dare it, the hero undaunted, that terrible sickening height, Or will the hot blood of his courage freeze in his veins at the sight ? But, pee ! he has stepped on the railing, he climbs with his feet and his hands, And firm on a narrow projection, with the belfry beneath him he stands! How He Saved St. Michael'*. 203 Now, once, and once only, they cheer him — a single tempestuous breath, And there falls on the multitude gazing a hush like the stillness of death. Slowly, steadily mounting, unheeding aught save the goal of the fire, Still higher and higher, an atom, he moves on the face of the spire ; He stops ! Will he fall ? Lo ! for answer, a gleam like a meteor's track, And, hurled on the stones of the pavement, the red brand lies shattered and black ! Once more the shouts of the people have rent the quivering air ; At the church door, mayor and council wait with their feet on the stair, And the eager throng behind them press for a touch of his hand, The unknown saviour whose daring could com- pass a deed so grand. Eat why does a sudden tremor seize on them as they gaze ? And what meaneth that stifled murmur of won- der and amaze ? He stood in the gate of the temple he had perilled his life to save, And the face of the unknown hero was the sable face of a slave ! With folded arms he was speaking in tones that were clear, not loud, And his eyes, ablaze in their sockets, burnt into the eves of the crowd. " Ye may keep your gold, I scorn it ! but answer me, ye who can, If the deed I have done before you be not the deed of a man f " 204 TJie Poetical Speaker. He stepped but a short space back ward, and from all the women and men There were only sobs for answer, and the mayor called for a pen, And the great seal of the city, that he might read who ran, And the slave who saved St. Michael's went out from its door a man. Mauy A. P. Stansbury. THE CHILDREN. "When the lessons and tasks are all ended, And the school for the day is dismissed, And the little ones gather around me, To bid me good night and be kissed : Oh, the little white arms that encircle My neck in a tender embrace ! Oh, the smiles that are halos of heaven, Shedding sunshine of love on my face ! And when they are gone I sit dreaming Of my childhood, too lovely to last : Of love that my heart will remember When it wakes to the pulse of the past, Ere the world and its wickedness made me A partner of sorrow and sin ; When the glory of God was about me, And the glory of gladness within. Oh ! mj heart grows as weak as a woman's, And the fountains of feeling will flow, When I think of paths steep and stony, Where the feet of the dear ones must go ; Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them, Of the tempest of fate blowing wild ; Oh ! there is nothing on earth half so holy As the innocent heart of a child. The Children. 205 They are idols of hearts and of households : They are angels of God in disguise ; His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses, His glory still beams in their eyes. Oh ! those truants from home and from heaven, They have made me more manly and mild, And I know how Jesus could liken The kingdom of God to a child. I ask not a life for the dear ones, All radiant, as others have done, But that life may have just enough shadow To temper the glare of the sun : I would pray God to guard them from evil, But my prayer would bound back to myself; Ah ! a seraph may pray for a sinner, But a sinner must pray for himself. The twig is so easily bended, I have banished the rule and the rod ; I have taught them the goodness of knowledge, They have taught me the goodness of God ; My heart is a dungeon of darkness, Where I shut them from breaking a rule ; My frown is sufficient correction ; My love is the law of the school. I shall leave the old home in the autumn, To traverse its threshold no more ; Ah ! how shall I sigh for the dear ones That meet me each morn at the door ! I shall miss the " good-nights" and the kisses, And the gush of their innocent glee, The group on the green, and the flowers That are brought every morning to me. I shall miss them at morn and at eve, Their song in the school and the street; I shall miss the low hum of their voices, And the tramp of their delicate feet. 206 Tlie Poetical Speaker. "When the lessons and tasks are all ended, And death says, " The school is dismissed ! " May the little ones gather around me. To bid me good-night, and be kissed ! Charles S. Dickinson. THE LOVE-KNOT. Tying her bonnet under her chin, She tied her raven ringlets in ; But not alone in the silken snare, Did she catch her lovely floating hair ; But tying her bonnet under her chin, She tied a young man's heart within. They were strolling together up the hill, Where the wind comes blowing merry and chill, And it blew the curls, a frolicsome race, All over the happy peach-colored face ; Till, scolding and laughing, she tied them in, Under her beautiful, dimpled chin. And it blew a color as bright as the bloom Of the pinkest fuchsia's tossing plume, All over the cheeks of the prettiest gill That ever imprisoned a romping curl, Or, in tying her bonnet under her chin, Tied a young man's heart within. Steeper and steeper grew the hill ; Madder, merrier, chillier still The western wind blew down and played The wildest tricks with the little maid, As, tying her bonnet under her chin, She tied a young man's heart within. O, western wind ! do you think it was fair To play such tricks with her floating hair ? To gladly, gleefully do your best T! And knights, in triumph's golden hours, Adorned their shields with those bright flowers. A poet mused on glorious themes — A wondrous radiance tilled his dreams ; He strove, in language, to express His fancy's blooming loveliness. But he was all unknown to fame, The world had never heard his name ; It hurried on its busy way, Nor listened to his graceful lay. " In vain," he said, " my song was sung, — A rose upon the river flung ; A pearl let fall on angry seas, — A flute-note dying on the breeze." The nameless poet passed away, A youth perused his thrilling lay ; It stirred his genius' latent tire — That flute-note woke upon his lyre ; That pearl shone like a star to him, To guide him on his pathway dim ; That last rose bloomed again, to be His crown of immortality. Then not in vain that song was sung, Although upon the poet's tongue It died ; — an echo caught the strain, Which never can be mute again. Anonymous. THE PHILOSOPHY OF SPORT. Bear lightly on their foreheads, Time ! Strew roses on their way ; The young in heart, however old, That prize the present day, And, wiser than the pompous proud, Are wise enough to play. The Philosophy of Sport. 287 I love to see a man forget His blood is growing cold, And leap, or swim, or gather flowers, Oblivions of his gold, And mix with children in their sport, Nor think that he is old. I love to see the man of care Take pleasure in a toy ; I love to see him row or ride, And tread the grass with joy, Or hunt the flying cricket-ball As lusty as a boy. All sports that spare the humblest pain, That neither maim nor kill — That lead us to the quiet field, Or to the wholesome hill, Are duties which the pure of heart Religiously fulfil. Though some may laugh that full-grown men May frolic in the wood, Like children let adrift from school, — Not mine that scornful mood ; — I honor human happiness, And deem it gratitude. And, though perchance the Cricketer, Or Chinaman that flies His Dragon-kite with boys and girls, May seem to some unwise, I see no folly in their play. But sense that underlies. The road of life is hard enough — Bestrewn with snag and thorn ; I would not mock the simplest joy That made it less forlorn ; But fill its evening path with flowers As fresh as those of morn. 8 Tlie Poetical Speaker. 'T is something, when the moon has passed, To brave the touch of Time — And say, " Good friend, thou harm'st me not, My soul is in its prime ; Thou canst not chill my warmth of heart ; — I carol while I climb." Give us but health, and peace of mind, Whate'er our clime or clan, We'll take delight in °imple things, Nor deem that sports unman ; And let the proud, who fly no kites, Despise us if they can ! C. Mackay. SPEECH OF SEMPRONIUS FOR WAR. My voice is still for war. Gods ! can a Roman senate long debate Which of the two to choose — slavery or death ? No ; let us rise at once, gird on our swords, And, at the head of our remaining troops, Attack the foe ; break through the thick array Of his thronged legions, and charge home upon him. Perhaps some arm more lucky than the rest May reach his heart, and free the world from bondage. Rise, fathers, rise ! 'tis Rome demands your help ; Rise, and revenge her slaughtered citizens, Or share their fate ! The corpse of half her senate Manure the fields of Thessaly, while we Sit here, deliberating in cold debates, If we should sacrifice our lives to honor, Or wear them out in servitude and chains. Rouse up, for shame ! our brothers of Pharsalia Point at their wounds, and cry aloud, " To battle ! " Great Pompey's shade complains that we are slow, And Scipio's ghost walks unrevenged amongst us ! Joseph Addison. Tfie Story of the Gentians. 289 THE STORY OF THE GENTIANS. In the beautiful age of fairy mirth, Wheu the Angel of Flowers dwelt on the earth, At the close of a sultry summer day, There passed through the forest a weary Fay. All day he had journeyed, and now, o'erworn, With the water spent in his drinking-horn, lie longed for a draught of refreshing dew, And then to slumber the long night through. " O ! is there a kindly flower," he said, " That its cup of dew for my sake will shed ? " u I will ! " cried a dear little Gentian flower, That was nodding to sleep in a jessamine bower, " I'll give thee the dew Night has given to me ; May it prove refreshment and strength to thee ! " The Fairy drank it, and sank to rest In a sky-lark's deserted, grassy nest. The Angel of Flowerc at the sunrise came, When the mountains were tipped with hues of flame ; Taking his way by the jessamine bower, Where nestled the generous Gentian flower, " Little blossom," he said, " thy love I havo seen, And thou shalt be fairer than thou hast been. No prettier charm for thee can I devise Than a fringe on the lids of those violet eyes." He vanished ; and sudden a wondrous change Came over the flower ; the Bee thought it strange When he came again, and he slowly flew To its hidden depths through that fringe of blue. But a sister Gentian was standing by, With envy and jealousy in her eye ; With a flush of anger and look of pride, " My buds shall not open to-day ! " she cried. The Angel of Flowers was hovering near, And her passionate words he chanced to hear : 290 TJie Poetical Speaker. " Thou must keep thy vow, though it bring thee pain, Thou may'st never open tliy buds again ! " O ! nevermore may the flower look up, ]^"ever catch the dew in her deep-blue cup ; x\nd the tears come oft in her close-shut eyes, Turned blindly up toward the beautiful skies ; While her sister raises, with happy love, Her azure-fringed eyes to the blue above ; And sometimes she looks in the smiling eye Of the kind Flower-Angel passing by ; And the blind one knows by the falling tear That the pitying Spirit is hovering near. Anonymous. DARKNESS. I had a dream, which was not all a dream. The bright sun was extinguished, and the stars Did wander, darkling, in the eternal space, Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth Swung blind, and blackening, in the moonless air ; Morn came, and went — and came, and brought no day ; And men forgot their passions, in the dread Of this their desolation ; and all hearts Were chilled into a selfish prayer for light. Some lay down, And hid their eyes, and wept ; and some did rest Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smiled ; And others hurried to and fro, and fed Their funeral piles with fuel, and looked up, With mad disquietude, on the dull sky, The pall of a past world ; and then again, With curses, cast them down upon the dust, And gnashed their teeth, and howled. t>a?'hness. 291 The wild birds shrieked, And, terrified, did flutter on the ground, And flap their useless wings : the wildest brutes Came tame, and tremulous; and vipers crawled And twined themselves among the multitude, Hissing, but stingless — they were slain for food. The meager by the meager were devoured ; Even dogs assailed their masters — all save one, And he was faithful to a corse, and kept The birds, and beasts, and famished men at bay, Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead Lured their lank jaws; himself sought out no food, But, with a piteous and perpetual moan, And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand Which answered not with a caress — he died. The crowd was famished by degrees ; but two Of an enormous city did survive, And they were enemies ; they met beside The dying embers of an altar-place, Where had been heaped a mass of holy things, For an unholy usage : they raked up, And, shivering, scraped, with their cold skeleton hands, The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath Blew for a little life, and made a flame, Which was a mockery : then they lifted Their eyes, as it grew lighter, and beheld Each other's aspects : saw, and shrieked, and died, Even of their mutual hideousness they died, Unknowing who he was upon whose brow Famine had written fiend. The world was void ; The populous and the powerful was a lump — Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless : A lump of death — a chaos of hard clay. The rivers, lakes, and ocean, all stood still, And nothing stirred within their silent depths; Ships, sailorless, lay rotting on the sea, '292 Tlie Poetical Speaker. And their masts fell down piecemeal ; as they dropped, They slept, on the abyss, without a surge : The waves were dead ; the tides were in their grave ; The moon, their mistress, had expired before ; The winds were withered in the stagnant air, And the clouds perished : darkness had no need Of aid from them ; she was the universe. Lord Byron. BERNARDO AND KING ALPHONSO. With some good ten of his chosen men, Bernardo hath appeared, Before them all in the palace hall, The lying king to beard ; With cap in hand and eye on ground, He came in reverend guise, But ever and anon he frowned, And flame broke from his eyes. " A curse upon thee," cried the king, " Who com'st unbid to me ! But what from traitor's blood should spring, Save traitor like to thee ? His sire, lords, had a traitor's heart, — Perchance our champion brave May think it were a pious part to share Don Sancho's grave." " Whoever told this tale, The king hath rashness to repeat," Cries Bernard, — ''here my gage I fling Before the liar's feet. No treason was in Sancho's blood, — No stain in mine doth lie : Below the throne, what knight will own The coward calumny ? Bernardo and King Alphonso. 293 " Ye swore upon your kingly faith, To set Don Sanclio free"; But, curse upon your paltering breath ! The light he ne'er did see : He died in dungeon cold and dim, By Alphonso's base decree ; And visage blind, and mangled limb, "Were all they gave to me. " The king that swerveth from his word Hath stained his purple black : No Spanish lord shall draw his sword Behind a liar's baclv. But noble vengeance shall be mine ; And open hate I'll show ; — The king hath injured Carpio's line, And Bernard is his foe ! " "Seize — seize him!" loud the king doth scream : " There are a thousand here ; Let his foul blood this instant stream ; — What ! caitiffs, do you fear % Seize — seize the traitor ! " But not one To move a linger dareth : Bernardo standeth by the throne, And calm his sword he bareth. He drew the falchion from its sheath, And held it up on high ; And all the hall was still as death : — Cries Bernard, " Here am I ; And here's the sword that owns no lord, Excepting heaven and me : Fain would I know who dares its point, — King, conde, or grandee." Then to his mouth his horn he drew, — It hung below his cloak ; His ten true men the signal knew, And through the ring they broke. 294 The Poetical Speaker. With helm on head, and blade in hand, The knights the circle break. And back the lordlings 'gan to stand, And the false king to quake. " Ha ! Bernard ! " quoth Alphonso, " What means this warlike guise ? Ye know full w r ell I jested ; — Ye know your worth I prize ! " But Bernard turned upon his heel, And, smiling, passed away. Long rued Alphonso and Castile The jesting of that day ! J. Gr. LOC^HART. THE MANIAC. Stay, jailer, stay, and hear my woe ! She is not mad who kneels to thee ; For what I'm now, too well I know, And what I was, and what should be. I'll rave no more in proud despair ; My language shall be mild, though sad : But yet I firmly, truly swear, I am not mad, I am not mad. My tyrant husband forged the tale Which chains me in this dismal cell ; My fate unknown my friends bewail — Oh ! jailer, haste that fate to tell : Oh ! haste my father's heart to cheer : His heart at once 'twill grieve and glad To know, though kept a captive here, I am not mad, I am not mad. He smiles in scorn, and turns the key ; He quits the grate ; I knelt in vain ; His glimmering lamp, still, still I see — ■ 3 Tis gone ! and all is gloom again. The Maniac. 2W5 Cold, bitter cold ! — No warmth ! no light ! — Life, all thy comforts once I had ; Yet here I'm chained, this freezing night, Although not mad ; no, no, not mad. 'Tis sure some dream, some vision vain ; What ! I, — the child of rank and wealth, — Am I the wretch who clanks this chain, Bereft of freedom, friends, and health ? Ah ! while I dwell on blessings fled, Which never more my heart must glad, How aches my heart, how burns my head ; But 'tis not mad ; no 'tis not mad. Hast thou, my child, forgot, ere this, A mother's face, a mother's tongue ? She'll ne'er forget your parting kiss, Nor round her neck how fast you clung ; Nor how with her you sued to stay ; Nor how that suit your sire forbade ; Nor how — I'll drive such thoughts away ; They'll make me mad, they'll make me mad. His rosy lips, how sweet they smiled ! His mild blue eyes, how bright they shone ! None ever bore a lovelier child : And art thou now forever gone ? And must I never see thee more, My pretty, pretty, pretty lad % I will be free ! unbar the door ! I am not mad ; I am not mad. Oh ! hark ! what mean those yells and cries ? His chain some furious madman breaks ; He comes, — I see his glaring eyes ; Now, now, my dungeon-grate he shakes. Help ! help ! — He's gone ! — Oh ! fearful woe, Such screams to hear, such sights to see ! Hy brain, my brain, — I know, I know, I am not mad, but soon shall be. 296 The Poetical Speaker. Yes, soon ; — for, lo you ! — while I speak — Mark how yon demon's eyeballs glare ! He sees me ; now, with dreadful shriek, He whirls a serpent high in air. Horror ! — the reptile strikes his tooth Deep in my heart, so crushed and sad ; Ay, laugh, ye fiends ; — I feel the truth ; Your task is done — I'm mad ! I'm mad ! Lewis. THE AMERICAN PATRIOT'S SONG. Hark ! hear ye the sounds that the winds on their pinions Exultingly roll from the shore to the sea, With a voice that resounds through her bound- less dominions ? J Tis Columbia calls on her sons to be free ! Behold on yon summits, where heaven has throned her, How she starts from her proud inaccessible seat; "With nature's impregnable ramparts around her. And the cataract's thunder and foam at her feet ! In the breeze of her mountains her loose locks are shaken, While the soul-stirring notes of her warrior- song From the rock to the valley re-echo — "Awaken, Awaken, ye hearts that have slumbered too long !'" Yes, despots ! too long did your tyranny hold ns, In a vassalage vile, ere its weakness was known; Till we learned that the links of the chain that controlled us "Were forged by the fears of its captives al The Street of By-and-Bye. 297 That spell is destroyed, and no longer availing, Despised as detested — pause well ere ye dare To cope with a people whose spirit and feeling Are roused by remembrance and steeled by despair. Go, tame the wild torrent, or stem with a straw The proud surges that sweep o'er the strand that confines them ; But presume not again to give freemen a law, Nor think with the chains they have broken to bind them. To hearts that the spirit of liberty flushes, Resistance is idle, — and numbers a dream ; — They burst from control, as the mountain-stream rushes From its fetters of ice, in the warmth of the beam. Anonymous. THE STREET OF BY-AND-BYE. " By the street of ' By-and-Bye,' one arrives at the house of ■ Never.' "—Old Saying. O ! shun the spot, my youthful friends, I urge you to beware ; Beguiling is the pleasant way, and softly breathes the air ; Yet none have ever passed to scenes ennobling, great, and high, Who once began to linger in the street of By- and-Bye. How varied are the images arising to my sight Of those who wished to shun the wrong, who loved and prized the right ; Yet from the silken bonds of sloth they vainly strove to fly, Which held them gently prisoned in the street of By-and-Bye. 298 The Poetical Speaker. A youth aspired to climb the height of Learn- ing's lofty hill ; What dimmed his bright intelligence — what quelled his earliest will ? Why did the object of his quest still mock his wistful eye ? Too long, alas ! he tarried in the street of By- and-Bye. " My projects thrive," the merchant said ; " when doubled is my store, How freely shall my ready gold be showered among the poor ! ° Yast grew his wealth, yet strove he not the mourner's tear to dry ; He never journeyed onward from the street of By-and-Bye. i< Forgive thy erring brother, he had wept and suffered long," I said to one, who answered — " He hath done me grievous wrong ; Yet will I seek my brother, and forgive him, ere I die;" Alas ! Death shortly found him in the street of By-and-Bye ! The wearied worldling muses upon lost and wasted days, Resolved to turn hereafter from the error of his ways, To lift his grovelling thoughts from earth, and fix them on the sky ; Why does he linger fondly in the street of By- and-Bye % Then shun the spot, my youthful friends ; work on, while yet you may ; Let not old age o'ertake you as you slothfully delay, Parting of Douglas and Marmion. 299 Lest you should gaze around you, and discover with a sigh, You have reached the house of " Never " by thtf street of By-and-Bye ! Mits. xVbdy. PARTING OF DOUGLAS AND MARMION. Not far advanced was morning day, When Marmion did his troops array, To 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 Btately grace, Would Clara on her palfrey place, And whispered, in an under tone, " Let the hawk stoop, his pre} 7 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 staid, 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 still Be open, at my sovereign's will, To each one whom he lists, howe'er Unmeet 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 grasp, The hand of such as Marmion clasp." Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire, And shook his very frame with ire, And—" This to me ! " he said,— 300 The Poetical Speaker, " An 't were not for thy hoary beard, Such hand as Marmion' s had not spared To cleave the Douglas' head ! And, first, I tell thee, haughty peer, He, who does England's message here, Although the meanest in her state, May well, proud Angus, be thy mate ; And, Douglas, more I tell thee 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 peer To any lord in Scotland here, Lowland or Highland, far or near, Lord Angus, thou hast lied ! " On the Earl's cheek the flush of rage O'ercame the ashen hue of age ; Fierce he broke forth — " And dar'st thou then To 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 draw-bridge, 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 draw-bridge flies, Just as it trembled on the rise ; Not lighter does the swallow skim Along 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, The Mummy. 301 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. — Saint 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. Walter Scott. THE MUMMY. And thou hast walked about (how strange a story !) In Thebes' streets three thousand years ago, When the Memnonium was in all its glory, And time had not begun to overthrow Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous, Of which the very ruins are tremendous. Speak ! for thou long enough hast acted dummy, Thou hast a tongue, come let us hear its tune : Thou'rt standing on thy legs above ground, Mummy ! Revisiting the glimpses of the moon ; Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures, But with thy bones and flesh, and limbs and features. Tell us — for doubtless thou canst recollect, To whom should we assign the sphynx's fame ? Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect Of either pyramid that bears his name ? Is Pompey's pillar really a misnomer ? Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer ? 802 Tlie Poetical Speaker. Perhaps thou wert a Mason, and forbidden By oath to tell the mysteries of thy trade, Then say what secret melody was hidden In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise played ? Perhaps thou wert a priest — if so, my struggles Are vain ; — Egyptian priests ne'er owned their juggles. Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat, Has hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass to glass ; Or dropped a half -penny in Homer's hat, Or doffed thine own to let Queen Dido pass. Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, A torch at the great temple's dedication. I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed, Has any Roman soldier mauled and knuckled, For thou wert dead, and buried, and embalmed, Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled : — Antiquity appears to have begun Long after thy primeval race was run. Since first thy form was in this box extended, We have, above ground, seen some strange mutations ; The Roman empire has begun and ended ; New worlds have risen — we have lost old nations, And countless kings have into dust been hum- bled, While not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled. Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head When the great Persian conqueror, Cambyses, Marched armies o'er thy tomb, with thundering tread, O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis, And shook the pyramids with fear and wonder, When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder ? The Old Oaken Bucket. o03 If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed, The nature of the private life unfold ; — A heart has throbbed beneath that leathern breast, And tears adown that dusky cheek have rolled : — Have children climbed those knees, and kissed that face ? What was thy name and station, age and race ? Statue of flesh — immortal of the dead ! Imperishable type of evanescence ! Posthumous man, who quitt'st thy narrow bed, And standest undecayed within our presence, Thou wilt hear nothing till the judgment morn- ing, When the great trump shall thrill thee with its warning. Why should this worthless tegument endure, If its undying guest be lost forever ? Oh, let us keep the soul embalmed and pure In living virtue ; that when both must sever, Although corruption may our frame consume, Th' immortal spirit in the skies may bloom. Smith. THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood ! When fond recollection presents them to view ; The orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled wild-wood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew ; The wide spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it, The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell; 304 TJie Poetical Speaker. The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, And e ? en the rude bucket which hung in the well ; The old oaken bucket — the iron-bound bucket — The moss-covered bucket, which hung in the well. That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure ; For often at noon, when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How ardent I seized it with hands that were . glowing, And quick to the white pebbled bottom it fell ; Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflow- ing* And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well ; The old oaken bucket — the iron-bound bucket — The moss-covered bucket arose from the well. How sweet from the green mossy brim to re- ceive it. As poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips ! Not a full, blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips. And now, far removed from that loved situation, The tear of regret will intrusively swell, As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well; The old oaken bucket — the iron-bound bucket — The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well. Samuel Woodworth. TJie Music of the Waves. 305 THE MUSIC OF THE WAVES. When moonlight's soft and tender charm Is brightening all the sea, When all the earth lies still and calm In night's serenity, I love to stand upon the shore Which Ocean gently laves, And hear the sound I love so well — The music of the waves. I love to think how, everywhere, On many a distant strand, That music fills the breezy air, Along the shelly sand ; How, far away, its low notes roll Through lonely, echoing caves, Where naught but listening stars can hear The music of the waves. Grod woke the ocean's organ tone E'en at creation's birth ; And still, though thousand years are flown, Its loud notes ring on earth ; Ay, still it sounds, eternally, If Ocean smiles or raves ; In sleep or madness ceaseth not The music of the waves. But not in dull monotony That tireless voice sings on ; The music of the changing sea Hath many a varied tone. It sometimes seems a requiem O'er many nameless graves, Whose silent inmates hear no more The music of the waves. And oft in very happiness It breaks upon the shore, The gladness striving to express With which its heart brims o'er. 306 TJie Poetical Speaker. As changeful as the rainbow foam With which the shore it laves, Rings on, in varied beauty still, The music of the waves. Anonymous. TRUEST WISDOM. "Receive instruction and not silver; and knowledge, rather than choice gold. For wisdom is better than rubies ; and all the things that may be desired are not to be compared to it." — Prov. viii. 10, 11. 'Tis the part of truest wisdom, Well to store the youthful mind ; He who works the mines of learning Will more precious jewels find, — Worth far more than sparkling diamonds Or than pearls from Persian seas — " Pearls of wisdom " with pure luster Dim the flashing light of these. 'Tis the time, ere care or sorrow Fill the weaiy world-worn heart, Choicest lore from books to borrow, Acting well the student's part. Heed thou, then, what says the Scripture, — Take it to thy inmost heart — Knowledge has more worth than silver, Even in life's crowded mart. Skill is stronger far than sinews, Science aids in every art ; All improvements, world-wide blessings. From some studious brain take start. Toil, then, onward, ardent ever, Fearless scale each towering height, Where mysterious clouds are resting, Hiding still thy goal from sight ; For amid life's whirl and bustle Comes no more the quiet hour, When thou canst, in peace, be gaining Knowledge, which is highest Power. "I Can? no: Be, then, strong and struggle nobly, Add, with patience, line to line Of its truthful, earnest lessons While the days of youth are thine. So shalt thou, when age is shedding Thick its snows upon thy head, And the path of life seems lengthened To thy weary, faltering tread, Find within thy mind's deep coffers Better wealth than countless gold — Gems of knowledge rich and sparkling — Diamond thoughts of price untold. Anonymous. "I CAN !" " I can ! " Yes, sir — we know you can ! We read it in your eye, There is a mystic talisman Flashing all gloriously ! Speak it out boldly, let it ring, There is a volume there, There's meaning in the eagle's wing ; Then soar, and do, and dare ! " I can ! " climbs to the mountain top, And plows the billowy main, It lifts the hammer in the shop ; And drives the saw and plane ; 'Tis fearless in the battle shock, And always leads the van Of young America's brave sons, — They never quailed nor ran. " I can ! " He is a fiery youth, And will a brother twin, And, arm in arm, in love and truth, They'll either die or win ; Shoulder to shoulder, ever ready, All firm and fearless still The brothers labor — true and steady — " I can," and brave " I will ! " 308 TJie Poetical Speaker. " I can " e'en on Ills pleasure trips Travels by telegraph, He pinnies the snowy wing of ships, And never works by half ; His music is the humming loom, And shuttles are his dances, Then clear the way and quick give room For the noble souled " I can," sirs ! " I can ! " Yes, sir — we know you can ! 'Tis lithe in every limb, To your blood 'tis a busy fan, How can the flame burn dim ? It tensely draws your sturdy nerves, — No bow's without a string, And when nor bow nor bow-string swerves An arrow's on the wing. I've got to " sixthly," and would make A personal " application " In four heads ; listen every one Of this our Yankee nation ; JZanish from you every canH, And show yourself a man, find nothing will your purpose daunt, Led by the brave " I can ! " Anonymous. A NFW THEORY OF FROST: OR THE STORY OF THE FROST-KING. The cold winter-wind rushed noisily forth, Blew merrily far and free, From its home in the frozen caves of the North, Away over land and sea ; Away, away, o'er the stiffening earth, And the icy ocean-tide, With a rushing sound, and a noisy mirth, Resistlessly, far and wide,. A New Tlieory of Frost. 309 The Frost-King sat on a lofty seat, In bis glorious palace hall ; A carpet of snow was spread for his feet, In his hand was an icicle tall. Gorgeous and brilliant the Northern Lights bright, Flashed from the pillars around, In ros}', and purple, and emerald light, And danced o'er the carpeted ground. Fringes of icicles hung from the roof, — Hung from the seat of the throne ; And there, in the midst of the beautiful hall, Sat the merry Frost-King, alone. Then he thought to himself, and he spoke out aloud, — " The South Wind h&s just come back ; And he brings such tales of the kingdoms proud That he passed on his homeward track ; — " I too, must go from my beautiful home, And journey the wide world through ; I will see for myself, as I onward roam, If the stories he tells are true." Then his servants fastened his icy car To the North Wind, fleet and strong, And away right merrily, free and far, The North Wind bore him along. And, speeding away like the arrowy light, He came to visit us, here ; He wanders about in the starry night, And looks at the houses queer, At the green pine tree, and the hemlock free, With branches drooping and low, At the withered leaf, and the naked tree, All crusted and sparkling with snow. But the merry Frost-King grows weary and sad, For he longs for his home once more ; For the music of icebergs, crashing glad Away from the rocky shore : 310 The Poetical Speaker. He waits to go back with the soft South "Wind ; But, far in the sunny South-land, Its fleet, fair horses, I know we should find, Are fastened, and quietly stand. ISTo longer merry, but weary and worn, He wanders about in the night, Homesick, and longing so much to return To his beautiful palace of light ; And he thinks of naught but his far-away home ; Of his ice-towers, floating free ; Of his fringe-hung roof, and his icicled dome, Where the light plays gloriously. He remembers a bay, where a brave little bark, That he fought for, and won, at last, From her daring crew, in the winter dark, In his icy chains is fast. And he longs to go back to his trophy of war, And fasten her tighter still, Lest the lawless sea-currents should bear her far Away, in spite of his will. And when he looks in at the windows bright, As he wearily wanders past, And sees our home by the dancing fire-light, His tears fall heavy and fast ; And he sighs, " ISTo home is so dear as my hall, Let me show you my beautiful land ! " And then on the pane, with his fingers small, He draws with a trembling hand. And he draws his glorious northern home, His palace and crystal hall, His icebergs grand, and his icicled dome, And a snow-wreath over all : And the little bark in the ice-bound bay, — The prize that is fairly his own, — With her tapering masts, pointing, night and day, To the polar star, alone. The Main Truck, or a Leap for Life. 311 But sometimes the tears of the little Frost-King Fall as fast as his finger moves, And drop on the picture, and blot every thing He may draw of the land he loves ; And palace, throne, icebergs, all melt into one, — A broad stretching frost-sheet of white : Then he sighs yet again, and more sadly goes on To the next pane, all gleaming and bright. Thus he wearily wanders along the street, Through the starry winter night ; We can not hear the sound of his feet, Or mark his figure slight. But when we see, by the morning sun, His beautiful pictures around, We know he has been here, and drawn every one, Though we heard not a voice or sound. Then pity, oh ! pity the sad Frost-King ! And hope, that the days to come The South Wind's horses may swiftly bring r And carry him back to his home. And study the pictures he leaves for you all, And find his palace and throne. And the icicled wall, and the icebergs tall, And his ship in the bay, alone. A. E. Brackett. THE MAIN TRUCK, OR A LEAP FOR LIFE. Old Ironsides * at anchor lay, In the harbor of Mahon ; A dead calm rested on the bay, — The waves to sleep had gone ; When little Hal, the Captain's son, A lad both brave and good, In sport, up shroud and rigging ran, And on the main truckf stood ! * The United States frigate Constitution. f The topmost point of the main mast. 312 The Poetical Speaker. A shudder shot through every vein,— All eyes were turned on high ! There stood the boy, with dizzy brain, Between the sea and sky ; No hold had he above, below ; Alone he stood in air : To that far height none dared to go, — No aid could reach him there. We gazed, but not a man could speak ! With horror all aghast, In groups, with pallid brow and cheek, We watched the quivering mast. The atmosphere grew thick and hot, And of a lurid hue ; As riveted unto the spot, Stood officers and crew. The father came on deck : — he gasped, " O God ! thy will be done ! " Then suddenly a rifle grasped, And aimed it at his son. " Jump, far out, boy, into the wave ! Jump, or I fire," he said ; " That only chance your life can save ; Jump, jump, boy ! " He obeyed. He sunk, — he rose, — he lived, — he moved,— And for the ship struck out. On board we hailed the lad beloved, With many a manly shout. His father drew, in silent joy, Those wet arms round his neck, And folded to his heart his boy, — Then fainted on the deck. ANOmrMOus. NOV 14 1901 NOV 9 19 ° l ^■^H LIBRARY ■ ■ z 021 100 566 A ii ■ ^H ^ H if H H ■ ■ $