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LITERATURE FOR THE 
 STUDY OF LANGUAGE 
 
 AS REQUIRED BY THE COURSE OF STUDY FOR 
 THE COMMON SCHOOLS OF NORTH DAKOTA 
 
 ARRANGED BY 
 
 R. M. BLACK 
 
 FOR THE COMMITTEE ON COURSE OF STUDY 
 
 
 HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
 
 Boston : 4 Park Street ; New York : 85 Fifth Avenue 
 Chicago : 378-388 Wabash Avenue 
 
 Cbe jaitjerjjiDe pre?? Cambribge 
 
OFFICIAL ENDORSEMENT 
 
 The publication of this book was approved and endorsed 
 by the Standing Committee of Superintendents on the North 
 Dakota State Course of Study, and by the Department of 
 Public Instruction for use in connection with the work in 
 Reading and Language in the Course of Study for the 
 Common Schools of North Dakota. 
 
 .£4 3 
 
 UBHARY of OON««E«S: 
 Iwu QoDles Hece)y4« 
 
 Stf 5 l»<i8 
 I ooPY a; ^ 
 
 COPYRIGHT IQO8 BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
 
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PUBLISHERS' NOTE 
 
 A Course of Study for the common schools of 
 North Dakota was issued by the Department of Public 
 Instruction in 1898. In 1903 this first Course of Study 
 was quite materially revised by a committee of six 
 from the County Superintendents' Section of the 
 North Dakota Educational Association. 
 
 In November, 1907, another revision was made by 
 the Standing Committee of Superintendents, composed 
 of W. L. Stockwell, State Superintendent of Public 
 Instruction; R. M. Black, County Superintendent of 
 Richland County ; Dalton McDonald, County Super- 
 intendent of McHenry County; F. M. Sherarts, 
 County Superintendent of Pembina County; F. V. 
 Hutchinson, County Superintendent of Ransom 
 County ; and Minnie J. Nielson, County Superintend- 
 ent of Barnes County. 
 
 By this committee the work on language was thor- 
 oughly revised, a great many of the elective poems 
 were eliminated, and quite definite selections were 
 made for each of the nine months in the course from 
 the third to the eighth year inclusive. It was thought 
 best to give the pupils as wide acquaintance as time 
 and thoroughness will permit with the best literature, 
 and some prose selections were also included. 
 
 As it was a difficult matter to procure this required 
 material from so many different authors and publish- 
 ers, it was deemed advisable to have all the required 
 selections published in an inexpensive and convenient 
 
ii PUBLISHERS' NOTE 
 
 volume. To meet the demand for such a volume, 
 Hottghton Mifflin Company, as the authorized pub- 
 lishers of the greater number of the selections, have 
 undertaken the publication of a book containing the 
 material required by the Course of Study. 
 
 It was thought best by the committee not to include 
 specific suggestions for the study of these classics, but 
 to leave each teacher free to employ her own methods. 
 Some suggestions may be found in the Course of 
 Study. Also the biographies of authors are omitted, 
 and the teacher is referred to some of the splendid 
 complete biographies now easily obtainable. In the 
 abridged selections given, the wording of the author 
 is followed so far as abridgment permits. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 THIRD YEAR 
 
 PAOB 
 
 First Month 
 
 September Helen Hunt Jackson 1 
 
 Second Month 
 
 October's Bright Blue Weather 
 
 Helen Hunt Jackson 2 
 
 Third Month 
 
 The Corn-Song John Greenleaf Whittier 3 
 
 Fourth Month 
 
 The First Snow-Fall James Russell Lowell 5 
 
 Fifth Month 
 
 Winter-Time Robert Louis Stevenson 7 
 
 Sixth Month 
 
 The Children's Hour 
 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 7 
 
 Seventh Month 
 
 March William CuUen Bryant 9 
 
 Eighth Month 
 
 The Ugly Duckling 
 
 Hans Christian Andersen 10 
 
 Ninth Month 
 
 The Brook Alfred, Lord Tennyson 16 
 
IV CONTENTS 
 
 FOURTH YEAR 
 
 First Month 
 
 The Barefoot Boy John Greenleaf Whittier 19 
 
 Second Month 
 
 Benjamin Franklin as a Boy 
 
 Nathaniel Hawthorne 22 
 Dutch Lullaby Eugene Field 26 
 
 Third Month 
 
 The Village Blacksmith 
 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 28 
 
 Fourth Month 
 
 The Sparrows Celia Thaxter 30 
 
 Fifth Month 
 
 Snow-Bound (Selections : — The Storm ; The 
 Kitchen Scene) John Greenleaf Whittier 32 
 
 Sixth Month 
 
 Old Ironsides Oliver Wendell Holmes 35 
 
 Our Heroes Phoebe Gary 36 
 
 Seventh Month 
 
 I Remember, I Remember Thomas Hood 37 
 
 Eighth Month 
 
 The Voice of Spring Felicia D. Hemans 38 
 
 Ninth Month 
 
 The Leak in the Dike Phoebe Gary 41 
 
 Seven Times One Jean Ingelow 46 
 
 FIFTH YEAR 
 
 First Month 
 
 Barbara Frietchie John Greenleaf Whittier 48 
 
CONTENTS V 
 
 Second Month 
 
 Sheridan's Ride Thomas Buchanan Bead 51 
 
 Third Month 
 
 The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers in 
 New England Felicia D. Hemans 53 
 
 Fourth Month 
 
 Little Gottlieb Phoebe Gary 54 
 
 Christmas Everywhere Phillips Brooks 68 
 
 Fifth Month 
 
 The Sword of Bunker Hill 
 
 William Ross Wallace 59 
 
 Sixth Month 
 
 Abraham Lincoln William Cullen Bryant 60 
 
 Seventh Month 
 
 The Star-Spangled Banner 
 
 Francis Scott Key 61 
 America Samuel Francis Smith 62 
 
 Eighth Month 
 
 Paul Revere's Ride 
 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 63 
 
 Ninth Month 
 
 The Blue and the Gray 
 
 Francis Miles Finch 68 
 
 SIXTH YEAR 
 First Month 
 
 Gluck's Visitor (First Visit) John Ruskin 71 
 
 Second Month 
 
 Maize, the Nation's Emblem 
 
 Celia Thaxter 76 
 The Story of Mondamin (From The Song 
 of Hiawatha) 
 
 genry Wadsworth Longfellow 77 
 
• 
 
 VI 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 
 Third Month 
 
 
 
 Thk Cloud 
 
 Percy Bysshe Shelley 
 
 81 
 
 Fourth Month 
 
 
 
 Christmastide 
 
 Richard Burton 
 
 84 
 
 Fifth Month 
 
 King Solomon and the Ants 
 
 John Greenleaf Whittler 84 
 Snow-Bound (Selections : — The Mother ; The 
 Sisters \ The Schoolmaster) 
 
 John Greenleaf Whittier 86 
 
 Sixth Month 
 
 Washington (From Ode to Napoleon Buon- 
 aparte) Lord Byron 91 
 
 Seventh Month 
 
 The Wreck of the Hesperus 
 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 
 
 92 
 
 The Legend of the Crossbill 
 
 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 
 
 96 
 
 Eighth Month 
 
 
 The Ruby-Crowned Kinglet 
 
 
 Henry van Dyke 
 
 97 
 
 To A Waterfowl William Cullen Bryant 
 
 99 
 
 Ninth Month 
 
 The Bivouac of the Dead 
 
 Theodore O'Hara 101 
 The Yellow Violet William Cullen Bryant 104 
 
 SEVENTH YEAR 
 
 First Month 
 
 YussouF James Russell Lowell 106 
 
 The Charge of the Light Brigade 
 
 Alfred, Lord Tennyson 107 
 
CONTENTS vii 
 
 Second Month 
 
 The Shepherd of King Admetus 
 
 James Russell Lowell 109 
 
 Third Month 
 
 Wendell Phillips James Russell Lowell 111 
 
 Fourth Month 
 
 The Present Crisis James Russell Lowell 111 
 The Huskers John Greenleaf Whittier 117 
 
 Fifth Month 
 
 Ode recited at the Harvard Commemora- 
 tion James Russell Lowell 120 
 
 Sixth Month 
 
 Those Evening Bells Thomas Moore 134 
 
 Seventh Month 
 
 The Oak James Russell Lowell 134 
 
 Eighth Month 
 
 To THE Dandelion James Russell Lowell 136 
 
 Ninth Month 
 
 To William Lloyd Garrison 
 
 James Russell Lowell 138 
 
 EIGHTH YEAR 
 
 First Month 
 
 The Recessional Rudyard Kipling 141 
 
 Second Month 
 
 Abraham Davenport 
 
 John Greenleaf Whittier 142 
 The American Flag Joseph Rodman Drake 144 
 
 Third Month 
 
 For an Autumn Festival 
 
 John Greenleaf Whittier 146 
 
viii CONTENTS 
 
 The Chambered Nautilus 
 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes 148 
 
 Fourth Month 
 
 The Death of the Old Year 
 
 Alfred, Lord Tennyson 150 
 Flower in the Crannied Wall 
 
 Alfred, Lord Tennjson 152 
 
 Fifth Month 
 
 The New Year John Greenleaf Whittier 152 
 
 The Frost Spirit John Greenleaf Whittier 158 
 
 Sixth Month 
 
 Ichabod John Greenleaf Whittier 159 
 
 Sir Galahad Alfred, Lord Tennyson 160 
 
 Crossing the Bar Alfred, Lord Tennyson 163 
 
 Seventh Month 
 
 The Little Land Robert Louis Stevenson 164 
 
 Eighth Month 
 
 The Return of the Birds 
 
 William CuUen Bryant 166 
 For A' That and A' That Robert Burns 168 
 
 Ninth Month 
 
 Song of the Chattahoochee Sidney Lanier 170 
 
 My Native Land (From The Lay of the 
 Last Minstrel) Sir Walter Scott 171 
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS 173 
 
 INDEX OF TITLES 176 
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS .... 177 
 
LITERATURE FOR THE STUDY 
 OF LANGUAGE 
 
 THIRD YEAR 
 
 SEPTEMBER i 
 Helen Hunt Jackson % 
 
 The golden-rod is yellow ; 
 
 The corn is turning brown ; 
 The trees in apple orchards 
 
 With fruit are bending down. 
 
 The gentian's bluest fringes 5 
 
 Are curling in the sun ; 
 In dusty pods the milkweed 
 
 Its hidden silk has spun. 
 
 The sedges flaunt their harvest, 
 
 In every meadow nook ; 10 
 
 And asters by the brook-side 
 Make asters in the brook. 
 
 From dewy lanes at morning 
 The grapes' sweet odors rise ; 
 
 At noon the roads all flutter 15 
 
 With yellow butterflies. 
 
 By all these lovely tokens 
 
 September days are here, 
 With summer's best of weather, 
 
 And autumn's best of cheer. 20 
 
 ^ Used by permission of Messrs. Little, Brown & Co., the 
 authorized publishers of Helen Hunt Jackson's writings. 
 
2 THIRD YEAR 
 
 But none of all this beauty 
 
 Which floods the earth and air 
 
 Is unto me the secret 
 
 Which makes September fair. 
 
 'T is a thing which I remember ; 26 
 
 To name it thrills me yet ; 
 One day of one September 
 
 I never can forget. 
 
 OCTOBER'S BRIGHT BLUE WEATHER > 
 Helen Hunt Jackson 
 
 O SUNS and skies and clouds of June, 
 
 And flowers of June together, 
 Ye cannot rival for one hour 
 
 October's bright blue weather. 
 
 When loud the bumble-bee makes haste, 5 
 
 Belated, thriftless, vagrant, 
 And Golden-Kod is dying fast. 
 
 And lanes with grapes are fragrant : 
 
 When Gentians roll their fringes tight 
 
 To save them for the morning, 10 
 
 And chestnuts fall from satin burrs 
 Without a sound of warning ; 
 
 When on the ground red apples lie 
 
 In piles like jewels shining, 
 And redder still on old stone walls 15 
 
 Are leaves of woodbine twining ; 
 
 ^ Used by permission of Messrs. Little, Brown & Co., the 
 authorized publishers of Helen Hunt Jackson's writings. 
 
THIRD YEAR 3 
 
 When all the lovely wayside things 
 Their white-winged seeds are sowing, 
 
 And in the fields, still green and fair, 
 
 Late aftermaths are growing ; 20 
 
 When springs run low, and on the brooks, 
 
 In idle golden freighting. 
 Bright leaves sink noiseless in the hush 
 
 Of woods, for winter waiting ; 
 
 When comrades seek sweet country haunts, 25 
 
 By twos and twos together, 
 And count like misers hour by hour, 
 
 October's bright blue weather. 
 
 O suns and skies and flowers of June, 
 
 Count all your boasts together, 30 
 
 Love loveth best of all the year 
 October's bright blue weather. 
 
 THE CORN-SONG 
 John Greenleaf Whittier 
 
 Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard ! 
 
 High heap the golden corn ! 
 No richer gift has Autumn poured 
 
 From out her lavish horn ! 
 
 Let other lands, exulting, glean 5 
 
 The apple from the pine, 
 The orange from its glossy green. 
 
 The cluster from the vine ; 
 
 We better love the hardy gift 
 
 Our rugged vales bestow, 10 
 
THIRD YEAR 
 
 To cheer us when the storm shall drift 
 Our harvest-fields with snow. 
 
 Through vales of grass and meads of flowers 
 
 Our ploughs their furrows made, 
 While on the hills the sun and showers 15 
 
 Of changeful April played. 
 
 We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain 
 
 Beneath the sun of May, 
 And frightened from our sprouting grain 
 
 The robber crows away. 20 
 
 All through the long, bright days of June 
 
 Its leaves grew green and fair. 
 And waved in hot midsummer's noon 
 
 Its soft and yellow hair. 
 
 And now, with Autumn's moonlit eves, 25 
 
 Its harvest-time has come. 
 We pluck away the frosted leaves, 
 
 And bear the treasure home. 
 
 There, when the snows about us drift, 
 
 And winter winds are cold, 30 
 
 Fair hands the broken grain shall sift, 
 And knead its meal of gold. 
 
 Let vapid idlers loll in silk 
 
 Around their costly board; 
 Give us the bowl of samp and milk, 35 
 
 By homespun beauty poured ! 
 
 Where'er the wide old kitchen hearth 
 Sends up its smoky curls. 
 
THIRD YEAR 6 
 
 Who will not thank the kindly earth 
 
 And bless our farmer girls ! 40 
 
 Then shame on all the proud and vain, 
 
 Whose folly laughs to scorn 
 The blessing of our hardy grain, 
 
 Our wealth of golden corn ! 
 
 Let earth withhold her goodly root, 45 
 
 Let mildew blight the rye, 
 Give to the worm the orchard's fruit. 
 
 The wheat-field to the fly ; 
 
 But let the good old corn adorn 
 
 The hills our fathers trod ; 50 
 
 Still let us, for His golden corn, 
 
 Send up our thanks to God ! 
 
 THE FIRST SNOW-FALL 
 
 James RussELii Lowell 
 
 The snow had begun in the gloaming, 
 
 And busily all the night 
 Had been heaping field and highway 
 
 With a silence deep and white. 
 
 Every pine and fir and hemlock 5 
 
 Wore ermine too dear for an earl. 
 
 And the poorest twig on the elm-tree 
 Was ridged inch-deep with pearl. 
 
 From sheds new roofed with Carrara 
 
 Came Chanticleer's muffled crow, 10 
 
 The stiff rails softened to swan's-down, 
 And still fluttered down the snow. 
 
THIRD YEAR 
 
 I stood and watched by the window 
 
 The noiseless work of the sky, 
 And the sudden flurries of snow-birds, 15 
 
 Like brown leaves whirling by. 
 
 I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn 
 
 Where a little headstone stood ; 
 How the flakes were folding it gently, 
 
 As did robins the babes in the wood. 20 
 
 Up spoke our own little Mabel, 
 
 Saying, " Father, who makes it snow ? " 
 
 And I told of the good All-father 
 Who cares for us here below. 
 
 Again I looked at the snow-fall, 25 
 
 And thought of the leaden sky 
 That arched o'er our first great sorrow, 
 
 When that mound was heaped so high. 
 
 I remembered the gradual patience 
 
 That fell from that cloud like snow, 30 
 
 Flake by flake, healing and hiding 
 The scar that renewed our woe. 
 
 And again to the child I whispered, 
 
 " The snow that husheth all. 
 Darling, the merciful Father 35 
 
 Alone can make it fall ! " 
 
 Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her ; 
 
 And she, kissing back, could not know 
 That my kiss was given to her sister. 
 
 Folded close under deepening snow. 40 
 
THIRD YEAR 7 
 
 WINTER-TIME 
 
 Robert Louis Stevenson 
 
 Late lies the wintry sun abed 
 A frosty, fiery sleepy-head ; 
 Blinks but an hour or two ; and then, 
 A blood-red orange, sets again. 
 
 Before the stars have left the skies, 5 
 
 At morning in the dark I rise ; 
 And shivering in my nakedness. 
 By the cold candle, bathe and dress. 
 
 Close by the jolly fire I sit 
 
 To warm my frozen bones a bit ; 10 
 
 Or with a reindeer-sled, explore 
 
 The colder countries round the door. 
 
 When to go out, my nurse doth wrap 
 
 Me in my comforter and cap. 
 
 The cold wind burns my face, and blows 15 
 
 Its frosty pepper up my nose. 
 
 Black are my steps on silver sod ; 
 Thick blows my frosty breath abroad ; 
 And tree and house, and hill and lake, 
 Are frosted like a wedding-cake. 20 
 
 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 
 
 Between the dark and the daylight. 
 When the night is beginning to lower. 
 
 Comes a pause in the day's occupations. 
 That is known as the Children's Hour. 
 
8 THIRD YEAR 
 
 I hear in the chamber above me 6 
 
 The patter of little feet, 
 The sound of a door that is opened, 
 
 And voices soft and sweet. 
 
 From my study I see in the lamplight, 
 
 Descending the broad hall stair, 10 
 
 Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, 
 And Edith with golden hair. 
 
 A whisper, and then a silence : 
 
 Yet I know by their merry eyes, 
 They are plotting and planning together 15 
 
 To take me by surprise. 
 
 A sudden rush from the stairway, 
 
 A sudden raid from the hall ! 
 By three doors left unguarded 
 
 They enter my castle wall ! 20 
 
 They climb up into my turret 
 
 O'er the arms and back of my chair ; 
 
 If I try to escape, they surround me ; 
 They seem to be everywhere. 
 
 They almost devour me with kisses, 25 
 
 Their arms about me entwine, 
 Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen 
 
 In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine ! 
 
 27-28. Near Bingen on the Rhine is a little sqnare Mouse- 
 Tower, so called from an old word meaning toll, since it was 
 used as a toll-house ; but there is an old tradition that a certain 
 Bishop Hatto, who had been cruel to the people, was attacked 
 in the tower by a great army of rats and mice. See Southey's 
 famous poem. Bishop Hatto. 
 
THIRD YEAR 9 
 
 Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, 
 
 Because you have scaled the wall, 30 
 
 Such an old moustache as I am 
 
 Is not a match for you all ? 
 
 I have you fast in my fortress, 
 
 And will not let you depart. 
 But put you down into the dungeon 35 
 
 In the round-tower of my heart. 
 
 And there will I keep you forever, 
 
 Yes, forever and a day. 
 Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, 
 
 And moulder in dust away ! 40 
 
 MARCH 
 
 William Cullen Bryant 
 
 The stormy March is come at last. 
 
 With wind and cloud and changing skies ; 
 
 I hear the rushing of the blast. 
 
 That through the snowy valley flies. 
 
 Ah, passing few are they who speak, 5 
 
 Wild stormy month ! in praise of thee ; 
 
 Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak, 
 Thou art a welcome month to me. 
 
 For thou to northern lands again 
 
 The glad and glorious sun dost bring, 10 
 
 And thou hast joined the gentle traiq 
 
 And wear'st the gentle name of Spring. 
 
 And, in thy reign of blast and storm, 
 Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day, 
 
10 THIRD YEAR 
 
 When the changed winds are soft and warm, 15 
 And heaven puts on the blue of May. 
 
 Then sing aloud the gushing rills 
 
 In joy that they again are free, 
 And, brightly leaping down the hills, 
 
 Renew their journey to the sea. 20 
 
 The year's departing beauty hides 
 Of wintry storms the sullen threat ; 
 
 But in thy sternest frown abides 
 A look of kindly promise yet. 
 
 Thou bring' st the hope of those calm skies, 25 
 And that soft time of sunny showers. 
 
 When the wide bloom, on earth that lies, 
 Seems of a brighter world than ours. 
 
 THE UGLY DUCKLING 
 
 Adapted from Hans Christian Andersen 
 
 It was glorious out in the country. In the midst of 
 the sunshine there lay an old farm, surrounded by 
 deep canals, and from the wall down to the water 
 grew great burdocks, so high that little children could 
 stand upright under the loftiest of them. Here sat 
 a duck upon her nest waiting for her young ones to 
 hatch. At last one eggshell after another burst open, 
 and in all the eggs there were little creatures that 
 stuck out their heads. 
 
 " Well, how goes it ? " asked an old duck who had 
 come to pay her a visit. 
 
 "It lasts a long time with that one egg," said the 
 duck who sat there. ''It will not burst. Now, only 
 
THIRD YEAR 11 
 
 look at the others ; are they not the prettiest ducks 
 one could possibly see ? " 
 
 " Let me see the egg that will not burst," said the 
 old visitor. '' Believe me, it is a turkey's egg, I was 
 once cheated in that way. Yes, that is a turkey's egg ! 
 Let it lie there, and you teach the other children to 
 swim." 
 
 " I think I will sit on it a little longer," said the 
 duck. "I've sat so long now that I can sit a few 
 days more." 
 
 " Just as you please," said the old duck ; and she 
 went away. 
 
 At last the great egg burst. "Peep! peep!" said 
 the little one, and crept forth. It was very large and 
 very ugly. The duck looked at it. "It's a very large 
 duckling," said she ; " none of the others look like 
 that ; can it really be a turkey chick ? Now we shall 
 soon find out. It must go into the water, even if I 
 have to thrust it in myself." 
 
 The next day the weather was splendidly bright, 
 and the mother duck went down to the water with all 
 her little ones. Splash ! she jumped into the water. 
 " Quack ! quack ! " she said, and then one duckling 
 after another plunged in. The ugly gray duckling 
 swam with them. 
 
 " No, it 's not a turkey," said she ; " look how well 
 it can use its legs, and how upright it holds itself. It 
 is my own child I On the whole it 's quite pretty, if one 
 looks at it rightly." 
 
 They came into the poultry -yard ; but the other 
 ducks round about looked at them, and said quite 
 boldly : — 
 
 " Look there ! now we 're to have these hanging on, 
 as if there were not enough of us already ! And fie — 
 
12 THIRD YEAR 
 
 fie — ! how that duckling yonder looks ; we won't stand 
 that ! " And one duck flew up immediately, and bit it 
 in the neck. 
 
 " Let it alone," said the mother ; " it does no harm 
 to any one." 
 
 "Those are pretty children that the mother has 
 there," said the old duck with the rag round her leg. 
 " They 're all pretty but that one ; that was a failure ; 
 I wish he could be hatched over again." 
 
 " That cannot be done," said the mother. " He is not 
 handsome, but he has a really good disposition, and 
 swims even better than the others. I think he will 
 grow up pretty, and become smaller in time." 
 
 And now they were at home. But the poor ugly 
 duckling was bitten and pushed and jeered, as much 
 by the ducks as by the chickens. 
 
 So it went on the first day ; and afterward it became 
 worse and worse. The poor duckling was hunted about 
 by every one ; even his brothers and sisters were un- 
 kind. The ducks bit him, the chickens beat him, and 
 the girl who fed the poultry kicked at him with her 
 foot. 
 
 Then he ran and flew over the fence, and the little 
 birds in the bushes flew up in fear. " That is because 
 I am so ugly ! " thought the duckling, shutting his eyes, 
 but going on. 
 
 At last he came to a place where the wild geese 
 lived. There he lay two whole days ; then came two 
 wild geese. " Listen, comrade," said one of them. 
 " You 're so ugly that I like you. Will you go with us, 
 and fly away to the south? " 
 
 Bang ! bang ! went a gun, and the two wild geese fell 
 down dead in the swamp, and the water became blood- 
 red. Bang ! it sounded again, and whole flocks of wild 
 
THIRD YEAR 13 
 
 geese rose up from the reeds. A great hunt was going 
 on. The blue smoke rose up like clouds among the 
 dark trees, and the hunting dogs came — splash, 
 splash I into the swamp, and the poor duckling was 
 frightened. He turned his head to put it under his 
 wing ; but at that moment a frightful great dog stood 
 close to the duckling. His tongue hung far out of his 
 mouth and his eyes gleamed horrible and ugly. He 
 looked at the poor duckling an instant, and splash, 
 splash ! — on he went without hurting him. 
 
 " Well, let me be thankful," said the duckling ; " I 
 am so ugly that even the dog will not bite me." And 
 now he lay still ; and the noise of the shooting did 
 not cease till late in the day. The poor little thing 
 waited many hours before he dared move. Then he 
 ran as fast as he could over fields and meadows. 
 
 In the evening he reached a little hut. The door 
 was broken, so he crept into the room. Here lived an 
 old woman with her cat and her hen. 
 
 In the morning the strange duckling was at once 
 noticed, and the cat began to purr and the hen to 
 cluck. 
 
 " What's this?" said the woman; but she could not 
 see well, and therefore she thought the duckling was 
 a fat duck and had lost its way. "This is a rare 
 prize," she said ; " now I shall have duck's eggs." So 
 the duckling was kept for three weeks, but no eggs 
 came. 
 
 "Can you lay eggs ? " asked the hen. 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Well, then, hold your tongue." 
 
 And the cat said, '' Can you put up your back, and 
 purr, and give out sparks? " 
 
 " No." 
 
14 THIRD YEAR 
 
 " Well, then, you should keep still." 
 
 So the duckling sat alone in the corner, and was 
 very unhappy. Then the fresh air and the sunshine 
 streamed in ; and he was seized with such a strange 
 longing to swim on the water that he went away. He 
 swam on the water, and dived, but he was slighted by 
 every creature because of his ugliness. 
 
 Now came the autumn, the leaves turned yellow and 
 brown, the air was very cold, and the clouds were 
 heavy with snow. One evening — the sun was just set- 
 ting in his beauty — there came a whole flock of great 
 handsome birds out of the bushes ; they were daz- 
 zingly white, with long flexible necks ; they were swans. 
 They uttered a very peculiar cry, spread forth their 
 glorious great wings, and flew away from that cold 
 region to warmer lands, to fair open lakes. They 
 mounted so high, so high! and the ugly little duck- 
 ling felt quite strangely as it watched them. He 
 turned round and round in the water like a wheel, 
 stretched out his neck toward them, and uttered such 
 a strange loud cry as frightened himself. 
 
 Oh ! he could not forget those beautiful, happy 
 birds. He did not know the name of those birds, and 
 knew not whither they were flying ; but he loved 
 them more than he had ever loved any one. He did 
 not envy them. He would have been glad if only the 
 ducks would have endured his company — the poor 
 ugly creature ! 
 
 And the winter grew cold, very cold ! It would be 
 too sad to tell all the misery and care which the duck- 
 ling had to endure in the hard winter. He lay out on 
 the moor among the reeds when the sun began to shine 
 again, and the larks to sing ; it was a beautiful spring. 
 
 Then all at once the duckling could flap his wings ; 
 
THIRD YEAR 15 
 
 they beat the air more strongly than before, and bore 
 him strongly away ; and before he well knew how all 
 this had happened, he found himself in a great gar- 
 den, where the elder trees smelled sweet, and bent 
 their long green branches down to the canal that 
 wound through the region. Oh ! here it was so beau- 
 tiful, such a gladness of spring ! and from the thicket 
 came three glorious white swans ; they rustled their 
 wings, and swam lightly on the water. The duckling 
 knew the splendid creatures, and felt oppressed by a 
 peculiar sadness. 
 
 " I will fly away to them, to the royal birds ! and 
 they will kill me, because I, that am so ugly, dare to 
 approach them. But it is of no consequence ! Better to 
 be killed by them than to be pursued by ducks, and 
 beaten by fowls, and pushed about by the girl who 
 takes care of the poultry -yard, and to suffer hunger in 
 winter! '' And it flew out into the water, and swam 
 toward the beautiful swans : these looked at him, and 
 came sailing down upon him with outspread wings. 
 "Kill me!" said the poor creature, and bent his head 
 down upon the water, expecting nothing but death. 
 But what was this that he saw in the clear water ? He 
 beheld his own image — and lo ! it was no longer a 
 clumsy dark gray bird, ugly and hateful to look at, 
 but — a swan ! 
 
 It matters nothing if one was born in a duck-yard, 
 if one has only lain in a swan's egg. 
 
 He felt quite glad at all the need and misfortune 
 he had suffered, now he realized his happiness in all 
 the splendor that surrounded him. And the great 
 swans swam round him, and stroked him wi4:h their 
 beaks. Into the garden came little children, who threw 
 bread and corn into the water, and the youngest one 
 
16 THIRD YEAR 
 
 cried, " There is a new one ! " And they all said, 
 " The new one is the most beautiful of all ! so young 
 and handsome ! " and the old swans bowed their heads 
 before him. 
 
 Then he felt quite ashamed, and hid his head under 
 his wing, for he did not know what to do ; he was so 
 happy, and yet not at all proud. He thought how he 
 had been persecuted and despised ; and now he heard 
 them saying that he was the most beautiful of all the 
 birds. Then his wings rustled, he lifted his slender 
 neck, and cried rejoicingly from the depths of his 
 heart : " I never dreamed of so much happiness when 
 I was still the Ugly Duckling ! " 
 
 THE BROOK 
 Alfred, Lord Tennyson 
 
 I COME from haunts of coot and hern, 
 
 I make a sudden sally, 
 And sparkle out among the fern, 
 
 To bicker down a valley. 
 
 By thirty hills I hurry down, 5 
 
 Or slip between the ridges, 
 By twenty thorps, a little town. 
 
 And half a hundred bridges. 
 
 Till last by Philip's farm I flow 
 
 To join the brimming river, 10 
 
 For men may come, and men may go. 
 
 But I go on for ever. 
 
 I chatter over stony ways, 
 In little sharps and trebles. 
 
THIRD YEAR 17 
 
 I bubble into eddying bays ; 15 
 
 I babble on the pebbles. 
 
 With many a curve my banks I fret 
 
 By many a field and fallow, 
 And many a fairy foreland set 
 
 With willow-weed and mallow. 20 
 
 I chatter, chatter, as I flow 
 
 To join the brimming river, 
 For men may come, and men may go, 
 
 But I go on for ever. 
 
 I wind about, and in and out, 25 
 
 With here a blossom sailing. 
 And here and there a lusty trout, 
 
 And here and there a grayling. 
 
 And here and there a foamy flake 
 
 Upon me as I travel 30 
 
 With many a silvery waterbreak 
 
 Above the golden gravel, 
 
 And draw them all along and flow 
 
 To join the brimming river, 
 For men may come, and men may go, 35 
 
 But I go on for ever. 
 
 I steal by lawns and grassy plots, 
 
 I slide by hazel covers; 
 I move the sweet forget-me-nots 
 
 That grow for happy lovers. 40 
 
 I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, 
 Among my skimming swallows ; 
 
18 THIRD YEAR 
 
 I make the netted sunbeam dance 
 Against my sandy shallows. 
 
 I murmur under moon and stars 45 
 
 In brambly wildernesses ; 
 I linger by my shingly bars, 
 
 I loiter round my cresses ; 
 
 And out again I curve and flow 
 
 To join the brimming river, 50 
 
 For men may come, and men may go, 
 
 But I go on for ever. 
 
FOURTH YEAR 
 
 THE BAREFOOT BOY 
 
 John Greenleaf Whittieb 
 
 Blessings on thee, little man, 
 
 Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan ! 
 
 With thy turned-up pantaloons, 
 
 And thy merry whistled tunes ; 
 
 With thy red lip, redder still 5 
 
 Kissed by strawberries on the hill ; 
 
 With the sunshine on thy face. 
 
 Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace ; 
 
 From my heart I give thee joy, — 
 
 I was once a barefoot boy ! 10 
 
 Prince thou art, — the grown-up man 
 
 Only is republican. 
 
 Let the million-doUared ride ! 
 
 Barefoot, trudging at his side, 
 
 Thou hast more than he can buy 15 
 
 In the reach of ear and eye, — 
 
 Outward sunshine, inward joy : 
 
 Blessings on thee, barefoot boy ! 
 
 Oh for boyhood's painless play. 
 
 Sleep that wakes in laughing day, 20 
 
 Health that mock3 the doctor's rules, 
 
 Knowledge never learned of schools, 
 
 Of the wild bee's morning chase. 
 
 Of the wild-flower's time and place, 
 
20 FOURTH YEAR 
 
 Flight of fowl and habitude 26 
 
 Of the tenants of the wood ; 
 
 How the tortoise bears his shell, 
 
 How the woodehuck digs his cell, 
 
 And the ground-mole sinks his well; 
 
 How the robin feeds her young, 30 
 
 How the oriole's nest is hung ; 
 
 Where the whitest lilies blow, 
 
 Where the freshest berries grow. 
 
 Where the ground-nut trails its vine, 
 
 Where the wood -grape's clusters shine; 36 
 
 Of the black wasp's cunning way, 
 
 Mason of his walls of clay, 
 
 And the architectural plans 
 
 Of gray hornet artisans ! 
 
 For, eschewing books and tasks, 40 
 
 Nature answers all he asks ; 
 
 Hand in hand with her he walks, 
 
 Face to face with her he talks, 
 
 Part and parcel of her joy, — 
 
 Blessings on the barefoot boy ! 46 
 
 Oh for boyhood's time of June 
 
 Crowding years in one brief moon, 
 
 When all things I heard or saw. 
 
 Me, their master, waited for. 
 
 I was rich in flowers and trees, 60 
 
 Humming-birds and honey-bees ; 
 
 For my sport the squirrel played. 
 
 Plied the snouted mole his spade ; 
 
 For my taste the blackberry cone 
 
 Purpled over hedge and stone ; 56 
 
 Laughed the brook for my delight 
 
 Through the day and through the night. 
 
(J»L%e^i^^-J 
 
FOURTH YEAR 21 
 
 Whispering at the garden wall, 
 
 Talked with me from fall to fall ; 
 
 Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, 60 
 
 Mine the walnut slopes beyond, 
 
 Mine, on bending orchard trees, 
 
 Apples of Hesperides ! 
 
 Still as my horizon grew, 
 
 Larger grew my riches too ; 65 
 
 All the world I saw or knew 
 
 Seemed a complex Chinese toy. 
 
 Fashioned for a barefoot boy ! 
 
 Oh for festal dainties spread, 
 
 Like my bowl of milk and bread ; 70 
 
 Pewter spoon and bowl of wood. 
 
 On the door-stone, gray and rude ! 
 
 O'er me, like a regal tent, 
 
 Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent. 
 
 Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, 75 
 
 Looped in many a wind-swung fold ; 
 
 While for music came the play 
 
 Of the pied frogs' orchestra ; 
 
 And, to light the noisy choir. 
 
 Lit the fly his lamp of fire. 80 
 
 I was monarch : pomp and joy 
 
 Waited on the barefoot boy ! 
 
 Cheerily, then, my little man. 
 
 Live and laugh, as boyhood can ! 
 
 Though the flinty slopes be hard, 85 
 
 Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, 
 
 Every morn shall lead thee through 
 
 Fresh baptisms of the dew; 
 
 Every evening from thy feet 
 
:22 FOURTH YEAR 
 
 Shall the cool wind kiss the heat ; 90 
 
 All too soon these feet must hide 
 
 In the prison cells of pride, 
 
 Lose the freedom of the sod, 
 
 Like a colt's for work be shod, 
 
 Made to tread the mills of toil, 95 
 
 Up and down in ceaseless moil : 
 
 Happy if their track be found 
 
 Never on forbidden ground ; 
 
 Happy if they sink not in 
 
 Quick and treacherous sands of sin. 100 
 
 Ah ! that thou couldst know thy joy, 
 
 Ere it passes, barefoot boy ! 
 
 BENJAMIN FRANKLIN AS A BOY 
 Adapted from Nathaniel Hawthorne 
 
 In the year 1716, or about that time, a boy used to 
 be seen on the streets of Boston who was known 
 among his companions as Ben Franklin. He was a 
 bright boy at his books, and even a brighter one when 
 at play with his comrades. There was something about 
 the lad that always seemed to give him the lead 
 among his companions. 
 
 I might tell you many amusing stories about him. 
 No doubt you have read the famous story of Ben and 
 his whistle, and how he gave a whole pocketful of 
 pennies for one. Afterwards he found that he had 
 paid too much for his whistle, and was very sorry for 
 his bargain. 
 
 But Ben had grown to be a large boy since those 
 days, and had become much wiser. His mistakes al- 
 ways taught him some valuable lesson. 
 
 Ben was now at work in his father's shop, and busy 
 
FOURTH YEAR 23 
 
 as his life was, he still found time for out-of-door 
 sports. Ben and his companions were very fond of 
 fishing, and they spent many hours on the margin of 
 a pond near the outskirts of the town. 
 
 The place where they fished was a marshy spot, 
 where sea-gulls flitted overhead and salt meadow-grass 
 grew under foot. On the edge of the water there was 
 a bed of wet clay, in which the boys were forced to 
 stand while they caught their fish. Here they dabbled 
 in mud like a flock of ducks. 
 
 " This is very uncomfortable," said Ben Franklin 
 one day to his comrades. 
 
 " So it is," said the other boys. " What a pity we 
 have no better place to stand ! " 
 
 If it had not been for Ben, nothing more would 
 have been done or said about the matter. But it was 
 not in his nature to endure a hardship without trying 
 to find a remedy for it. 
 
 "Boys," said Ben, as he and his comrades were 
 walking home, " I have thought of a plan which will 
 be for our benefit, and for the public benefit." 
 
 His companions were always ready to listen to any- 
 thing Ben might propose. They remembered how he 
 had sailed across the mill pond by holding on to his 
 kite string as he lay flat on his back in the water. A 
 boy who could do that might do almost anything. 
 
 "What is your plan, Ben ? What is it ? " cried they 
 all. 
 
 It so happened that they had now come to the spot 
 of ground where a new house was to be built. Scat- 
 tered about were a great many large stones which 
 were to be used in the building. Ben mounted the 
 highest of these stones so that he might be heard 
 by all. 
 
24 FOURTH YEAR 
 
 " I propose, boys," said Master Benjamin, " that we 
 build a wharf to aid us in fishing. You see these 
 stones. The workmen mean to use them for the foun- 
 dation of a house, but that will be for only one man's 
 advantage. My plan is to carry these stones to the 
 edge of the water, and build a wharf with them. 
 
 "The stones will then be of great help to us and 
 also to the boats passing up and down the stream. 
 You see the wharf will be of use to many people. The 
 house will benefit only one man. What do you say, 
 boys? Shall we build the wharf ? " 
 
 " Hurrah ! hurrah ! " shouted all the boys. " Let 's 
 set about it at once." 
 
 Not one of them asked, " Is it right to build a 
 wharf with stones that belong to another person?" 
 They all agreed to be on the spot that evening and 
 commence their work by moonlight. At the time set, 
 the whole gang of young laborers met and began to 
 remove the heap of stones. 
 
 The stones proved heavy and the work harder than 
 they expected. Ben, of course, was the leader, and the 
 boys cheerfully followed his directions. He showed 
 them how to carry the stones, and when they grew 
 tired he had some joke ready which set them all into 
 a roar of laughter. 
 
 After an hour or two of hard work the stones were 
 carried to the waterside, and it was Ben Franklin who 
 planned the building of the wharf. Finally, just as the 
 moon sank below the horizon, the great work was fin- 
 ished. 
 
 " Now, boys," cried Ben, " let 's give three cheers 
 and go home to bed. To-morrow we may catch fish at 
 our ease." 
 
 "Hurrah ! hurrah ! hurrah! " shouted his comrades. 
 
FOURTH YEAR 25 
 
 Then they all went home in such delight that they 
 could hardly get a wink of sleep. 
 
 In the morning, when the early sunbeams were 
 gleaming on the steeples and roofs of the town, the 
 masons came to begin work on the new house. But 
 where were their stones ? What had become of them ? 
 
 " The stones must have flown away through the air 
 while we were asleep," said one of the men. 
 
 " More likely they were stolen," said another work- 
 man. 
 
 " But who would think of stealing a heap of stones ? " 
 cried a third. " Could a man carry them away in his 
 pocket?" 
 
 The master mason said nothing at first. But look- 
 ing carefully on the ground, he noticed tracks of little 
 feet, some with shoes and some barefoot. He soon saw 
 the tracks formed a beaten path toward the water's 
 edge. 
 
 " Ah, I see what the mischief is," said he, nodding 
 his head. "Those little rascals, the boys, have stolen 
 our stones to build a wharf with." 
 
 The masons went to look at the new wharf. And, to 
 say the truth, it was well worth looking at, so neatly 
 had it been planned and finished. 
 
 " The chaps that built this wharf understood their 
 business," said one of the masons. " I should not be 
 ashamed of such a piece of work myself ! " 
 
 But the master mason did not enjoy the joke. " The 
 boys must be arrested," he said. "Go, call an of- 
 ficer." 
 
 If the owner of the stolen property had not been 
 more merciful than the master mason, it might have 
 gone hard with our friend Benjamin and his fellow- 
 laborers. The gentleman had great respect for Ben's 
 
26 FOURTH YEAR 
 
 father, and he was fond of boys. And so he let them 
 off quite easily. 
 
 But the poor boys had to go through another trial, 
 for their fathers soon learned what they had done. 
 Many a rod, I grieve to say, was well worn on that 
 unlucky night. As for Ben, he was less afraid of a 
 whipping than of his father's disapproval. 
 
 "Come here, Ben," said his father. " How could 
 you take property which did not belong to you ? " 
 
 " Why, father," replied Ben, hanging his head, " if 
 it had been merely for my own benefit I never should 
 have dreamed of it. I thought the wharf would be of 
 use to others, while a house would be of use only to the 
 owner of the stones." 
 
 " My son," said Mr. Franklin, " you did very wrong 
 to build a wharf with stones that did not belong to you. 
 There is no more terrible mistake than to think that 
 good will come from a wrong act. Remember, my son, 
 that evil can bring about only evil ; good can come only 
 through right doing." 
 
 " I will never forget it again," said the lad, bowing 
 his head. And to the close of his life Ben Franklin 
 never forgot this conversation with his father. 
 
 DUTCH LULLABY^ 
 
 ^ Eugene Field 
 
 Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night 
 Sailed off in a wooden shoe, — 
 
 Sailed on a river of misty light 
 Into a sea of dew. 
 
 1 From A Little Book of Western Verse. Copyright, 1889, by 
 Eugene Field. Published by Charles Scribner's Sons. 
 
FOURTH YEAR 27 
 
 " Where are you going, and what do you wish ? " 5 
 
 The old moon asked the three. 
 " We have come to fish for the herring-fish 
 That live in this beautiful sea ; 
 Nets of silver and gold have we," 
 
 Said Wynken, 10 
 
 Blynken, 
 
 And Nod. 
 
 The old moon laughed and sung a song, 
 
 As they rocked in the wooden shoe ; 
 And the wind that sped them all night long 15 
 
 Ruffled the waves of dew ; 
 The little stars were the herring-fish 
 That lived in the beautiful sea. 
 " Now cast your nets wherever you wish, 
 
 But never afeard are we ! " 20 
 
 So cried the stars to the fishermen three, 
 Wynken, 
 Blynken, 
 And Nod. 
 
 All night long their nets they threw 25 
 
 For the fish in the twinkling foam, 
 Then down from the sky came the wooden shoe. 
 
 Bringing the fishermen home ; 
 'T was all so pretty a sail, it seemed 
 
 As if it could not be ; 30 
 
 And some folk thought 't was a dream they 'd dreamed 
 
 Of sailing that beautiful sea ; 
 But I shall name you the fishermen three : 
 Wynken, 
 
 Blynken, 35 
 
 And Nod. 
 
28 FOURTH YEAR 
 
 Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes, 
 
 And Nod is a little head, 
 And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies 
 
 Is a wee one's trundle-bed ; 40 
 
 So shut your eyes while Mother sings 
 Of wonderful sights that be, 
 And you shall see the beautiful things 
 As you rock on the misty sea 
 
 Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three, — 45 
 Wynken, 
 Blynken, 
 And Nod. 
 
 THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH ^ 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 
 
 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 5 
 
 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, 10 
 
 And looks the whole world in the face, 
 
 For he owes not any man. 
 
 ^ The sug^gestion of this poem came from the smithy which the poet 
 passed daily, and which stood beneath a horse-chestnut tree not far 
 from his house in Cambridge. The tree, against the protest of Mr. 
 Longfellow and others, was removed in 1876, on the ground that it 
 imperilled drivers of heavy loads who passed under it. 
 
FOURTH YEAR 29 
 
 Week in, week out, from morn till night, 
 
 You can hear his bellows blow ; 
 You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, 15 
 
 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 ; 20 
 
 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, 25 
 
 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. 30 
 
 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 35 
 
 A tear out of his eyes. 
 
 Toiling, — rejoicing, — sorrowing. 
 Onward through life he goes ; 
 
 23. After this poem had been printed for some time, Mr. 
 Longfellow was disposed . to change the word ** catch " to 
 " watch," but the original form had grown so familiar that he 
 decided to leave it. 
 
BO FOURTH YEAR 
 
 Each morning sees some task begin, 
 
 Each evening sees it close ; 40 
 
 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 45 
 
 Our fortunes must be wrought ; 
 
 Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 
 Each burning deed and thought. 
 
 THE SPARROWS 
 
 Cklia Thaxter 
 
 In the far-off land of Norway, 
 
 Where the winter lingers late, 
 And long for the singing-birds and flowers 
 
 The little children wait ; 
 
 When at last the summer ripens 5 
 
 And the harvest is gathered in. 
 And food for the bleak, drear days to come 
 
 The toiling people win ; 
 
 Through all the land the children 
 
 In the golden fields remain 10 
 
 Till their busy little hands have gleaned 
 
 A generous sheaf of grain ; 
 
 All the stalks by the reapers forgotten 
 
 They glean to the very least. 
 To save till the cold December, 16 
 
 For the sparrows' Christmas feast? 
 
FOURTH YEAR 31 
 
 And then through the frost-locked country 
 There happens a wonderful thing : 
 
 The sparrows flock north, south, east, west, 
 
 For the children's offering. 20 
 
 Of a sudden, the day before Christmas, 
 
 The twittering crowds arrive, 
 And the bitter, wintry air at once 
 
 With their chirping is all alive. 
 
 They perch upon roof and gable, 25 
 
 On porch and fence and tree, 
 They flutter about the windows 
 
 And peer in curiously. 
 
 And meet the eyes of the children, 
 
 Who eagerly look out 30 
 
 With cheeks that bloom like roses red, 
 
 And greet them with welcoming shout. 
 
 On the joyous Christmas morning, 
 
 In front of every door 
 A tall pole, crowned with clustering grain, 35 
 
 Is set the birds before. 
 
 And which are the happiest, truly 
 
 It would be hard to tell ; 
 The sparrows who share in the Christmas cheer. 
 
 Or the children who love them well ! 40 
 
 How sweet that they should remember, 
 
 With faith so full and sure. 
 That the children's bounty awaited them 
 
 The whole wide country o'er ! 
 
32 FOURTH YEAR 
 
 When this pretty story was told me 45 
 
 By one who had helped to rear 
 
 The rustling grain for the merry birds 
 In Norway, many a year, 
 
 I thought that our little children 
 
 Would like to know it too, 60 
 
 It seems to me so beautiful, 
 
 So blessed a thing to do. 
 
 To make God's innocent creatures see 
 
 In every child a friend, 
 And on our faithful kindness 55 
 
 So fearlessly depend. 
 
 SELECTIONS FROM SNOW-BOUND 
 
 John Greenleaf Whittier 
 THE STORM 
 
 Unwarmed by any sunset light 
 
 The gray day darkened into night, 
 
 A night made hoary with the swarm 
 
 And whirl-dance of the blinding storm, 
 
 As zigzag wavering to and fro 5 
 
 Crossed and recrossed the winged snow : 
 
 And ere the early bedtime came 
 
 The white drift piled the window-frame, 
 
 And through the glass the clothes-line posts 
 
 Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts. 10 
 
 So all night long the storm roared on : 
 The morning broke without a sun ; 
 In tiny spherule traced with lines 
 Of Nature's geometric signs, 
 
FOURTH YEAR 33 
 
 In starry flake and pellicle 15 
 
 All day the hoary meteor fell ; 
 
 And, when the second morning shone, 
 
 We looked upon a world unknown, 
 
 On nothing we could call our own. 
 
 Around the glistening wonder bent 20 
 
 The blue walls of the firmament. 
 
 No cloud above, no earth below, — 
 
 A universe of sky and snow ! 
 
 The old familiar sights of ours 
 
 Took marvellous shapes ; strange domes and towers 25 
 
 Rose up where sty or corn-crib stood, 
 
 Or garden-wall or belt of wood ; 
 
 A smooth white mound the brush-pile showed, 
 
 A fenceless drift what once was road ; 
 
 The bridle-post an old man sat 30 
 
 With loose-flung coat and high cocked hat ; 
 
 The well-curb had a Chinese roof ; 
 
 And even the long sweep, high aloof. 
 
 In its slant splendor, seemed to tell 
 
 Of Pisa's leaning miracle. 85 
 
 THE KITCHEN SCENE 
 
 As night drew on, and, from the crest 
 Of wooded knolls that ridged the west. 
 The sun, a snow-blown traveller, sank 
 
 35. The Leaning Tower of Pisa, in Italy, which inclines from 
 the perpendicular a little more than six feet in eighty, is a cam- 
 panile, or bell-tower, built of white marble, very beautiful, but 
 so famous for its singular deflection from perpendicularity as 
 to be known almost wholly as a curiosity. Opinions differ as to 
 the leaning being the result of accident or design, but the better 
 judgment makes it an effect of the character of the soil on which 
 the town is built. The Cathedral to which it belongs has suffered 
 80 much from a similar cause that there is not a vertical line in it. 
 
34 FOURTH YEAR 
 
 From sight beneath the smothering bank, 
 
 We piled with care our nightly stack 5 
 
 Of wood against the chimney-back, — 
 
 The oaken log, green, huge, and thick, 
 
 And on its top the stout back-stick; 
 
 The knotty f orestick laid apart, 
 
 And filled between with curious art 10 
 
 The ragged brush ; then, hovering near, 
 
 We watched the first red blaze appear, 
 
 Heard the sharp crackle, caught the gleam 
 
 On whitewashed wall and sagging beam, 
 
 Until the old, rude-furnished room |S 
 
 Burst, flower-like, into rosy bloom ; 
 
 While radiant with a mimic flame 
 
 Outside the sparkling drift became, 
 
 And through the bare-boughed lilac-tree, 
 
 Our own warm hearth seemed blazing fi^ee. 20 
 
 The crane and pendent trammels showed, 
 
 The Turk's heads on the andirons glowed ; 
 
 While childish fancy, prompt to tell 
 
 The meaning of the miracle, 
 
 Whispered the old rhyme : " Under the tree^ 25 
 
 When five outdoors burns merrily, 
 
 There the witches are making tea^ 
 
 The moon above the eastern wood 
 Shone at its full ; the hill-range stood 
 Transfigured in the silver flood, 30 
 
 Its blown snows flashing cold and keen. 
 Dead white, save where some sharp ravine 
 Took shadow, or the sombre green 
 Of hemlocks turned to pitchy black 
 Against the whiteness at their back. 35 
 
 For such a world and such a night 
 
FOURTH YEAR 35 
 
 Most fitting that unwarming light, 
 Which only seemed where'er it fell 
 To make the coldness visible. 
 
 Shut in from all the world without, 40 
 
 We sat the clean-winged hearth about, 
 
 Content to let the north-wind roar 
 
 In baffled rage at pane and door, 
 
 While the red logs before us beat 
 
 The frost-line back with tropic heat ; 45 
 
 And ever, when a louder blast 
 
 Shook beam and rafter as it passed. 
 
 The merrier up its roaring draught 
 
 The great throat of the chimney laughed ; 
 
 The house-dog on his paws outspread 50 
 
 Laid to the fire his drowsy head, 
 
 The cat's dark silhouette on the wall 
 
 A couchant tiger's seemed to fall ; 
 
 And, for the winter fireside meet. 
 
 Between the andirons' straddling feet, 55 
 
 The mug of cider simmered slow. 
 
 The apples sputtered in a row. 
 
 And, close at hand, the basket stood. 
 
 With nuts from brown October's wood. 
 
 OLD IRONSIDES 
 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes 
 
 Ay, tear her tattered ensign down ! 
 
 Long has it waved on high. 
 And many an eye has danced to see 
 
 That banner in the sky : 
 Beneath it rung the battle shout, 
 
 And burst the cannon's roar ; — 
 
36 FOURTH YEAR 
 
 The meteor of the ocean air 
 
 Shall sweep the clouds no more. 
 
 Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, 
 
 Where knelt the vanquished foe, 10 
 
 When winds were hurrying o'er the flood, 
 
 And waves were white below. 
 No more shall feel the victor's tread, 
 
 Or know the conquered knee ; — 
 The harpies of the shore shall pluck 15 
 
 The eagle of the sea ! 
 
 Oh, better that her shattered hulk 
 
 Should sink beneath the wave ; 
 Her thunders shook the mighty deep, 
 
 And there should be her grave ; 20 
 
 Nail to the mast her holy flag, 
 
 Set every threadbare sail, 
 And give her to the god of storms. 
 
 The lightning and the gale ! 
 
 OUR HEROES 
 Phcebe Gary 
 
 Here 's a hand to the boy who has courage 
 
 To do what he knows to be right ; 
 When he falls in the way of temptation 
 
 He has a hard battle to fight. 
 Who strives against self and his comrades 5 
 
 Will find a most powerful foe : 
 All honor to him if he conquers ; 
 
 A cheer for the boy who says " No " ! 
 
 There 's many a battle fought daily 
 
 The world knows nothing about ; 10 
 
FOURTH YEAR 37 
 
 There 's many a brave little soldier 
 Whose strength puts a legion to rout. 
 
 And he who fights sin single-handed 
 Is more of a hero, I say, 
 
 Than he who leads soldiers to battle, 15 
 
 And conquers by arms in the fray. 
 
 Be steadfast, my boy, when you 're tempted, 
 
 And do what you know to be right ; 
 Stand firm by the colors of manhood, 
 
 And you will o'ercome in the fight. 20 
 
 " The right ! " be your battle-cry ever 
 
 In waging the warfare of life ; 
 And God, who knows who are the heroes, 
 
 Will give you the strength for the strife. 
 
 I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER 
 
 Thomas Hood 
 
 I REMEMBER, I remember 
 
 The house where I was born; 
 The little window where the sun 
 
 Came peeping in at morn ; 
 He never came a wink too soon, 5 
 
 Nor brought too long a day ; 
 But now, I often wish the night 
 
 Had borne my breath away ! 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 
 The roses, red and white, 10 
 
 The violets, and the lily-cups, — 
 
 Those flowers made of light ! 
 The lilacs where the robin built. 
 
 And where my brother set 
 
38 FOURTH YEAR 
 
 The laburnum on his birthday — 15 
 
 The tree is living yet ! 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 
 Where I was used to swing, 
 And thought the air must rush as fresh 
 
 To swallows on the wing; 20 
 
 My spirit flew in feathers then, 
 
 That is so heavy now. 
 And summer pools could hardly cool 
 
 The fever on my brow ! 
 
 I remember, I remember 25 
 
 The fir-trees dark and high ; 
 I used to think their slender tops 
 
 Were close against the sky. 
 It was a childish ignorance, 
 
 But now 't is little joy 30 
 
 To know I 'm farther off from heaven 
 
 Than when I was a boy. 
 
 THE VOICE OF SPRING 
 
 Felicia D. Hemans 
 
 I COME, I come ! ye have called me long — 
 
 I come o'er the mountains with light and song ! 
 
 Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth 
 
 By the winds which tell of the violet's birth, 
 
 By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass, 5 
 
 By the green leaves opening as I pass. 
 
 I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut flowers 
 By thousands have burst from the forest bowers. 
 And the ancient graves and the fallen fanes 
 
FOURTH YEAR 39 
 
 Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains ; — 10 
 
 But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, 
 To speak of the ruin or the tomb ! 
 
 I have looked on the hills of the stormy North, 
 
 And the larch has hung all his tassels forth, 
 
 The fisher is out on the sunny sea, 15 
 
 And the reindeer bounds o'er the pastures free, 
 
 And the pine has a fringe of softer green. 
 
 And the moss looks bright where my foot hath been. 
 
 I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh, 
 And called out each voice of the deep-blue sky ; 20 
 From the night-bird's lay through the starry time. 
 In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime, 
 To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes, 
 When the dark fir branch into verdure breaks. 
 
 From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain ; 
 They are sweeping on to the silvery main, 26 
 
 They are flashing down from the mountain brows, 
 They are flinging spray o'er the forest boughs, 
 They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves. 
 And the earth resounds with the joy of waves ! 30 
 
 Come forth, O ye children of gladness ! come ! 
 
 Where the violets lie may be now your home. 
 
 Ye of the rose lip and dew-bright eye. 
 
 And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly f 
 
 With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay, 35 
 
 Come forth to the sunshine — I may not stay. 
 
 Away from the dwellings of careworn men, 
 The waters are sparkling in grove and glen ! 
 
40 FOURTH YEAR 
 
 Away from the chamber and sullen hearth, 
 The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth ! 40 
 Their light stems thrill to the wildwood strains, 
 And youth is abroad in my green domains. 
 
 But ye ! — ye are changed since ye met me last ! 
 There is something bright from your features passed ! 
 There is that come over your brow and eye 45 
 
 Which speaks of a world where the flowers must die I 
 — Ye smile! but your smile hath a dimness yet; 
 O, what have you looked on since last we met ? 
 
 Ye are changed, ye are changed! — and I see not 
 
 here 
 All whom I saw in the vanished year ! 50 
 
 There were graceful heads, with their ringlets bright, 
 Which tossed in the breeze with a play of light ; 
 There were eyes in whose glistening laughter lay 
 No faint remembrance of dull decay ! 
 
 There were steps that flew o'er the cowslip's head, 55 
 
 As if for a banquet all earth were spread ; 
 
 There were voices that rang through the sapphire sky, 
 
 And had not a sound of mortality ! 
 
 Are they gone? is their mirth from the mountains 
 
 passed ? 
 Ye have looked on death since ye met me last ! 60 
 
 I know where the shadow comes o'er you now, — 
 
 Ye have strewn the dust on the sunny brow! 
 
 Ye have given the lovely to Earth's embrace, — 
 
 She hath taken the fairest of Beauty's race. 
 
 With their laughing eyes and their festal crown : 65 
 
 They are gone from amongst you in silence down ! 
 
FOURTH YEAR 41 
 
 They are gone from amongst you, the young and 
 
 fair, 
 Ye have lost the gleam of their shining hair ! 
 But I know of a land where there falls no blight, — 
 I shall find them there, with their eyes of light ! — 70 
 Where Death midst the blooms of the morn may 
 
 dwell, 
 I tarry no longer, — farewell, farewell ! 
 
 The summer is coming, on soft wings borne, — 
 Ye may press the grape, ye may bind the corn ! 
 For me, I depart to a brighter shore, — 75 
 
 Ye are marked by care, ye are mine no more ; 
 I go where the loved who have left you dwell. 
 And the flowers are not Death's. Fare ye well, fare- 
 well! 
 
 THE LEAK IN THE DIKE 
 
 A STORY OF HOLLAND 
 Phcebe Gary 
 
 The good dame looked from her cottage 
 
 At the close of the pleasant day, 
 And cheerily called to her little son 
 
 Outside the door at play : 
 " Come, Peter, come ! I want you to go, 5 
 
 While there is light to see. 
 To the hut of the blind old man who lives 
 
 Across the dike, for me ; 
 And take these cakes I made for him — 
 
 They are hot and smoking yet ; 10 
 
 You have time enough to go and come 
 
 Before the sun is set." 
 
42 FOURTH YEAR 
 
 Then the good-wife turned to her labor 
 
 Humming a simple song, 
 And thought of her husband, working hard 15 
 
 At the sluices all day long ; 
 And set the turf a-blazing, 
 
 And brought the coarse black bread ; 
 That he might find a fire at night, 
 
 And find the table spread. 20 
 
 And Peter left the brother, 
 
 With whom all day he had played, 
 And the sister who had watched their sports 
 
 In the willow's tender shade ; 
 And told them they 'd see him back before 25 
 
 They saw a star in sight, 
 Though he would n't be afraid to go 
 
 In the very darkest night ! 
 For he was a brave, bright fellow. 
 
 With eye and conscience clear ; 30 
 
 He could do whatever a boy might do, 
 
 And he had not learned to fear. 
 Why, he would n't have robbed a bird's nest, 
 
 Nor brought a stork to harm. 
 Though never a law in Holland 35 
 
 Had stood to stay his arm ! 
 
 And now, with his face all glowing, 
 
 And eyes as bright as the day 
 With the thoughts of his pleasant errand^ 
 
 He trudged along the way ; 40 
 
 And soon his joyous prattle 
 
 Made glad a lonesome place — 
 Alas ! if only the blind old man 
 
 Could have seen that happy face ! 
 
FOURTH YEAR 43 
 
 Yet he somehow caught the brightness 45 
 
 Which his voice and presence lent ; 
 
 And he felt the sunshine come and go 
 As Peter came and went. 
 
 And now, as the day was sinking, 
 
 And the winds began to rise, 50 
 
 The mother looked from her door again, 
 
 Shading her anxious eyes ; 
 And saw the shadows deepen 
 
 And birds to their homes come back, 
 But never a sign of Peter 55 
 
 Along the level track. 
 But she said : " He will come at morning, 
 
 So I need not fret nor grieve -^ 
 Though it is n't like my boy at all 
 
 To stay without my leave." 60 
 
 But where was the child delaying ? 
 
 On the homeward way was he, 
 And across the dike while the sun was up 
 
 An hour above the sea. 
 He was stopping now to gather flowers, 65 
 
 Now listening to the sound, 
 As the angry waters dashed themselves 
 
 Against their narrow bound. 
 " Ah ! well for us," said Peter, 
 
 '' That the gates are good and strong, 70 
 
 And my father tends them carefully. 
 
 Or they would not hold you long ! 
 You 're a wicked sea," said Peter ; 
 
 " I know why you fret and chafe ; 
 You would like to spoil our lands and homes ; 75 
 
 But our sluices keep you safe ! " 
 
44 FOURTH YEAR 
 
 But hark ! Through the noise of waters 
 
 Comes a low, clear, trickling sound ; 
 And the child's face pales with terror, 
 
 And his blossoms drop to the ground. 80 
 
 He is up the bank in a moment, 
 
 And, stealing through the sand, 
 He sees a stream not yet so large 
 
 As his slender, childish hand. 
 ^Tis a leak in the dike ! He is but a boy, 85 
 
 Unused to fearful scenes ; 
 But, as young as he is, he has learned to know 
 
 The dreadful things that means. 
 A leak in the dike ! The stoutest heart 
 
 Grows faint that cry to hear, 90 
 
 And the bravest man in all the land 
 
 Turns white with mortal fear. 
 For he knows the smallest leak may grow 
 
 To a flood in a single night ; 
 And he knows the strength of the cruel sea 95 
 
 When loosed In its angry might. 
 
 And the boy ! He has seen the danger. 
 
 And, shouting a wild alarm. 
 He forces back the weight of the sea 
 
 With the strength of his single arm ! 100 
 
 He listens for the joyful sound 
 
 Of a footstep passing nigh ; 
 And lays his ear to the ground, to catch 
 
 The answer to his cry. 
 And he hears the rough winds blowing, 105 
 
 And the waters rise and fall. 
 But never an answer comes to him. 
 
 Save the echo of his call. 
 
FOURTH YEAR 45 
 
 He sees no hope, no succor, 
 
 His feeble voice is lost ; 110 
 
 Yet what shall he do but watch and wait, 
 
 Though he perish at his post ! 
 
 So faintly calling and crying 
 
 Till the sun is under the sea ; 
 Crying and moaning till the stars 115 
 
 Come out for company ; 
 He thinks of his brother and sister. 
 
 Asleep in their safe warm bed ; 
 He thinks of his father and mother. 
 
 Of himself as. dying — and dead ; 120 
 
 And of how, when the night is over, 
 
 They must come and find him at last: 
 But he never thinks he can leave the place 
 
 Where duty holds him fast. 
 
 The good danie in the cottage 125 
 
 Is up and astir with the light, 
 For the thought of her little Peter 
 
 Has been with her all night. 
 And now she watches the pathway. 
 
 As yester eve she had done ; 130 
 
 But what does she see so strange and black 
 
 Against the rising sun ? 
 Her neighbors are bearing between them 
 
 Something straight to her door ; 
 Her child is coming home, but not 135 
 
 As he ever came before ! 
 
 " He is dead ! " she cries ; " my darling ! '' 
 And the startled father hears, 
 And comes and looks the way she looks, 
 
 And fears the thing she fears : 140 
 
46 FOURTH YEAR 
 
 Till a glad shout from the bearers 
 
 Thrills the stricken man and wife — 
 " Give thanks, for your son has saved our land, 
 
 And God has saved his life ! " 
 So, there in the morning sunshine 145 
 
 They knelt about the boy ; 
 And every head was bared and bent 
 
 In tearful, reverent joy. 
 
 'T is many a year since then ; but still, 
 
 When the sea roars like a flood, 150 
 
 Their boys are taught what a boy can do 
 
 Who is brave and true and good. 
 For every man in that country 
 
 Takes his son by the hand, 
 And tells him of little Peter 155 
 
 Whose courage saved the land. 
 
 They have many a valiant hero. 
 
 Remembered through the years : 
 But never one whose name so oft 
 
 Is named with loving tears. 160 
 
 And his deed shall be sung by the cradle, 
 
 And told to the child on the knee, 
 So long as the dikes of Holland 
 
 Divide the land from the sea ! 
 
 SEVEN TIMES ONE 
 Jean Ingelow 
 
 There 's no dew left on the daisies and clover, 
 
 There 's no rain left in heaven ; 
 I Ve said my " seven times " over and over ; 
 
 Seven times one are seven. 
 
FOURTH YEAR 47 
 
 I am old, so old I can write a letter ; 5 
 
 My birthday lessons are done; 
 The lambs play always, they know no better, — 
 
 They are only one times one. 
 
 Moon ! in the night I have seen you sailing 
 
 And shining so round and low ; 10 
 
 You were bright, ah bright ! but your light is failing, — 
 You are nothing now but a bow. 
 
 You Moon, have you done something wrong in heaven, 
 That God has hidden your face ? 
 
 1 hope if you have, you '11 soon be forgiven, 15 
 
 And shine again in your place. 
 
 O velvet bee, you 're a dusty fellow ; 
 
 You Ve powdered your legs with gold ! 
 O brave marsh marybuds, rich and yellow, 
 
 Give me your money to hold ! 20 
 
 O columbine, open your folded wrapper, 
 Where two twin turtle-doves dwell ! 
 
 cuckoo-pint, toll me the purple clapper 
 That hangs in your clear green bell ! 
 
 And show me your nest, with the young ones in it, — 25 
 I will not steal them away ; 
 
 1 am old ! you may trust me, linnet, linnet, — 
 I am seven times one to-day. 
 
FIFTH YEAR 
 
 BARBARA FRIETCHIE ^ 
 
 John Greenleaf Whittieb 
 
 Up from the meadows rich with corn, 
 Clear in the cool September morn, 
 
 The clustered spires of Frederick stand 
 Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. 
 
 Round about them orchards sweep, 5 
 
 Apple and peach tree fruited deep. 
 
 Fair as the garden of the Lord 
 
 To the eyes of the famished rebel horde, 
 
 On that pleasant morn of the early fall 
 
 When Lee marched over the mountain-wall ; 10 
 
 ^ ** This poem," says Mr. Whittier, " was written in strict conformity 
 to the account of the incident as I had it from respectable and trust- 
 worthy sources. It has since been the subject of a g-ood deal of con- 
 flicting" testimony, and the story was probably incorrect in some of 
 its details. It is admitted by all that Barbara Frietchie was no myth, 
 but a worthy and highly esteemed gentlewoman, intensely loyal and a 
 hater of the Slavery Rebellion, holding her Union flag sacred and 
 keeping it with her Bible ; that when the Confederates halted before 
 her house, and entered her dooryard, she denounced them in vigorous 
 language, shook her cane in their faces, and drove them out: and 
 when General Burnside's troops followed close upon Jackson's, she 
 waved her flag and cheered them. It is stated that May Quantrell, a 
 brave and loyal lady in another part of the city, did wave her flag in 
 sight of the Confederates. It is possible that there has been a blend- 
 ing of the two incidents." 
 
FIFTH YEAR 49 
 
 Over the mountains winding down, 
 Horse and foot, into Frederick town. 
 
 Forty flags with their silver stars. 
 Forty flags with their crimson bars. 
 
 Flapped in the morning wind : the sun 15 
 
 Of noon looked down, and saw not one. 
 
 Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, 
 Bowed with her fourscore years and ten ; 
 
 Bravest of all in Frederick town. 
 
 She took up the flag the men hauled down ; 20 
 
 In her attic window the staff she set. 
 To show that one heart was loyal yet. 
 
 Up the street came the rebel tread, 
 Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. 
 
 Under his slouched hat left and right 25 
 
 He glanced ; the old flag met his sight. 
 
 " Halt ! " — the dust-brown ranks stood fast. 
 " Fire I " — out blazed the rifle-blast. 
 
 It shivered the window, pane and sash ; 
 
 It rent the banner with seam and gash. 30 
 
 Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff 
 Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf. 
 
 She leaned far out on the window-sill. 
 And shook it forth with a royal will. 
 
50 FIFTH YEAR 
 
 (( 
 
 Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, 35 
 
 But spare your country's flag," she said. 
 
 A shade of sadness, a blush of shame. 
 Over the face of the leader came ; 
 
 The nobler nature within him stirred 
 
 To life at that woman's deed and word ; 40 
 
 " Who touches a hair of yon gray head 
 Dies like a dog ! March on ! " he said. 
 
 All day long through Frederick street 
 Sounded the tread of marching feet ; 
 
 All day long that free flag tost 45 
 
 Over the heads of the rebel host. 
 
 Ever its torn folds rose and fell 
 
 On the loyal winds that loved it well ; 
 
 And through the hill-gaps sunset light 
 
 Shone over it with a warm good-night. 50 
 
 Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er. 
 
 And the Rebel rides on his raids no more. 
 
 Honor to her ! and let a tear 
 
 Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. 
 
 Over Barbara Frietchie's grave, 55 
 
 Flag of Freedom and Union, wave ! 
 
 Peace and order and beauty draw 
 Kound thy symbol of light and law ; 
 
 And ever the stars above look down 
 
 On thy stars below in Frederick town ! 60 
 
FIFTH YEAR 51 
 
 SHERIDAN'S RIDE^ 
 
 Thomas Buchanan Read 
 
 Up from the South at break of day, 
 
 Bringing from 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, 5 
 
 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 10 
 
 The roar of that red sea uncontrolled, 
 
 Making the blood of the listener cold. 
 
 As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, 
 
 And Sheridan twenty miles away. 
 
 But there is a road from Winchester town, 15 
 
 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, 20 
 
 He stretched away with the utmost speed ; 
 
 Hills rose and fell, — but his heart was gay, 
 
 With Sheridan fifteen miles away. 
 
 Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering South, 
 The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth ; 25 
 
 1 From the Poetical Works of T. Buchanan Read, published 
 by J. B. Lippincott Company. 
 
52 FIFTH YEAR 
 
 Or the tail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster, 
 Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster. 
 The heart of the steed and the heart of the master 
 Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, 
 Impatient to be where the battle-field calls ; 30 
 
 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 36 
 
 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, 40 
 
 With Sheridan only five miles away. 
 
 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, 45 
 
 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, 50 
 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 ! 56 
 
FIFTH YEAR 53 
 
 And when their statues are placed on high, 
 Under the dome of the Union sky, 
 The American soldiers' Temple of Fame, 
 There with the glorious General's name. 
 Be it said, in letters both bold and bright, 60 
 " Here is the steed that saved the day. 
 By carrying Sheridan into the fight. 
 From Winchester, twenty miles away ! " 
 
 THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS 
 IN 'NEW ENGLAND 
 
 Felicia D. Hemans 
 
 The breaking waves dashed high 
 
 On a stern and rockbound coast. 
 And the woods against a stormy sky 
 
 Their giant branches tossed. 
 
 And the heavy night hung dark 5 
 
 The hills and water 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 ; 10 
 
 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 depths of the desert gloom 15 
 
 With their hymns of lofty cheer. 
 
 Amidst the storm they sang, 
 
 And the stars heard, and the sea : 
 
54 FIFTH YEAR 
 
 And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang 
 To the anthem of the free ! 20 
 
 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 26 
 
 Amidst that pilgrim band : — 
 Why had they come to wither there, 
 
 Away from their childhood's land ? 
 
 There was woman's fearless eye. 
 
 Lit by her deep love's truth ; 30 
 
 There was manhood's brow serenely high, 
 
 And the fiery heart of youth. 
 
 What sought they thus afar ? 
 
 Bright jewels of the mine ? 
 The wealth of seas, the spoils of war? 36 
 
 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. 40 
 
 LITTLE GOTTLIEB 
 
 A CHRISTMAS STORY 
 Phcebe Gary 
 
 Across the German Ocean, 
 In a country far from our own, 
 
 Once, a poor little boy, named Gottlieb, 
 Lived with his mother alone. 
 
FIFTH YEAR BB 
 
 They dwelt in the part of a village 5 
 
 Where the houses were poor and small, 
 
 But the home of little Gottlieb 
 Was the poorest one of all. 
 
 He was not large enough to work, 
 
 And his mother could do no more 10 
 
 (Though she scarcely laid her knitting down) 
 
 Than keep the wolf from the door. 
 
 She had to take their threadbare clothes. 
 
 And turn, and patch, and darn ; 
 For never any woman yet 15 
 
 Grew rich by knitting yarn. 
 
 And oft at night, beside her chair. 
 
 Would Gottlieb sit, and plan 
 The wonderful things he would do for her, 
 
 When he grew to be a man. 20 
 
 One night she sat and knitted. 
 
 And Gottlieb sat and dreamed, 
 When a happy fancy all at once 
 
 Upon his vision beamed. 
 
 'T was only a week till Christmas, 25 
 
 And Gottlieb knew that then 
 The Christ-child, who was born that day, 
 
 Sent down good gifts to men. 
 
 But he said, " He will never find us. 
 
 Our home is so mean and small, 30 
 
 And we, who have most need of them, 
 
 Will get no gifts at all." 
 
56 FIFTH YEAR 
 
 When all at once a happy light 
 
 Came into his eyes so blue, 
 And lighted up his face with smiles, 35 
 
 As he thought what he could do. 
 
 Next day when the postman's letters 
 
 Came from all over the land ; 
 Came one for the Christ-child, written 
 
 In a child's poor trembling hand. 40 
 
 You may think he was sorely puzzled 
 
 What in the world to do ; 
 So he went to the Burgomaster, 
 
 As the wisest man he knew. 
 
 And when they opened the letter, 45 
 
 They stood almost dismayed 
 That such a little child should dare 
 
 To ask the Lord for aid. 
 
 Then the Burgomaster stammered. 
 
 And scarce knew what to speak, 50 
 
 And hastily he brushed aside 
 
 A drop, like a tear, from his cheek. 
 
 Then up he spoke right gruffly, 
 And he turned himself about : 
 " This must be a very foolish boy, 55 
 
 And a small one, too, no doubt.'^ 
 
 But when six rosy children 
 That night about him pressed, 
 
 Poor, trusting little Gottlieb 
 
 Stood near him, with the rest. 60 
 
FIFTH YEAR 57 
 
 And he heard his simple, touching prayer, 
 
 Through all their noisy play ; 
 Though he tried his very best to put 
 
 The thought of him away. 
 
 A wise and learned man was he, 65 
 
 Men called him good and just ; 
 But his wisdom seemed like foolishness, 
 
 By that weak child's simple trust. 
 
 Now when the morn of the Christmas came, 
 
 And the long, long week was done, 70 
 
 Poor Gottlieb, who scarce could sleep, 
 Kose up before the sun, 
 
 And hastened to his mother. 
 
 But he scarce might speak for fear, 
 
 When he saw her wondering look, and saw 75 
 
 The Burgomaster near. 
 
 He was n't afraid of the Holy Babe, 
 
 Nor his mother, meek and mild ; 
 But he felt as if so great a man 
 
 Had never been a child. 80 
 
 Amazed the poor child looked, to find 
 
 The hearth was piled with wood, 
 And the table, never full before. 
 
 Was heaped with dainty food. 
 
 Then half to hide from himself the truth 85 
 
 The Burgomaster said. 
 While the mother blessed him on her knees, 
 
 And Gottlieb shook for dread, 
 
58 FIFTH YEAR 
 
 " Nay, give no thanks, my good dame, 
 
 To such as me for aid, 90 
 
 Be grateful to your little son. 
 
 And the Lord to whom he prayed ! " 
 
 i( 
 
 Then turning round to Gottlieb, 
 
 " Your written prayer, you see, 
 Came not to whom it was addressed, 95 
 
 It only came to me ! 
 
 'T was but a foolish thing you did, 
 
 As you must understand ; 
 For though the gifts are yours, you know, 
 
 You have them from my hand." 100 
 
 Then Gottlieb answered fearlessly, 
 Where he humbly stood apart, 
 " But the Christ-child sent them all the same, 
 He put the thought in your heart ! " 
 
 CHRISTMAS EVERYWHERE 1 
 Phillips Brooks 
 
 Everywhere, everywhere, Christmas to-night ! 
 Christmas in lands of the fir-tree and pine, 
 Christmas in lands of the palm-tree and vine, 
 Christmas where snow-peaks stand solemn and white, 
 Christmas where cornfields lie sunny and bright. 5 
 
 Christmas where children are hopeful and gay, 
 Christmas where old men are patient and gray, 
 Christmas where peace, like a dove in his flight, 
 
 ^ Used by permission of £. F. Dutton and Company. 
 
FIFTH YEAR 59 
 
 Broods o'er brave men in the thick of the fight ; 
 Everywhere, everywhere, Christmas to-night ! 10 
 
 For the Christ-child who comes is the master of all ; 
 No palace too great, and no cottage too small. 
 
 THE SWORD OF BUNKER HILL 
 
 William Ross Wallace 
 
 He lay upon his dying bed ; his eye was growing dim, 
 When with a feeble voice he called his weeping son to 
 
 him. 
 "Weep not, my boy! " the veteran said, "I bow to 
 
 Heaven's high will ; 
 But quickly from yon antlers bring the sword of Bunker 
 
 Hill." 
 
 The sword was brought, the soldier's eye lit with a sud- 
 den flame, 5 
 
 And as he grasped the ancient blade, he murmured 
 Warren's name ; 
 
 Then said, "My boy, I leave you gold — but what is 
 richer still, 
 
 I leave you, mark me, mark me now — the sword of 
 Bunker Hill. 
 
 "'Twas on that dread, immortal day, I dared the 
 Briton's band, 
 
 A captain raised his blade on me, — I tore it from his 
 hand ; 10 
 
 And while the glorious battle raged, it lightened free- 
 dom's will — 
 
 For, boy, the God of freedom blessed the sword of 
 Bunker Hill. 
 
60 FIFTH YEAR 
 
 " O, keep the sword " — his accents broke, a smile, and 
 
 he was dead ; 
 But his wrinkled hand still grasped the blade upon 
 
 that dying bed. 
 The son remains, the sword remains, its glory growing 
 
 still; 15 
 
 And twenty millions bless the sire, and sword of Bunker 
 
 Hill. 
 
 ABRAHAM LINCOLN* 
 William Cullen Bryant 
 
 Oh, slow to smite and swift to spare, 
 
 Gentle and merciful and just ! 
 Who, in the fear of God, didst bear 
 
 The sword of power, a nation's trust ! 
 
 In sorrow by thy bier we stand, 5 
 
 Amid the awe that hushes all. 
 And speak the anguish of a land 
 
 That shook with horror at thy fall. 
 
 Thy task is done ; the bond are free : 
 
 We bear thee to an honored grave, 10 
 
 Whose proudest monument shall be 
 The broken fetters of the slave. 
 
 Pure was thy life ; its bloody close 
 
 Hath placed thee with the sons of light. 
 
 Among the noble host of those 15 
 
 Who perished in the cause of Right. 
 
 ^ Written by request, when the funeral procession of the martyred 
 President passed through the streets of New York. 
 
PfPPP^^^^^^if^^i^ 
 
 "i^n\npmi!i^TO 
 
FIFTH YEAR 61 
 
 THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER 
 
 Francis Scott Key 
 
 O SAY, can you see, by the dawn's early light, 
 
 What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last 
 
 gleaming — 
 Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the 
 
 clouds of the fight. 
 O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly 
 
 streaming ! 
 And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, 5 
 Gave proof through the night that our flag was still 
 
 there ; 
 O ! say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave 
 O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave ? 
 
 On that shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep, 
 
 Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence 
 
 reposes, . 10 
 
 What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep, 
 
 As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses ? 
 Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, 
 In full glory reflected now shines on the stream ; 
 'T is the star-spangled banner! O long may it wave 15 
 O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave ! 
 
 And where is that band who so vauntingly swore 
 That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion 
 
 A home and a country should leave us no more ? 
 Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps* 
 pollution. 20 
 
 No refuge could save the hireling and slave 
 
 From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave ; 
 
62 FIFTH YEAR 
 
 And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave 
 O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave ! 
 
 O ! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand 25 
 
 Between their loved homes and the war's desola- 
 tion. 
 Blest with victory and peace, may the heav'n-rescued 
 land 
 Praise the power that hath made and preserved us 
 a nation. 
 Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just, 
 And this be our motto — "/n God is our trust : " 30 
 And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave 
 O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave. 
 
 AMERICA 
 
 Samuel Francis Smith 
 
 My country, 't is of thee, 
 Sweet land of liberty, 
 
 Of thee I sing ; 
 Land where my fathers died, 
 Land of the pilgrim's pride, 5 
 
 From every mountain-side 
 
 Let freedom ring. 
 
 My native country, thee. 
 Land of the noble free, — 
 
 Thy name I love ; 10 
 
 I love thy rocks and rills, 
 Thy woods and templed hills ; 
 My heart with rapture thrills 
 
 Like that above. 
 
FIFTH YEAR 63 
 
 Let music swell the breeze, 15 
 
 And ring from all the trees, 
 
 Sweet freedom's song ; 
 Let mortal tongues awake, 
 Let all that breathe partake, 
 Let rocks their silence break, — 20 
 
 The sound prolong. 
 
 Our fathers' God, to Thee, 
 Author of liberty, 
 
 To Thee I sing ; 
 Long may our land be bright 25 
 
 With freedom's holy light ; 
 Protect us by thy might, 
 
 Great God our King. 
 
 PAUL REVERE'S RIDE^ 
 Henky Wadsworth Longfellow 
 
 Listen, my children, and you shall hear 
 
 Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, 
 
 On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five ; 
 
 Hardly a man is now alive 
 
 Who remembers that famous day and year. 5 
 
 He said to his friend, " If the British march 
 By land or sea from the town to-night. 
 Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch 
 
 ^ Mr. Longfellow imagined a party of friends met at a country inn, 
 and telling tales before the fire. The first of these Tales of a Way- 
 side Inn was by the landlord, and is this story of Paul Revere. Revere 
 was an American patriot, a silversmith and engraver by trade, whose 
 tea-pots and cream jugs and tankards may be found in old Boston 
 families. He was a spirited man, and in the secrets of the Boston 
 patriots. 
 
64 FIFTH YEAR 
 
 Of the North Church tower as a signal light, — 
 One, if by land, and two, if by sea ; 10 
 
 And I on the opposite shore will be, 
 Ready to ride and spread the alarm 
 Through every Middlesex village and farm, 
 For the country folk to be up and to arm." 
 
 Then he said " Good night ! " and with muffled oar 15 
 
 Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore. 
 
 Just as the moon rose over the bay, 
 
 Where swinging wide at her moorings lay 
 
 The Somerset, British man-of-war ; 
 
 A phantom ship, with each mast and spar 20 
 
 Across the moon like a prison bar, 
 
 And a huge black hulk, that was magnified 
 
 By its own reflection in the tide. 
 
 Meanwhile his friend, through alley and street, 
 Wanders and watches with eager ears, 25 
 
 Till in the silence around him he hears 
 The muster of men at the barrack door, 
 The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, 
 And the measured tread of the grenadiers. 
 Marching down to their boats on the shore. 30 
 
 9. There has been some discussion as to the church tower from 
 which the lanterns were hung, some claiming that the church was 
 the old North Meeting-house in North Square, pulled down 
 afterward for fuel, during the siege of Boston ; but the evidence 
 points more clearly to Christ Church, still standing, and often 
 spoken of as the North Church. The poet has departed some- 
 what from the actual historic facts, since Revere did not watch 
 for the lights, nor did he reach Concord. In 1894, when April 
 19 was made a holiday in Massachusetts, under the name of 
 Patriots' Day, there was an attempt at acting out the famous 
 story of the ride. 
 
FIFTH YEAR 65 
 
 Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church, 
 
 By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, 
 
 To the belfry-chamber overhead, 
 
 And startled the pigeons from their perch 
 
 On the sombre rafters that round him made 35 
 
 Masses and moving shapes of shade, — 
 
 By the trembling ladder, steep and tall, 
 
 To the highest window in the wall, 
 
 Where he paused to listen and look down 
 
 A moment on the roofs of the town, 40 
 
 And the moonlight flowing over all. 
 
 Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, 
 
 In their night encampment on the hill. 
 
 Wrapped in silence so deep and still 
 
 That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, 45 
 
 The watchful night-wind, as it went 
 
 Creeping along from tent to tent. 
 
 And seeming to whisper, " All is well ! " 
 
 A moment only he feels the spell 
 
 Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread 50 
 
 Of the lonely belfry and the dead ; 
 
 For suddenly all his thoughts are bent 
 
 On a shadowy something far away. 
 
 Where the river widens to meet the bay, — 
 
 A line of black that bends and floats 55 
 
 On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. 
 
 Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride. 
 
 Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride 
 
 On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. 
 
 Now he patted his horse's side, 60 
 
 Now gazed at the landscape far and near. 
 
 Then, impetuous, stamped the earth. 
 
66 FIFTH YEAR 
 
 And turned and tightened his saddle-girth ; 
 
 But mostly he watched with eager search 
 
 The belfry -tower of the Old North Church, 65 
 
 As it rose above the graves on the hill, 
 
 Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. 
 
 And lo ! as he looks, on the belfry's height 
 
 A glimmer, and then a gleam of light ! 
 
 He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, 70 
 
 But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight 
 
 A second lamp in the belfry burns ! 
 
 A hurry of hoofs in a village street, 
 
 A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, 
 
 And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark 75 
 
 Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet : 
 
 That was all ! And vet, through the gloom and the 
 
 light, 
 The fate of a nation was riding that night ; 
 And the spark struck out by that steed in his flight, 
 Kindled the land into flame with its heat. 80 
 
 He has left the village and mounted the steep, 
 
 And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep. 
 
 Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides ; 
 
 And under the alders that skirt its edge. 
 
 Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, 85 
 
 Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. 
 
 It was twelve by the village clock. 
 
 When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. 
 
 He heard the crowing of the cock. 
 
 And the barking of the farmer's dog, 90 
 
 And felt the damp of the river fog. 
 
 That rises after the sun goes down. 
 
FIFTH YEAR 67 
 
 It was one by the village clock, 
 
 When he galloped into Lexington. 
 
 He saw the gilded weathercock 95 
 
 Swim in the moonlight as he passed, 
 
 And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, 
 
 Gaze at him with a spectral glare. 
 
 As if they already stood aghast 
 
 At the bloody work they would look upon. 100 
 
 It was two by the village clock. 
 
 When he came to the bridge in Concord town. 
 
 He heard the bleating of the flock. 
 
 And the twitter of birds among the trees. 
 
 And felt the breath of the morning breeze 105 
 
 Blowing over the meadows brown. 
 
 And one was safe and asleep in his bed 
 
 Who at the bridge would be first to fall, 
 
 Who that day would be lying dead. 
 
 Pierced by a British musket-ball. 110 
 
 You know the rest. In the books you have read, 
 How the British Regulars fired and fled, — 
 How the farmers gave them ball for ball, 
 From behind each fence and farm-yard wall, 
 Chasing the red-coats down the lane, 115 
 
 Then crossing the fields to emerge again 
 Under the trees at the turn of the road, 
 And only pausing to fire and load. 
 
 So through the night rode Paul Revere ; 
 
 And so through the night went his cry of alarm 120 
 
 To every Middlesex village and farm, — 
 
 A cry of defiance and not of fear, 
 
68 FIFTH YEAR 
 
 A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door. 
 
 And a word that shall echo f orevermore ! 
 
 For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, 125 
 
 Through all our history, to the last. 
 
 In the hour of darkness and peril and need, 
 
 The people will waken and listen to hear 
 
 The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed. 
 
 And the midnight message of Paul Revere. 130 
 
 THE BLUE AND THE GRAY 
 
 Francis Miles Finch 
 
 By the flow of the inland river, 
 
 Whence the fleets of iron had fled. 
 
 Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver, 
 
 Asleep are the ranks of the dead : 
 
 Under the sod and the dew, 5 
 
 Waiting the judgment-day ; 
 Under the one, the Blue, 
 Under the other, the Gray, 
 
 These in the robings of glory. 
 
 Those in the gloom of defeat, 10 
 
 All with the battle-blood gory. 
 
 In the dusk of eternity meet : 
 Under the sod and the dew. 
 
 Waiting the judgment-day ; 
 Under the laurel, the Blue, 15 
 
 Under the willow, the Gray. 
 
 From the silence of sorrowful hours 
 The desolate mourners go. 
 
FIFTH YEAR 69 
 
 Lovingly laden with flowers 
 
 Alike for the friend and the foe : 20 
 
 Under the sod and the dew, 
 
 Waiting the judgment-day; 
 Under the roses, the Blue, 
 Under the lilies, the Gray. 
 
 So with an equal splendor, 25 
 
 The morning sun-rays fall. 
 With a touch impartially tender, 
 
 On the blossoms blooming for all : 
 Under the sod and the dew. 
 
 Waiting the judgment-day ; 30 
 
 'Broidered with gold, the Blue, 
 Mellowed with gold, the Gray. 
 
 So, when the summer calleth. 
 
 On forest and field of grain, 
 With an equal murmur falleth 35 
 
 The cooling drip of the rain : 
 Under the sod and the dew, 
 
 Waiting the judgment-day ; 
 Wet with the rain, the Blue, 
 
 Wet with the rain, the Gray. 40 
 
 Sadly, but not with upbraiding, 
 
 The generous deed was done, 
 In the storm of the years that are fading 
 No braver battle was won : 
 
 Under the sod and the dew, 45 
 
 Waiting the judgment-day ; 
 Under the blossoms, the Blue, 
 Under the garlands, the Gray. 
 
70 FIFTH YEAR 
 
 No more shall the war cry sever, 
 
 Or the winding rivers be red ; 50 
 
 They banish our anger forever 
 
 When they laurel the graves of our dead ! 
 Under the sod and the dew, 
 
 Waiting the judgment-day, 
 Love and tears for the Blue, 55 
 
 Tears and love for the Gray. 
 
SIXTH YEAR 
 
 GLUCK'S VISITOR (First Visit) 
 Adapted from John Ruskin 
 
 Gluck was so perfectly paralyzed by the singular 
 appearance of his visitor that he remained fixed withi- 
 out uttering a word, until the old gentleman, having 
 performed another and more energetic concerto on the 
 knocker, turned round to look after his fly-away cloak. 
 In so doing he caught sight of Gluck's little yellow 
 head jammed in the window, with its mouth and eyes 
 very wide open indeed. 
 
 " Hollo ! " said the little gentleman, " that 's not the 
 way to answer the door ; I 'm wet, let me in." 
 
 To do the little gentleman justice, he was wet. His 
 feather hung down, dripping like an unbrella; and 
 from the ends of his moustaches the water was run- 
 ning into his waistcoat pockets, and out again like a 
 mill stream. 
 
 " I beg pardon, sir," said Gluck, " I 'm very sorry, 
 but I really can't." 
 
 "Can't what?" said the old gentleman. 
 
 "I can't let you in, sir, — I can't indeed ; my bro- 
 thers would beat me to death, sir, if I thought of such 
 a thing. W^hat do you want, sir ? " 
 
 "Want?" said the old gentleman, petulantly. "I 
 want fire and shelter; and there's your great fire 
 there, blazing, crackling, and dancing on the walls, 
 with nobody to feel it. Let me in, I say ; I only want 
 to warm myself." 
 
72 SIXTH YEAR 
 
 Gluck had had his head so long out of the window 
 by this time that he began to feel it was really un- 
 pleasantly cold, and when he turned and saw the beau- 
 tiful fire rustling and roaring, and throwing long 
 bright tongues up the chimney, as if it were licking 
 its chops at the savory smell of the leg of mutton, his 
 heart melted within him that it should be burning 
 away for nothing. " He does look very wet," said little 
 Gluck ; " I '11 just let him in for a quarter of an hour." 
 Bound he went to the door and opened it ; and as the 
 little gentleman walked in there came a gust of wind 
 through the house that made the old chimneys totter. 
 
 " That 's a good boy," said the little gentleman. 
 " Never mind your brothers. I '11 talk to them." 
 
 *'^^Pray, sir, don't do any such thing," said Gluck. 
 " I can't let you stay till they come ; they 'd be the 
 death of me." 
 
 "Pear me," said the old gentleman, '''I'm very sorry 
 to hear that. How long may I stay?" 
 
 " Only till the mutton 's done, sir," replied Gluck, 
 " and it 's very brown." 
 
 Then the old gentleman walked into the kitchen, 
 and sat himself down on the hob, with the top of his 
 cap accommodated up the chimney, for it was a gi'cat 
 deal too high for the roof. 
 
 " You '11 soon dry there, sir," said Gluck, and sat 
 down again to turn the mutton. But the old gentle- 
 man did 7iot dry there, but went on drip, drip, dripping 
 among the cinders, and the fire fizzed, and sputtered, 
 and began to look very black and uncomfortable. 
 Never was such a cloak; every fold in it ran like a 
 gutter. 
 
 '^I beg pardon, sir," said Gluck at length, after 
 watching for a quarter of an hour the water spread- 
 
SIXTH YEAR 73 
 
 ing in long, quicksilver-like streams over the floor; 
 "may n't I take your cloak? " 
 
 '' No, thank you," said the old gentleman. 
 
 " Your cap, sir ? " 
 
 " I am all right, thank you," said the old gentle- 
 man, rather gruffly. 
 
 " But, — sir, — I 'm very sorry," said Gluck, hesitat- 
 ingly ; " but — really, sir, — you 're — putting the fire 
 out." 
 
 " It '11 take longer to do the mutton, then," replied 
 his visitor, dryly. 
 
 Gluck was much puzzled by the behavior of his 
 guest ; it was such a strange mixture of coolness and 
 humility. He turned away at the string meditatively 
 for another five minutes. 
 
 " That mutton looks very nice," said the old gentle- 
 man at length. " Can't you give me a little bit ? " 
 
 " Impossible, sir," said Gluck. 
 
 " I 'm very hungry," continued the old gentleman ; 
 " I 've had nothing to eat yesterday nor to-day. They 
 surely couldn't miss a bit from the knuckle ! " 
 
 He spoke in so very melancholy a tone that it quite 
 melted Gluck's heart. '' They promised me one slice 
 to-day, sir," said he ; ^' I can give you that, but not a 
 bit more." 
 
 " That 's a good boy," said the old gentleman again. 
 
 Then Gluck warmed a plate, and sharpened a knife, 
 " I don't care if I do get beaten for it," thought he. 
 Just as he had cut a large slice out of the mutton, 
 there came a tremendous rap at the door. The old 
 gentleman jumped off the hob, as if it had suddenly 
 become inconveniently warm. Gluck fitted the slice 
 into the mutton again, with desperate efforts at exacti- 
 tude, and ran to open the door. 
 
74 SIXTH YEAR 
 
 *' What did you keep us waiting in the rain for?" 
 said Schwartz, as he walked in, throwing his umbrella 
 in Gluck's face. 
 
 " Ay ! what for, indeed, you little vagabond ? " said 
 Hans, administering an educational box on the ear, as 
 he followed his brother into the kitchen. 
 
 "Bless my soul!" said Schwartz, when he opened 
 the door. 
 
 " Amen," said the little gentleman, who had taken 
 his cap off, and was standing in the middle of the 
 kitchen, bowing with the utmost possible velocity. 
 
 " Who 's that ? " said Schwartz, catching up a roll- 
 ing-pin, and turning to Gluck with a fierce frown. 
 
 " I don't know, indeed, brother," said Gluck in 
 great terror. 
 
 " How did he get in ? " roared Schwartz. 
 
 *' My dear brother," said Gluck, deprecatingly, " he 
 was so very wet ! " 
 
 The rolling-pin was descending on Gluck's head ; 
 but, at the instant, the old gentleman interposed his 
 conical cap, on which it crashed with a shock that 
 shook the water out of it all over the room. What was 
 very odd, the rolling-pin no sooner touched the cap 
 than it flew out of Schwartz's hand, spinning like a 
 straw in a high wind, and fell into the corner at the 
 farther end of the room. 
 
 " Who are you, sir ? " demanded Schwartz, turning 
 upon him. 
 
 " What 's your business? " snarled Hans. 
 
 "I'm a poor old man, sir," the little gentleman 
 began very modestly, " and I saw your fire through 
 the window, and begged shelter for a quarter of an 
 hour." 
 
 " Have the goodness ^to walk out again, then," said 
 
SIXTH YEAR 75 
 
 Schwartz. " We've quite enough water in our kitchen 
 without making it a drying-house." 
 
 " It is a cold day to turn an old man out in, sir ; 
 look at my gray hairs." They hung down to his shoul- 
 ders, as I told you before. 
 
 " Ay ! " said Hans, " there are enough of them to 
 keep you warm. Walk ! " 
 
 ''I'm very, very hungry, sir; couldn't you spare 
 me a bit of bread before I go? " 
 
 " Bread, indeed ! " said Schwartz ; "do you suppose 
 we 've nothing to do with our bread but to give it to 
 such red-nosed fellows as you ? " 
 
 " Why don't you sell your feather," said Hans, 
 sneeringly. " Out with you ! " 
 
 " A little bit — " said the old gentleman. 
 
 "Be off ! " said Schwartz. 
 
 " Pray, gentlemen — " 
 
 " Off, and be hanged ! " cried Hans, seizing him by 
 the collar. But he had no sooner touched the old gen- 
 tleman's collar, than away he went after the rolling- 
 pin, spinning round and round, till he fell into the 
 corner on the top of it. Then Schwartz was very an- 
 gry, and ran at the old gentleman to turn him out ; 
 but he also had hardly touched him, when away he 
 went after Hans and the rolling-pin, and hit his head 
 against the wallas he tumbled into the corner. And so 
 there they lay, all three. 
 
 Then the old gentleman spun himself round with 
 velocity in the opposite direction ; clapped his cap on 
 his head, gave an additional twist to his corkscrew 
 moustaches, and replied with perfect coolness : " Gen- 
 tlemen, I wish you a very good-morning. At twelve 
 o'clock to-night I '11 call again ; after such a refusal of 
 hospitality as I have just experienced, you will not be 
 surprised if that visit is the last I ever pay you." 
 
76 SIXTH YEAR 
 
 MAIZE, THE NATION'S EMBLEM 
 
 Celia Thaxter 
 
 Upon a hundred thousand plains 
 
 Its banners rustle in the breeze, 
 O'er all the nation's wide domains 
 
 From coast to coast betwixt the seas. 
 
 It storms the hills and fills the vales, 5 
 
 It marches like an army grand, 
 The continent its presence hails, 
 
 Its beauty brightens all the land. 
 
 Far back through history's shadowy page 
 
 It shines, a power of boundless good, 10 
 
 The people's prop from age to age, 
 The one unfailing wealth of food. 
 
 God's gift to the New World's great need 
 That helped to build the nation's strength, 
 
 Up through beginnings rude to lead 15 
 
 A higher race of men at length. 
 
 How straight and tall and stately stand 
 Its serried stalks upright and strong ! 
 
 How nobly are its outlines planned. 
 
 What grace and charm to it belong ! 20 
 
 What splendor in its rustling leaves ! 
 
 What richness in its close-set gold ! 
 What largess in its clustered sheaves, 
 
 New every year, though ages old ! 
 
 America, from thy broad breast, 25 
 
 It sprang, beneficent and bright, 
 
SIXTH YEAR 77 
 
 Of all thy gifts from heaven the best, 
 For the world's succor and delight. 
 
 Then do it honor, give it praise ! 
 
 A noble emblem should be ours; — 30 
 
 Upon thy fair shield set thy Maize, 
 
 More glorious than a myriad flowers. 
 
 And let thy States their garland bring, 
 Each its own lovely blossom-sign, 
 
 But leading all let Maize be king, 35 
 
 Holding its place by right divine. 
 
 THE STORY OF MONDAMIN 
 
 FROM THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 
 
 On the fourth day of his fasting 
 In his lodge he lay exhausted ; 
 From his couch of leaves and branches 
 Gazing with half-open eyelids. 
 Full of shadowy dreams and visions, 5 
 
 On the dizzy, swimming landscape, 
 On the gleaming of the water, 
 On the splendor of the sunset. 
 
 And he saw a youth approaching, 
 Dressed in garments green and yellow, 10 
 
 Coming through the purple twilight. 
 Through the splendor of the sunset ; 
 Plumes of green bent o'er his forehead, 
 And his hair was soft and golden. 
 
 Standing at the open doorway, 15 
 
 Long he looked at Hiawatha, 
 
78 SIXTH YEAR 
 
 Looked with pity and compassion 
 
 On his wasted form and features, 
 
 And, in accents like the sighing 
 
 Of the South- Wind in the tree-tops, 20 
 
 Said he, " O my Hiawatha ! 
 
 All your prayers are heard in heaven, 
 
 For you pray not like the others ; 
 
 Not for greater skill in hunting, 
 
 Not for greater craft in fishing, 25 
 
 Not for triumph in the battle. 
 
 Nor renown among the warriors, 
 
 But for profit of the people, 
 
 For advantage of the nations. 
 
 " From the Master of Life descending, 30 
 I, the friend of man, Mondamin, 
 Come to warn you and instruct you. 
 How by struggle and by labor 
 You shall gain what you have prayed for. 
 Rise up from your bed of branches, 35 
 
 Rise, O youth, and wrestle with me ! " 
 
 Faint with famine, Hiawatha 
 Started from his bed of branches. 
 From the twilight of his wigwam 
 Forth into the flush of sunset 40 
 
 Came, and wrestled with Mondamin : 
 At his touch he felt new courage 
 Throbbing in his brain and bosom. 
 Felt new life and hope and vigor 
 Run through every nerve and fibre. 45 
 
 Thrice they wrestled there together 
 In the glory of the sunset. 
 Till the darkness fell around them. 
 Till the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
 From her nest among the pine-trees, 50 
 
SIXTH YEAR 79 
 
 Uttered her loud cry of famine, 
 And Mondamin paused to listen. 
 
 Tall and beautiful he stood there, 
 In his garments green and yellow ; 
 To and fro his plumes above him 65 
 
 Waved and nodded with his breathing, 
 And the sweat of the encounter 
 Stood like drops of dew upon him. 
 
 And he cried, " O Hiawatha ! 
 Bravely have you wrestled with me, 60 
 
 Thrice have wrestled stoutly with me. 
 And the Master of Life, who sees us, 
 He will give to you the triumph ! " 
 
 Then he smiled, and said : " To-morrow 
 Is the last day of your conflict, 65 
 
 Is the last day of your fasting. 
 You will conquer and overcome me ; 
 Make a bed for me to lie in. 
 Where the rain may fall upon me. 
 Where the sun may come and warm me : 70 
 Strip these garments, green and yellow, 
 Strip this nodding plumage from me. 
 Lay me in the earth, and make it 
 Soft and loose and light above me. 
 
 " Let no hand disturb my slumber, 75 
 
 Let no weed nor worm molest me. 
 Let not Kahgahgee, the raven. 
 Come to haunt me and molest me. 
 Only come yourself to watch me. 
 Till I wake, and start, and quicken, 80 
 
 Till I leap into the sunshine." 
 
 And behold ! the young Mondamin, 
 With his soft and shining tresses, 
 Stood and beckoned at the doorway. 
 
80 SIXTH YEAR 
 
 And as one in slumber walking, 
 Pale and haggard, but undaunted. 
 From the wigwam Hiawatha 
 Came and wrestled with Mondamin. 
 • •••••• 
 
 Suddenly upon the greensward 
 All alone stood Hiawatha, 90 
 
 Panting with his wild exertion, 
 Palpitating with the struggle ; 
 And before him, breathless, lifeless, 
 Lay the youth, with hair dishevelled, 
 Plumage torn, and garments tattered, 95 
 
 Dead he lay there in the sunset. 
 
 And victorious Hiawatha ^ 
 
 Made the grave as he commanded, 
 Stripped the garments from Mondamin, 
 Stripped his tattered plumage from him, 100 
 Laid him in the earth, and made it 
 Soft and loose and light above him. 
 
 Day by day did Hiawatha 
 Go to wait and watch beside it ; 
 Kept the dark mould soft above it, 105 
 
 Kept it clean from weeds and insects. 
 
 Till at length a small green feather 
 From the earth shot slowly upward, 
 Then another and another. 
 
 And before the Summer ended 110 
 
 Stood the maize in all its beauty. 
 With its shining robes about it. 
 And its long, soft, yellow tresses ; 
 And in rapture Hiawatha 
 
 Cried aloud, " It is Mondamin ! 115 
 
 Yes, the friend of man, Mondamin! " 
 
SIXTH YEAR 81 
 
 • • • • • • • 
 
 And still later, when the Autumn 
 Changed the long, green leaves to yellow. 
 And the soft and juicy kernels 
 Grew like wampum hard and yellow, 120 
 
 Then the ripened ears he gathered, 
 Stripped the withered husks from off them, 
 As he once had stripped the wrestler. 
 Gave the first Feast of Mondamin, 
 And made known unto the people 125 
 
 This new gift of the Great Spirit. 
 
 THE CLOUD 
 Percy Bysshb Shelley 
 
 I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, 
 
 From the seas and the streams ; 
 I bear light shade for the leaves when laid 
 
 In their noonday dreams. 
 From my wings are shaken the dews that waken 5 
 
 The sweet buds every one. 
 When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, 
 
 As she dances about the sun. 
 I wield the flail of the lashing hail, 
 
 And whiten the green plains under, 10 
 
 And then again I dissolve it in rain. 
 
 And laugh as I pass in thunder. 
 
 I sift the snow on the mountains below, 
 And their great pines groan aghast ; 
 
 And all the night 't is my pillow white, 15 
 
 While I sleep in the arms of the blast. 
 
 Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers, 
 Lightning my pilot sits ; 
 
82 SIXTH YEAR 
 
 In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, 
 
 It struggles and howls at fits ; 20 
 
 Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, 
 
 This pilot is guiding me, 
 Lured by the love of the genii that move 
 
 In the depths of the purple sea ; 
 Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, 25 
 
 Over the lakes and the plains. 
 Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, 
 
 The Spirit he loves remains ; 
 And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile. 
 
 Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 30 
 
 The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes. 
 
 And his burning plumes outspread, 
 Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, 
 
 When the morning-star shines dead ; 
 As on the jag of a mountain crag, 35 
 
 Which an earthquake rocks and swings, 
 An eagle alit one moment may sit 
 
 In the light of its golden wings. 
 And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea 
 beneath. 
 
 Its ardors of rest and of love, 40 
 
 And the crimson pall of eve may fall 
 
 From the depth of heaven above. 
 With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest. 
 
 As still as a brooding dove. 
 
 That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, 45 
 
 Whom mortals call the moon. 
 Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, 
 
 By the midnight breezes strewn ; 
 And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, 
 
SIXTH YEAR 83 
 
 Which only the angels hear, 50 
 
 May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, 
 
 The stars peep behind her and peer ; 
 And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, 
 
 Like a swarm of golden bees, 
 When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, 55 
 
 Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, 
 Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, 
 
 Are each paved with the moon and these. 
 
 I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, 
 
 And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ; 60 
 
 The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim. 
 
 When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. 
 From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, 
 
 Over a torrent sea, 
 Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, 65 
 
 The mountains its columns be. 
 The triumphal arch through which I march. 
 
 With hurricane, fire, and snow. 
 When the powers of the air are chained to my chair. 
 
 Is the million-colored bow ; 70 
 
 The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove. 
 
 While the moist earth was laughing below. 
 
 I am the daughter of earth and water. 
 
 And the nursling of the sky ; 
 I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores ; 75 
 
 I change, but I cannot die. 
 For after the rain, when with never a stain 
 
 The pavilion of heaven is bare. 
 And the winds and sunbeams with their convex 
 gleams. 
 
 Build up the blue dome of air, 80 
 
84 SIXTH YEAR 
 
 I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, 
 
 And out of the caverns of rain, 
 Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the 
 
 tomb, 
 I arise and unbuild it again. 
 
 CHRISTMASTIDE 
 Richard Bukton 
 
 Christmas time is a time of cold, 
 
 Of weathers bleak and of winds a-blow ; 
 
 Never a flower — fold on fold 
 
 Of grace and beauty — tops the snow 
 
 Or breaks the black and bitter mold. 5 
 
 And yet 't is warm — for the chill and gloom 
 Glow with love and with childhood's glee ; 
 
 And yet 't is sweet — with the rich perfume 
 Of sacrifice and of charity. 
 
 Where are flowers more fair to see? 10 
 
 Christmas tide, it is warm and sweet ; 
 A whole world's heart at a Baby's feet ! 
 
 KING SOLOMON AND THE ANTS 
 John Greenleaf Whittier 
 
 Out from Jerusalem 
 
 The king rode with his great 
 War chiefs and lords of state. 
 
 And Sheba's queen with them ; 
 
 Comely, but black withal, 6 
 
 To whom, perchance, belongs 
 
SIXTH YEAR 85 
 
 That wondrous Song of songs, 
 Sensuous and mystical, 
 
 Whereto devout souls turn 
 
 In fond, ecstatic dream, 10 
 
 And through its earth-born theme 
 
 The Love of loves discern. 
 
 Proud in the Syrian sun. 
 
 In gold and purple sheen. 
 
 The dusky Ethiop queen 15 
 
 Smiled on King Solomon. 
 
 Wisest of men, he knew 
 
 The languages of all 
 
 The creatures great or small 
 That trod the earth or flew. 20 
 
 Across an ant-hill led 
 
 The king's path, and he heard 
 
 Its small folk, and their word 
 He thus interpreted : 
 
 Here comes the king men greet 25 
 
 As wise and good and just, 
 
 To crush us in the dust 
 Under his heedless feet." 
 
 The great king bowed his head. 
 
 And saw the wide surprise 30 
 
 Of the Queen of Sheba's eyes 
 As he told her what they said. 
 
 " O king ! " she whispered sweet, 
 " Too happy fate have they 
 
 (( 
 
86 SIXTH YEAR 
 
 Who perish in thy way 35 
 
 Beneath thy gracious feet ! 
 
 " Thou of the God-lent crown, 
 
 Shall these vile creatures dare 
 Murmur against thee where 
 The knees of kings kneel down ? " 40 
 
 " Nay," Solomon replied, 
 
 " The wise and strong should seek 
 The welfare of the weak," 
 And turned his horse aside. 
 
 His train, with quick alarm, 45 
 
 Curved with their leader round 
 The ant-hill's peopled mound, 
 
 And left it free from harm. 
 
 The jewelled head bent low ; 
 
 " O king ! " she said, " henceforth 50 
 
 The secret of thy worth 
 And wisdom well I know. 
 
 " Happy must be the State 
 Whose ruler heedeth more 
 The murmurs of the poor 55 
 
 Than flatteries of the great." 
 
 SELECTIONS FROM SNOW-BOUND 
 
 John Greenleaf Whittier 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 Our mother, while she turned her wheel 
 Or run the new-knit stocking-heel. 
 Told how the Indian hordes came down 
 
SIXTH YEAR 87 
 
 At midnight on Cocheco town, 
 
 And how her own great-uncle bore 5 
 
 His cruel scalp-mark to fourscore. 
 
 Recalling, in her fitting phrase, 
 
 So rich and picturesque and free 
 
 (The common unrhymed poetry 
 Of simple life and country ways}, 10 
 
 The story of her early days, — 
 She made us welcome to her home ; 
 Old hearths grew wide to give us room ; 
 We stole with her a frightened look 
 At the gray wizard's conjuring-book, 15 
 
 The fame whereof went far and wide 
 Through all the simple country-side ; 
 We heard the hawks at twilight play, 
 The boat-horn on Piscataqua, 
 The loon's weird laughter far away ; 20 
 
 We fished her little trout-brook, knew 
 What flowers in wood and meadow grew, 
 What sunny hillsides autumn-brown 
 She climbed to shake the ripe nuts down, 
 Saw where in sheltered cove and bay 25 
 
 The ducks' black squadron anchored lay, 
 And heard the wild geese calling loud 
 Beneath the gray November cloud. 
 
 THE SISTERS 
 
 There, too, our elder sister plied 
 
 Her evening task the stand beside ; 
 
 A full, rich nature, free to trust. 
 
 Truthful and almost sternly just, 
 
 Impulsive, earnest, prompt to act, 5 
 
 4. Dover in New Hampshire. 
 
88 SIXTH YEAR 
 
 And make her generous thought a fact, 
 Keeping with many a slight disguise 
 The secret of self-sacrifice. 
 O heart sore-tried ! thou hast the best 
 That Heaven itself could give thee, — rest, 10 
 Rest from all bitter thoughts and things ! 
 How many a poor one's blessing went 
 With thee beneath the low green tent 
 
 Whose curtain never outward swings 
 
 As one who held herself a part 15 
 
 Of all she saw, and let her heart 
 
 Against the household bosom lean, 
 Upon the motley-braided mat 
 Our youngest and our dearest sat, 
 Lifting her large, sweet, asking eyes, 20 
 
 Now bathed in the unfading green 
 And holy peace of Paradise. 
 Oh, looking from some heavenly hill, 
 
 Or from the shade of saintly palms, 
 
 Or silver reach of river calms, 25 
 
 Do those large eyes behold me still ? 
 With me one little year ago : — 
 The chill weight of the winter snow 
 
 For months upon her grave has lain ; 
 And now, when summer south-winds blow 30 
 
 And brier and harebell bloom again, 
 I tread the pleasant paths we trod, 
 I see the violet-sprinkled sod 
 Whereon she leaned, too frail and weak. 
 The hillside flowers she loved to seek, 35 
 
 Yet following me where'er I went 
 With dark eyes full of love's content. 
 The birds are glad ; the brier-rose fills 
 
SIXTH YEAR 89 
 
 The air with sweetness ; all the hills 
 Stretch green to June's unclouded sky; 40 
 
 But still I wait with ear and eye 
 For something gone which should be nigh, 
 A loss in all familiar things, 
 In flower that blooms, and bird that sings. 
 And yet, dear heart ! remembering thee, 46 
 
 Am I not richer than of old? 
 
 THE SCHOOLMASTER 
 
 Brisk wielder of the birch and rule, 
 
 The master of the district school 
 
 Held at the fire his favorite place. 
 
 Its warm glow lit a laughing face 
 
 Fresh-hued and fair, where scarce appeared 5 
 
 The uncertain prophecy of beard. 
 
 He teased the mitten-blinded cat, 
 
 Played cross-pins on my uncle's hat. 
 
 Sang songs, and told us what befalls 
 
 In classic Dartmouth's college halls. 10 
 
 Born the wild Northern hills among, 
 
 From whence his yeoman father wrung 
 
 By patient toil subsistence scant, 
 
 Not competence and yet not want. 
 
 He early gained the power to pay 15 
 
 His cheerful, self-reliant way ; 
 
 Could doff at ease his scholar's gown 
 
 To peddle wares from town to town ; 
 
 Or through the long vacation's reach 
 
 In lonely lowland districts teach, 20 
 
 Where all the droll experience found 
 
 At stranger hearths in boarding round. 
 
 The moonlit skater's keen delight. 
 
90 SIXTH YEAR 
 
 The sleigh-drive through the frosty night, 
 
 The rustic party, with its rough 25 
 
 Accompaniment of blind-man's-buff, 
 
 And whirling-plate, and forfeits paid. 
 
 His winter task a pastime made. 
 
 Happy the snow-locked homes wherein 
 
 He tuned his merry violin, 30 
 
 Or played the athlete in the barn, 
 
 Or held the good dame's winding-yarn, 
 
 Or mirth-provoking versions told 
 
 Of classic legends rare and old, 
 
 Wherein the scenes of Greece and Rome 35 
 
 Had all the commonplace of home. 
 
 And little seemed at best the odds 
 
 'Twixt Yankee pedlers and old gods ; 
 
 Where Pindus-born Arachthus took 
 
 The guise of any grist-mill brook, 40 
 
 And dread Olympus at his will 
 
 Became a huckleberry hill. 
 
 A careless boy that night he seemed ; 
 But at his desk he had the look 
 
 And air of one who wisely schemed, 45 
 
 And hostage from the future took 
 In trained thought and lore of book. 
 
 Large-brained, clear-eyed, of such as he 
 
 Shall Freedom's young apostles be. 
 
 Who, following in War's bloody trail, 50 
 
 Shall every lingering wrong assail ; 
 
 All chains from limb and spirit strike, 
 
 Uplift the black and white alike ; 
 
 Scatter before their swift advance 
 
 The darkness and the ignorance, 55 
 
 The pride, the lust, the squalid sloth, 
 
SIXTH YEAR 91 
 
 Which nurtured Treason's monstrous growth, 
 
 Made murder pastime, and the hell 
 
 Of prison-torture possible ; 
 
 The cruel lie of caste refute, 60 
 
 Old forms remould, and substitute 
 
 For Slavery's lash the freeman's will, 
 
 For blind routine, wise-handed skill ; 
 
 A school-house plant on every hill. 
 
 Stretching in radiate nerve-lines thence 65 
 
 The quick wires of intelligence ; 
 
 Till North and South together brought 
 
 Shall own the same electric thought, 
 
 In peace a common flag salute. 
 
 And, side by side in labor's free 70 
 
 And unresentful rivalry, 
 
 Harvest the fields wherein they fought. 
 
 WASHINGTON 
 
 (From Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte) 
 Lord Byron 
 
 The Roman, when his burning heart 
 Was slaked with blood of Rome, 
 
 Threw down the dagger — dared depart, 
 In savage grandeur, home. 
 
 He dared depart in utter scorn 5 
 
 Of men that such a yoke had borne, 
 Yet left him such a doom ! 
 
 His only glory was that hour 
 
 Of self-upheld abandon'd power. 
 
 The Spaniard, when the lust of sway 10 
 
 Had lost its quickening spell, 
 
92 SIXTH YEAR 
 
 Cast crowns for rosaries away, 
 
 An empire for a cell ; 
 A strict accountant of his beads, 
 A subtle disputant on creeds, 15 
 
 His dotage trifled well : 
 Yet better had he neither known 
 A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne* 
 • •■• • • • • • 
 
 Weigh'd in the balance, hero dust 
 
 Is vile as vulgar clay ; 20 
 
 Thy scales, Mortality ! are just 
 
 To all that pass away : 
 But yet methought the living great 
 Some higher sparks should animate, 
 
 To dazzle and dismay : 25 
 
 Nor seem'd Contempt could thus make mirth 
 Of these, the Conquerors of the earth. 
 
 Where may the wearied eye repose 
 
 When gazing on the Great ; 
 Where neither guilty glory glows, 30 
 
 Nor despicable state ? 
 Yes — one — the first — the last — the best — 
 The Cincinnatus of the West, 
 
 Whom envy dared not hate. 
 Bequeathed the name of Washington, 35 
 
 To make men blush there was but one ! 
 
 THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS 
 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 
 
 It was the schooner Hesperus, 
 
 That sailed the wintry sea ; 
 And the skipper had taken his little daughter, 
 
 To bear him company. 
 
SIXTH YEAR 93 
 
 Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, 5 
 
 Her cheeks like the dawn of day, 
 
 And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, 
 That ope in the month of May. 
 
 The skipper he stood beside the helm, 
 
 His pipe was in his mouth, 10 
 
 And he watched how the veering flaw did blow 
 The smoke now West, now South. 
 
 Then up and spake an old Sailor, 
 
 Had sailed to the Spanish Main, 
 " I pray thee, put into yonder port, 15 
 
 For I fear a hurricane. 
 
 " Last night, the moon had a golden ring. 
 And to-night no moon we see ! " 
 The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe, 
 
 And a scornful laugh laughed he. 20 
 
 Colder and louder blew the wind, 
 
 A gale from the Northeast, 
 The snow fell hissing in the brine, 
 
 And the billows frothed like yeast. 
 
 Down came the storm, and smote amain 25 
 
 The vessel in its strength ; 
 She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed. 
 
 Then leaped her cable's length, 
 
 " Come hither ! come hither ! my little daughter. 
 And do not tremble so ; 30 
 
 For I can weather the roughest gale 
 That ever wind did blow." 
 
94 SIXTH YEAR 
 
 He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat 
 
 Against the stinging blast ; 
 He cut a rope from a broken spar, 35 
 
 And bound her to the mast. 
 
 " O father ! I hear the church-bells ring. 
 
 Oh say, what may it be ? " 
 " 'T is a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast ! " — 
 
 And he steered for the open sea. 40 
 
 " O father ! I hear the sound of guns, 
 
 Oh say, what may it be ? " 
 " Some ship in distress, that cannot live 
 
 In such an angry sea! " 
 
 " O father ! I see a gleaming light, 45 
 
 Oh say, what may it be ? " 
 But the father answered never a word, 
 A frozen corpse was he. 
 
 Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, 
 
 With his face turned to the skies, 50 
 
 The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow 
 On his fixed and glassy eyes. 
 
 Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed 
 That saved she might be ; 54 
 
 And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave, 
 On the Lake of Galilee. 
 
 And fast through the midnight dark and drear, 
 Through the whistling sleet and snow 
 
 Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept 
 
 Tow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe. 60 
 
SIXTH YEAR 95 
 
 And ever the fitful gusts between 
 
 A sound came from the land : 
 It was the sound of the trampling surf 
 
 On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. 
 
 The breakers were right beneath her bows, 65 
 
 She drifted a dreary wreck, 
 And a whooping billow swept the crew 
 
 Like icicles from her deck. 
 
 She struck where the white and fleecy waves 
 
 Looked soft as carded wool, 70 
 
 But the cruel rocks, they gored her side 
 Like the horns of an angry bull. 
 
 Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, 
 With the masts went by the board ; 
 
 Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, 75 
 Ho ! ho ! the breakers roared ! 
 
 At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, 
 
 A fisherman stood aghast. 
 To see the form of a maiden fair. 
 
 Lashed close to a drifting mast. 80 
 
 The salt sea was frozen on her breast. 
 
 The salt tears in her eyes ; 
 And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, 
 
 On the billows fall and rise. 
 
 Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, 85 
 
 In the midnight and the snow ! 
 Christ save us all from a death like this. 
 
 On the reef of Norman's Woe ! 
 
m SIXTH YEAR 
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE CROSSBILL 
 
 (From the German of Julius Mosen) 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 
 
 On the cross the dying Saviour 
 Heavenward lifts his eyelids calm, 
 
 Feels, but scarcely feels, a trembling 
 In his pierced and bleeding palm. 
 
 And by all the world forsaken, 6 
 
 Sees He how with zealous care 
 At the ruthless nail of iron 
 
 A little bird is striving there. 
 
 Stained with blood and never tiring, 
 
 With its beak it doth not cease, 10 
 
 From the cross 't would free the Saviour, 
 Its Creator's Son release. 
 
 And the Saviour speaks in mildness : 
 " Blest be thou of all the good ! 
 
 Bear, as token of this moment, 15 
 
 Marks of blood and holy rood ! '* 
 
 And that bird is called the crossbill ; 
 
 Covered all with blood so clear, 
 In the groves of pine it singeth 
 
 Songs, like legends, strange to hear. 20 
 
SIXTH YEAR 97 
 
 THE RUBY-CROWNED KINGLET ^ 
 
 Henby van Dyke 
 
 I 
 Where 's your kingdom, little king ? 
 Where 's the land you call your own, 
 Where 's the palace, and your throne ? 
 Fluttering lightly on the wing 
 
 Through the blossom-world of May, 5 
 
 Whither lies your royal way? 
 Where 's the realm that owns your sway, 
 Little king ? 
 
 Far to northward lies a land. 
 
 Where the trees together stand 10 
 
 Closer than the blades of wheat. 
 
 When the summer is complete. 
 
 Like a robe the forests hide 
 
 Lonely vale and mountain side : 
 
 Balsam, hemlock, spruce, and pine, — 15 
 
 All those mighty trees are mine. 
 
 There 's a river flowing free ; 
 
 All its waves belong to me. 
 
 There 's a lake so clear and bright 
 
 Stars shine out of it all night, 20 
 
 And the rowan-berries red 
 
 Round it like a girdle spread. 
 
 Feasting plentiful and fine. 
 
 Air that cheers the heart like wine, 
 
 Royal pleasures by the score, 25 
 
 Wait for me in Labrador. 
 
 There I 'U build my dainty nest ; 
 
 1 FTomTheToilingof Felix and Other Poems. Copyright, 1900, 
 by Charles Scribner's Sons. 
 
98 SIXTH YEAR 
 
 There I '11 fix my court and rest ; 
 
 There from dawn to dark I '11 sing : 
 
 Happy kingdom ! Lucky king ! 30 
 
 II 
 
 Back again, my little king ! 
 Is your happy kingdom lost 
 To that rebel knave, Jack Frost ? 
 
 Have you felt the snow-flakes sting ? 
 
 Autumn is a rude disrober ; 35 
 
 Houseless, homeless in October, 
 Whither now ? Your plight is sober, 
 Exiled king ! 
 
 Far to southward lie the regions 
 
 Where my loyal flower-legions 40 
 
 Hold possession of the year, 
 
 Filling every month with cheer. 
 
 Christmas wakes the winter rose ; 
 
 New Year daffodils unclose ; 
 
 Yellow jasmine through the woods 45 
 
 Runs in March with golden floods, 
 
 Dropping from the tallest trees 
 
 Shining streams that never freeze. 
 
 Thither I must find my way, 
 
 Fly by night and feed by day, — 50 
 
 Till I see the southern moon 
 
 Glistening on the broad lagoon. 
 
 Where the cypress' vivid green, 
 
 And the dark magnolia's sheen. 
 
 Weave a shelter round my home. 65 
 
 There the snow-storms never come : 
 
 There the bannered mosses gray 
 
 In the breezes gently sway, 
 
SIXTH YEAR 99 
 
 Hanging low on every side 
 
 Round the covert where I hide. 60 
 
 There I hold my winter court, 
 
 Full of merriment and sport : 
 
 There I take my ease and sing: 
 
 Happy kingdom ! Lucky king ! 
 
 Ill 
 
 Little boaster, vagrant king ! 65 
 
 Neither north nor south is yours : 
 You 've no kingdom that endures. 
 
 Wandering every fall and spring, 
 With your painted crown so slender. 
 And your talk of royal splendor, 70 
 
 Must I call you a Pretender, 
 Landless king ? 
 
 Never king by right divine 
 
 Ruled a richer realm than mine ! 
 
 What are lands and golden crowns, 75 
 
 Armies, fortresses, and towns, 
 
 Jewels, sceptres, robes, and rings, — 
 
 What are these to song and wings ? 
 
 Everywhere that I can fly, 
 
 There I own the earth and sky; 80 
 
 Everywhere that I can sing. 
 
 There I 'm happy as a king. 
 
 TO A WATERFOWL 
 William Cullen Bryant 
 
 Whither, midst falling dew. 
 While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, 
 Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue 
 
 Thy solitary way ? 
 
100 SIXTH YEAR 
 
 Vainly the fowler's eye 5 
 
 Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, 
 As, darkly seen against the crimson sky, 
 
 Thy figure floats along. 
 
 Seek'st thou the plashy brink 
 Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, 10 
 
 Or where the rocking billows rise and sink 
 
 On the chafed ocean side ? 
 
 There is a Power whose care 
 Teaches thy way along that pathless coast — 
 The desert and illimitable air — 15 
 
 Lone wandering, but not lost. 
 
 All day thy wings have fanned. 
 At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, 
 Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, 
 
 Though the dark night is near. 20 
 
 And soon that toil shall end ; 
 Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, 
 And scream among thy fellows ; reeds shall bend, 
 
 Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. 
 
 Thou 'rt gone ! the abyss of heaven 25 
 
 Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet, on my heart 
 Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given. 
 
 And shall not soon depart. 
 
 He, who, from zone to zone, 
 Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight. 
 In the long way that I must tread alone, 31 
 
 Will lead my steps aright. 
 
SIXTH YEAR 101 
 
 THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD 
 
 Theodore O'Hara 
 
 The muffled drum's sad roll has 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 5 
 
 Their silent tents are spread, 
 And Glory guards, with solemn round, 
 
 The bivouac of the dead. 
 
 No rumor of the foe's advance 
 
 Now swells upon the wind ; 10 
 
 No troubled thought at midnight haunts 
 
 Of loved ones left behind ; 
 No vision of the morrow's strife 
 
 The warrior's dream alarms ; 
 No braying horn nor screaming fife 15 
 
 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. 20 
 
 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, 25 
 
 The bugle's stirring blast, 
 The charge, the dreadful cannonade. 
 
 The din and shout, are past ; 
 
102 SIXTH YEAR 
 
 Nor war's wild note nor glory's peal 
 
 Shall thrill with fierce delight 30 
 
 Those breasts that nevermore may feel 
 The rapture of the fight. 
 
 Like the fierce northern hurricane 
 
 That sweeps his great plateau, 
 Flushed with the triumph yet to gain, 35 
 
 Came down the serried foe. 
 Who heard the thunder of the fray _ 
 
 Break o'er the field beneath, 
 Knew well the watchword of that day 
 
 Was " Victory or Death." 40 
 
 Long had the doubtful conflict raged 
 
 O'er all that stricken plain, 
 For never fiercer fight had waged 
 
 The vengeful blood of Spain ; 
 And still the storm of battle blew, 45 
 
 Still swelled the gory tide ; 
 Not long, our stout old chieftain knew, 
 
 Such odds his strength could bide. 
 
 'T was in that hour his stern command 
 
 Called to a martyr's grave 50 
 
 The flower of his beloved land, 
 
 The nation's flag to save. 
 By rivers of their fathers' gore 
 
 His first-born laurels grew, 
 And well he deemed the sons would pour 55 
 
 Their lives for glory too. 
 
 Full many a norther's breath has swept 
 O'er Augostura's plain, 
 
SIXTH YEAR 103 
 
 And long the pitying sky has wept 
 
 Above its mouldered slain. 60 
 
 The raven's scream, or eagle's flight, 
 
 Or shepherd's pensive lay, 
 Alone awakes each sullen height 
 
 That frowned o'er that dread fray. 
 
 Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground, 65 
 
 Ye must not slumber there. 
 Where stranger steps and tongues resound 
 
 Along the heedless air. 
 Your own proud land's heroic soil 
 
 Shall be your fitter grave : 70 
 
 She claims from war his richest spoil — 
 
 The ashes of her brave. 
 
 Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest, 
 
 Far from the gory field, 
 Borne to a Spartan mother's breast 75 
 
 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. 80 
 
 Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead ! 
 
 Dear as the blood ye gave ; 
 No impious footstep here shall tread 
 
 The herbage of your grave ; 
 Nor shall your glory be forgot 85 
 
 While Fame her record keeps. 
 Or Honor points the hallowed spot 
 
 Where Valor proudly sleeps. 
 
104 SIXTH YEAR 
 
 Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone 
 
 In deathless song shall tell, 90 
 
 When many a vanished age hath flown, 
 
 The story how ye fell ; 
 Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight 
 
 Nor Time's remorseless doom, 
 Shall dim one ray of glory's light 95 
 
 That gilds your deathless tomb. 
 
 THE YELLOW VIOLET 
 
 William Cullen Bryant 
 
 When beechen bnds begin to swell. 
 
 And woods the bluebird's warble know, 
 
 The yellow violet's modest bell 
 
 Peeps from the last year's leaves below. 
 
 Ere russet fields their green resume, 6 
 
 Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare, 
 
 To meet thee, when thy faint perfume 
 Alone is in the virgin air. 
 
 Of all her train, the hands of Spring 
 
 First plant thee in the watery mould, 10 
 
 And I have seen thee blossoming 
 Beside the snow-bank's edges cold. 
 
 Thy parent sun, who bade thee view 
 Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip, 
 
 Has bathed thee in his own bright hue, 15 
 
 And streaked with jet thy glowing lip. 
 
 Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat. 
 And earthward bent thy gentle eye, 
 
SIXTH YEAR 105 
 
 Unapt the passing view to meet, 
 
 When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh. 20 
 
 Oft, in the sunless April day, 
 
 Thy early smile has stayed my walk ; 
 
 But midst the gorgeous blooms of May, 
 1 passed thee on thy humble stalk. 
 
 So they, who climb to wealth, forget 25 
 
 The friends in darker fortunes tried. 
 
 I copied them — but I regret 
 
 That I should ape the ways of pride. 
 
 And when again the genial hour 
 
 Awakes the painted tribes of light, 30 
 
 I '11 not o'erlook the modest flower 
 
 That made the woods of April bright. 
 
SEVENTH YEAR 
 
 YUSSOUF 
 
 James Russell Lowell 
 
 A STRANGER came one night to Yussouf's tent, 
 
 Saying, " Behold one outcast and in dread, 
 
 Against whose life the bow of power is bent. 
 
 Who flies, and hath not where to lay his head ; 
 
 I come to thee for shelter and for food, 5 
 
 To Yussouf , called through all our tribes ' The Good.' " 
 
 " This tent is mine," said Yussouf, " but no more 
 
 Than it is God's ; come in, and be at peace ; 
 
 Freely shalt thou partake of all my store 
 
 As I of His who buildeth over these 10 
 
 Our tents his glorious roof of night and day, 
 
 And at whose door none ever yet heard Nay." 
 
 So Yussouf entertained his guest that night, 
 
 And, waking him ere day, said : " Here is gold ; 
 
 My swiftest horse is saddled for thy flight ; 15 
 
 Depart before the prying day grow bold." 
 
 As one lamp lights another, nor grows less. 
 
 So nobleness enkindleth nobleness. 
 
 That inward light the stranger's face made grand. 
 Which shines from all self-conquest ; kneeling low, 20 
 He bowed his forehead upon Yussouf's hand, 
 Sobbing ; " O Sheik, I cannot leave thee so ; 
 
SEVENTH YEAR 107 
 
 I will repay thee ; all this thou hast done 
 Unto that Ibrahim who slew thy son ! " 
 
 "Take thrice the gold," said Yussouf, "for with thee 
 Into the desert, never to return, 26 
 
 My one black thought shall ride away from me: 
 First born, for whom by day and night I yearn. 
 Balanced and just are all of God's decrees ; 
 Thou art avenged, my first-born, sleep in peace ! " 30 
 
 THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE 
 
 Alfred, Lord Tennyson 
 
 I 
 Half a league, half a league, 
 Half a league onward. 
 All in the valley of Death 
 Rode the six hundred. 
 " Forward the Light Brigade ! 5 
 
 Charge for the guns ! " he said. 
 Into the valley of Death 
 Rode the six hundred. 
 
 II 
 
 " Forward, the Light Brigade ! " 
 Was there a man dismay'd ? 10 
 
 Not tho' the soldier knew 
 
 Some one had blunder'd. 
 Theirs not to make reply. 
 Theirs not to reason why. 
 Theirs but to do and die. 15 
 
 Into the valley of Death 
 Rode the six hundred. 
 
108 SEVENTH YEAR 
 
 III 
 
 Cannon to right of them, 
 
 Cannon to left of them, 
 
 Cannon in front of them 20 
 
 Volley'd and thunder'd ; 
 Storm'd at with shot and shell, 
 Boldly they rode and well. 
 Into the jaws of Death, 
 Into the mouth of hell 25 
 
 Rode the six hundred. 
 
 IV 
 
 Flash'd all their sabres bare, 
 
 Flash'd as they turn'd in air 
 
 Sabring the gunners there, 
 
 Charging an army, while 30 
 
 All the world wonder'd. 
 Plunged in the battery-smoke 
 Right thro' the line they broke ; 
 Cossack and Russian 
 Reel'd from the sabre-stroke 35 
 
 Shatter'd and sunder'd. 
 Then they rode back, but not, 
 
 Not the six hundred. 
 
 Cannon to right of them. 
 
 Cannon to left of them, 40 
 
 Cannon behind them 
 
 Volley'd and thunder'd ; 
 Storm'd at with shot and shell. 
 While horse and hero fell, 
 They that had fought so well 45 
 
SEVENTH YEAR 109 
 
 Came thro' the jaws of Death, 
 Back from the mouth of hell, 
 All that was left of them, 
 Left of six hundred. 
 
 VI 
 
 When can their glory fade ? 60 
 
 O the wild charge they made ! 
 
 All the world wonder'd. 
 Honor the charge they made ! 
 Honor the Light Brigade, 
 
 Noble six hundred ! ' 55 
 
 THE SHEPHERD OF KING ADMETUS 
 
 James Russell Lowell 
 
 There came a youth upon the earth, 
 
 Some thousand years ago, 
 Whose slender hands were nothing worth, 
 Whether to plough, or reap, or sow. 
 
 Upon an empty tortoise-shell 5 
 
 He stretched some chords, and drew 
 Music that made men's bosoms swell 
 Fearless, or brimmed their eyes with dew. 
 
 Then King Admetus, one who had 
 
 Pure taste by right divine, 10 
 
 Decreed his singing not too bad 
 To hear between the cups of wine : 
 
 And so, well pleased with being soothed 
 
 Into a sweet half-sleep. 
 Three times his kingly beard he smoothed, 15 
 And made him viceroy o'er his sheep. 
 
110 SEVENTH YEAR 
 
 His words were simple words enough, 
 
 And yet he used them so, 
 That what in other mouths was rough 
 In his seemed musical and low. 20 
 
 Men called him but a shiftless youth, 
 
 In whom no good they saw ; 
 And yet, unwittingly, in truth. 
 They made his careless words their law. 
 
 They knew not how he learned at all, 25 
 
 For idly, hour by hour, 
 He sat and watched the dead leaves fall, 
 Or mused upon a common flower. 
 
 It seemed the loveliness of things 
 
 Did teach him all their use, 30 
 
 For in mere weeds, and stones, and springs, 
 He found a healing power profuse. 
 
 Men granted that his speech was wise. 
 
 But, when a glance they caught 
 Of his slim grace and woman's eyes, 35 
 
 They laughed, and called him good-f or-naught. 
 
 Yet after he was dead and gone. 
 
 And e'en his memory dim. 
 Earth seemed more sweet to live upon, 
 More full of love, because of him. 40 
 
 And day by day more holy grew 
 Each spot where he had trod. 
 Till after-j^oets only knew 
 Their first-born brother as a god. 
 
SEVENTH YEAR 111 
 
 WENDELL PHILLIPS 
 
 James Russell Lowell 
 
 He stood upon the world's broad threshold ; wide 
 
 The din of battle and of slaughter rose ; 
 
 He saw God stand upon the weaker side, 
 
 That sank in seeming loss before his foes : 
 
 Many there were who made great haste and sold 5 
 
 Unto the cunning enemy their swords, 
 
 He scorned their gifts of fame, and power, and gold, 
 
 And, underneath their soft and flowery words. 
 
 Heard the cold serpent hiss ; therefore he went 
 
 And humbly joined him to the weaker part, 10 
 
 Fanatic named, and fool, yet well content 
 
 So he could be the nearer to God's heart, 
 
 And feel its solemn pulses sending blood 
 
 Through all the widespread veins of endless good. 
 
 THE PRESENT CRISIS 
 James Russell Lowell 
 
 When a deed is done for Freedom, through the broad 
 
 earth's aching breast 
 Kuns a thrill of joy prophetic, trembling on from east 
 
 to west. 
 And the slave, where'er he cowers, feels the soul within 
 
 him climb 
 To the awful verge of manhood, as the energy sublime 
 Of a century bursts full-blossomed on the thorny stem 
 
 of Time. 5 
 
 Through the walls of hut and palace shoots the instan- 
 taneous throe. 
 
 When the travail of the Ages wrings earth's systems 
 to and fro : 
 
112 SEVENTH YEAR 
 
 At the birth of each new Era, with a recognizing start, 
 Nation wildly looks at nation, standing with mute lips 
 
 apart. 
 And glad Truth's yet mightier man-child leaps beneath 
 
 the Future's heart. 10 
 
 So the Evil's triumph sendeth, with a terror and a 
 
 chill. 
 Under continent to continent, the sense of coming 
 
 ill, 
 And the slave, where'er he cowers, feels his sympathies 
 
 with God 
 In hot tear-drops ebbing earthward, to be drunk up by 
 
 the sod. 
 Till a corpse crawls round unburied, delving in the 
 
 nobler clod. 15 
 
 For mankind are one in spirit, and an instinct bears 
 
 along. 
 Round the earth's electric circle, the swift flash of 
 
 right or wrong ; 
 Whether conscious or unconscious, yet Humanity's 
 
 vast frame 
 Through its ocean-sundered fibres feels the gush of joy 
 
 or shame ; — 
 In the gain or loss of one race all the rest have equal 
 
 claim. 20 
 
 Once to every man and nation comes the moment to 
 
 decide. 
 In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or 
 
 evil side ; 
 Some great cause, God's new Messiah, offering each 
 
 the bloom or blight, 
 
SEVENTH YEAR 113 
 
 Parts the goats upon the left hand, and the sheep upon 
 
 the right, 
 And the choice goes by forever 'twixt that darkness 
 
 and that light. 25 
 
 Hast thou chosen, O my people, on whose party thou 
 
 shalt stand. 
 Ere the Doom from its worn sandals shakes the dust 
 
 against our land ? 
 Though the cause of Evil prosper, yet 't is Truth alone 
 
 is strong. 
 And, albeit she wander outcast now, I see around her 
 
 throng 
 Troops of beautiful, tall angels, to enshield her from 
 
 all wrong. 30 
 
 Backward look across the ages and the beacon-moments 
 
 see. 
 That, like peaks of some sunk continent, jut through 
 
 Oblivion's sea ; 
 Not an ear in court or market for the low foreboding 
 
 cry 
 Of those Crises, God's stern winnowers, from whose 
 
 feet earth's chaff must fly ; 
 Never shows the choice momentous till the judgment 
 
 hath passed by. 35 
 
 Careless seems the great Avenger ; history's pages but 
 
 record 
 One death-grapple in the darkness 'twixt old systems 
 
 and the Word ; 
 Truth forever on the scaffold. Wrong forever on the 
 
 throne, — 
 
114 SEVENTH YEAR 
 
 Yet that scaffold sways the future, and, behind the 
 
 dim unknown, 
 Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above 
 
 his own. 40 
 
 We see dimly in the Present what is small and what is 
 
 great. 
 Slow of faith how weak an arm may turn the iron helm 
 
 of fate. 
 But the soul is still oracular ; amid the market's din, 
 List the ominous stern whisper from the Delphic cave 
 
 within, — 
 " They enslave their children's children who make 
 
 compromise with sin." 45 
 
 Slavery, the earth-born Cyclops, fellest of the giant 
 
 brood. 
 Sons of brutish Force and Darkness, who have drenched 
 
 the earth with blood. 
 Famished in his self-made desert, blinded by our purer 
 
 day, 
 Gropes in yet unblasted regions for his miserable 
 
 prey ; — 
 Shall we guide his gory fingers where our helpless 
 
 children play ? 50 
 
 Then to side with Truth is noble when we share her 
 wretched crust. 
 
 Ere her cause bring fame and profit, and 't is prosper- 
 ous to be just ; 
 
 Then it is the brave man chooses, while the coward 
 stands aside. 
 
 Doubting in his abject spirit, till his Lord is crucified, 
 
 And the multitude make virtue of the faith they had 
 denied. 55 
 
SEVENTH YEAR 115 
 
 Count me o'er earth's chosen heroes, — they were 
 souls that stood alone, 
 
 While the men they agonized for hurled the contume- 
 lious stone. 
 
 Stood serene, and down the future saw the golden 
 beam incline 
 
 To the side of perfect justice, mastered by their faith 
 divine, 
 
 By one man's plain truth to manhood and to God's 
 supreme design. 60 
 
 By the light of burning heretics Christ's bleeding feet 
 I track. 
 
 Toiling up new Calvaries ever with the cross that turns 
 not back. 
 
 And these mounts of anguish number how each gen- 
 eration learned 
 
 One new word of that grand Credo which in prophet- 
 hearts hath burned 
 
 Since the first man stood God-conquered with his face 
 to heaven upturned. 65 
 
 For Humanity sweeps onward : where to-day the mar- 
 tyr stands. 
 
 On the morrow crouches Judas with the silver in his 
 hands ; 
 
 Far in front the cross stands ready and the crackling 
 fagots burn, 
 
 While the hooting mob of yesterday in silent awe 
 return 
 
 To glean up the scattered ashes into History's golden 
 urn. 70 
 
 'T is as easy to be heroes as to sit the idle slaves 
 
 Of a legendary virtue carved upon our fathers' graves, 
 
116 SEVENTH YEAR 
 
 Worshippers of light ancestral make the present light 
 
 a crime ; — 
 Was the Mayflower launched by cowards, steered by 
 
 men behind their time ? 
 Turn those tracks toward Past or Future, that make 
 
 Plymouth Rock sublime ? 75 
 
 They were men of present valor, stalwart old icono- 
 clasts. 
 
 Unconvinced by axe or gibbet that all virtue was the 
 Past's ; 
 
 But we make their truth our falsehood, thinking that 
 hath made us free, 
 
 Hoarding it in mouldy parchments, while our tender 
 spirits flee 
 
 The rude grasp of that great Impulse which drove 
 them across the sea. 80 
 
 They have rights who dare maintain them ; we are 
 
 traitors to our sires, 
 Smothering in their holy ashes Freedom's new-lit 
 
 altar-fires ; 
 Shall we make their creed our jailer ? Shall we, in 
 
 our haste to slay, # 
 
 From the tombs of the old prophets steal the funeral 
 
 lamps away 
 To light up the martyr-fagots round the prophets of 
 
 to-day ? 85 
 
 New occasions teach new duties ; Time makes ancient 
 
 good uncouth ; 
 They must upward still, and onward, who would keep 
 
 abreast of Truth ; 
 
SEVENTH YEAR 117 
 
 Lo, before us gleam her camp-fires ! we ourselves must 
 Pilgrims be, 
 
 Launch our Mayflower, and steer boldly through the 
 desperate winter sea. 
 
 Nor attempt the Future's portal with the Past's blood- 
 rusted key. , 90 
 
 THE HUSKERS 
 
 John Greenleaf Whittier 
 
 It was late in mild October, and the long autumnal 
 rain 
 
 Had left the summer harvest-fields all green with grass 
 again ; 
 
 The first sharp frosts had fallen, leaving all the wood- 
 lands gay 
 
 With the hues of summer's rainbow, or the meadow- 
 flowers of May. 
 
 Through a thin, dry mist, that morning, the sun rose 
 broad and red, 5 
 
 At first a rayless disk of fire, he brightened as he 
 sped ; 
 
 Yet, even his noontide glory fell chastened, and sub- 
 dued, 
 
 On the cornfields and the orchards, and softly pictured 
 wood. 
 
 And all that quiet afternoon, slow sloping to the 
 
 night. 
 Ho wove with golden shuttle the haze with yellow 
 
 light : 10 
 
 Slanting through the painted beeches, he glorified the 
 
 hill; 
 
118 SEVENTH YEAR 
 
 And, beneath it, pond and meadow lay brighter, 
 greener still. 
 
 And shouting boys in woodland haunts caught glimpses 
 
 of that sky. 
 Flecked by the many-tinted leaves, and laughed, they 
 
 knew not why ; 
 And school-girls, gay with aster-flowers, beside the 
 
 meadow brooks, 15 
 
 Mingled the glow of autumn with the sunshine of 
 
 sweet looks. 
 
 From spire and barn looked westerly the patient 
 
 weathercocks ; 
 But even the birches on the hill stood motionless as 
 
 rocks. 
 No sound was in the woodlands, save the squirel's 
 
 dropping shell. 
 And the yellow leaves among the boughs, low rustling 
 
 as they fell. 20 
 
 The summer grains were harvested ; the stubble-fields 
 
 lay dry. 
 Where June winds rolled, in light and shade, the pale 
 
 green waves of rye ; 
 But still, on gentle hill-slopes, in valleys fringed with 
 
 wood, 
 Ungathered, bleaching in the sun, the heavy corn crop 
 
 stood. 
 
 Bent low, by autumn's wind and rain, through husks 
 that, dry and sere, 25 
 
 Unfolded from their ripened charge, shone out the 
 yellow ear; 
 
SEVENTH YEAR 119 
 
 Beneath, the turnip lay concealed, in many a verdant 
 
 fold, 
 And glistened in the slanting light the pumpkin's 
 
 sphere of gold. 
 
 There wrought the busy harvesters ; and many a creak- 
 ing wain 
 
 Bore slowly to the long barn-floor its load of husk 
 and grain ; 30 
 
 Till broad and red, as when he rose, the sun sank 
 down, at last, 
 
 And like a merry guest's farewell, the day in bright- 
 ness passed. 
 
 And lo ! as through the western pines, on meadow, 
 
 stream, and pond, 
 Flamed the red radiance of a sky, set all afire beyond, 
 Slowly o'er the eastern sea-bluffs a milder glory 
 
 shone, 35 
 
 And the sunset and the moonrise were mingled into 
 
 one ! 
 
 As thus into the quiet night the twilight lapsed away, 
 
 And deeper in the brightening moon the tranquil 
 shadows lay ; 
 
 From many a brown old farm-house, and hamlet with- 
 out name. 
 
 Their milking and their home-tasks done, the merry 
 buskers came. 40 
 
 Swung o'er the heaped-up harvest, from pitchforks 
 
 in the mow. 
 Shone dimly down the lanterns on the pleasant scene 
 
 below ; 
 
120 SEVENTH YEAR 
 
 The growing pile of husks behind, the golden ears 
 
 before, 
 And laughing eyes and busy hands and brown cheeks 
 
 glimmering o'er. 
 
 Half hidden, in a quiet nook, serene of look and 
 heart, 45 
 
 Talking their old times over, the old men sat apart : 
 
 While up and down the unhusked pile, or nestling in 
 its shade. 
 
 At hide-and-seek, with laugh and shout, the happy 
 children played. 
 
 Urged by the good host's daughter, a maiden young 
 
 and fair, 
 Lifting to light her sweet blue eyes and pride of soft 
 
 brown hair, 50 
 
 The master of the village school, sleek of hair and 
 
 smooth of tongue. 
 To the quaint tune of some old psalm, a husking- 
 
 ballad sung. 
 
 ODE RECITED AT THE HARVARD 
 COMMEMORATION 
 
 July 21, 1865 
 
 James Russell Lowell 
 
 I 
 
 VTeak-winged Is song, 
 Nor aims at that clear-ethered height 
 Whither the brave deed climbs for light : 
 
 We seem to do them wrong. 
 Bringing our robln's-leaf to deck their hearse 5 
 
 Who in warm life-blood wrote their nobler verse, 
 
SEVENTH YEAR 121 
 
 Our trivial song to honor those who come 
 
 With ears attuned to strenuous trump and drum, 
 
 And shaped in squadron-strophes their desire, 
 
 Live battle-odes whose lines were steel and fire : 10 
 
 Yet sometimes feathered words are strong, 
 A gracious memory to buoy up and save 
 From Lethe's dreamless ooze, the common grave 
 
 Of the unventurous throng. 
 
 II 
 
 To-day our Reverend Mother welcomes back 15 
 
 Her wisest Scholars, those who understood 
 The deeper teaching of her mystic tome. 
 
 And offered their fresh lives to make it good : 
 No lore of Greece or Rome, 
 No science peddling with the names of things, 20 
 
 Or reading stars to find inglorious fates. 
 
 Can lift our life with wings 
 Far from Death's idle gulf that for the many waits, 
 
 And lengthen out our dates 
 With that clear fame whose memory sings 25 
 
 In manly hearts to come, and nerves them and dilates : 
 Nor such thy teaching. Mother of us all ! 
 Not such the trumpet-call 
 Of thy diviner mood. 
 
 That could thy sons entice 30 
 
 From happy homes and toils, the fruitful nest 
 Of those half-virtues which the world calls best, 
 Into War's tumult rude ; 
 But rather far that stern device 
 The sponsors chose that round thy cradle stood 35 
 In the dim, unventured wood, 
 The Veritas that lurks beneath 
 The letter's unprolific sheath. 
 
122 SEVENTH YEAR 
 
 Life of whate'er makes life worth living, 
 Seed-grain of high emprise, immortal food, 40 
 
 One heavenly thing whereof earth hath the giving. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Many loved Truth, and lavished life's best oil 
 
 Amid the dust of books to find her. 
 Content at last, for guerdon of their toil. 
 
 With the cast mantle she hath left behind her. 45 
 
 Many in sad faith sought for her. 
 
 Many with crossed hands sighed for her ; 
 
 But these, our brothers, fought for her, 
 
 At life's dear peril wrought for her. 
 
 So loved her that they died for her, 50 
 
 Tasting the raptured fleetness 
 
 Of her divine completeness : 
 
 Their higher instinct knew 
 Those love her best who to themselves are true. 
 And what they dare to dream of, dare to do ; 55 
 
 They followed her and found her 
 
 Where all may hope to find, 
 Not in the ashes of the burnt-out mind. 
 But beautiful, with danger's sweetness round her, 
 
 Where faith made whole with deed 60 
 
 Breathes its awakening breath 
 
 Into the lifeless creed. 
 
 They saw her plumed and mailed. 
 
 With sweet, stern face unveiled, 
 And all-repaying eyes, look proud on them in death. 65 
 
 IV 
 
 Our slender life runs rippling by, and glides 
 Into the silent hollow of the past ; 
 What is there that abides 
 
SEVENTH YEAR 123 
 
 To make the next age better for the last ? 
 
 Is earth too poor to give us 70 
 
 Something to live for here that shall outlive us ? 
 Some more substantial boon 
 Than such as flows and ebbs with Fortune's fickle 
 moon ? 
 The little that we see 
 
 From doubt is never free ; 75 
 
 The little that we do 
 Is but half-nobly true ; 
 With our laborious hiving 
 What men call treasure, and the gods call dross, 
 Life seems a jest of Fate's contriving, 80 
 
 Only secure in every one's conniving, 
 A long account of nothings paid with loss. 
 Where we poor puppets, jerked by unseen wires, 
 
 After our little hour of strut and rave. 
 With all our pasteboard passions and desires, 85 
 
 Loves, hates, ambitions, and immortal fires. 
 Are tossed pell-mell together in the grave. 
 But stay ! no age was e'er degenerate. 
 Unless men held it at too cheap a rate, 
 For in our likeness still we shape our fate. 90 
 
 Ah, there is something here 
 Unfathomed by the cynic's sneer, 
 Something that gives our feeble light 
 A high immunity from Night, 
 
 Something that leaps life's narrow bars 95 
 
 To claim its birthright with the hosts of heaven ; 
 A seed of sunshine that can leaven 
 Our earthy dulness with the beams of stars. 
 
 And glorify our clay 
 With light from fountains elder than the Day ; 100 
 A conscience more divine than we. 
 
124 SEVENTH YEAR 
 
 A gladness fed with secret tears, 
 A vexing, forward-reaching sense 
 Of some more noble permanence ; 
 
 A light across the sea, 105 
 
 Which haunts the soul and will not let it be, 
 Still beaconing from the heights of undegenerate years. 
 
 Whither leads the path 
 To ampler fates that leads ? 
 Not down through flowery meads, 110 
 
 To reap an aftermath 
 Of youth's vainglorious weeds, 
 But up the steep, amid the wrath 
 And shock of deadly-hostile creeds, 
 Where the world's best hope and stay 115 
 
 By battle's flashes gropes a desperate way. 
 And every turf the fierce foot clings to bleeds. 
 Peace hath her not ignoble wreath. 
 Ere yet the sharp, decisive word 
 Light the black lips of cannon, and the sword 120 
 
 Dreams in its easeful sheath ; 
 But some day the live coal behind the thought. 
 Whether from Baal's stone obscene. 
 Or from the shrine serene 
 
 Of God's pure altar brought, 125 
 
 Bursts up in flame ; the war of tongue and pen 
 Learns with what deadly purpose it was fraught. 
 And, helpless in the fiery passion caught. 
 Shakes all the pillared state with shock of men : 
 Some day the soft Ideal that we wooed 130 
 
 Confronts us fiercely, foe beset, pursued. 
 And cries reproachful : " Was it, then, my praise. 
 And not myself was loved ? Prove now thy truth ; 
 
SEVENTH YEAR 125 
 
 I claim of thee the promise of thy youth ; 
 Give me thy life, or cower in empty phrase, 135 
 
 The victim of thy genius, not its mate ! " 
 Life may be given in many ways, 
 And loyalty to Truth be sealed 
 As bravely in the closet as the field, 
 
 So bountiful is Fate ; 140 
 
 But then to stand beside her. 
 
 When craven churls deride her. 
 To front a lie in arms and not to yield. 
 
 This shows, methinks, God's plan 
 
 And measure of a stalwart man, 145 
 
 Limbed like the old heroic breeds. 
 
 Who stands self-poised on manhood's solid 
 earth. 
 
 Not forced to frame excuses for his birth. 
 Fed from within with all the strength he needs. 
 
 VI 
 
 Such was he, our Martyr-Chief, 150 
 
 Whom late the Nation he had led, 
 
 With ashes on her head, 
 Wept with the passion of an angry grief : 
 Forgive me, if from present things I turn 
 To speak what in my heart will beat and burn, 155 
 And hang my wreath on his world-honored urn. 
 
 Nature, they say, doth dote, 
 
 And cannot make a man 
 
 Save on some worn-out plan, 
 
 Repeating us by rote : 160 
 
 For him her Old- World moulds aside she threw. 
 
 And, choosing sweet clay from the breast 
 
 Of the unexhausted West, 
 Witli stuff untainted shaped a hero new. 
 
126 SEVENTH YEAR 
 
 Wise, steadfast in the strength of God, and true. 165 
 How beautiful to see 
 
 Once more a shepherd of mankind indeed, 
 
 Who loved his charge, but never loved to lead ; 
 
 One whose meek flock the people joyed to be, 
 
 Not lured by any cheat of birth, 170 
 
 But by his clear-grained human worth. 
 
 And brave old wisdom of sincerity ! 
 
 They knew that outward grace is dust ; 
 They could not choose but trust 
 
 In that sure-footed mind's unfaltering skill, 175 
 
 And supple-tempered will 
 
 That bent like perfect steel to spring again and thrust. 
 His was no lonely mountain-peak of mind. 
 Thrusting to thin air o'er our cloudy bars, 
 A sea-mark now, now lost in vapors blind ; 180 
 Broad prairie rather, genial, level-lined. 
 Fruitful and friendly for all human kind, 
 
 Yet also nigh to heaven and loved of loftiest stars. 
 Nothing of Europe here, 
 
 Or, then, of Europe fronting mornward still, 185 
 
 Ere any names of Serf and Peer 
 Could Nature's equal scheme deface 
 And thwart her genial will ; 
 Here was a type of the true elder race, 
 
 And one of Plutarch's men talked with us face to 
 face. 190 
 
 I praise him not ; it were too late ; 
 
 And some innative weakness there must be 
 
 In him who condescends to victory 
 
 Such as the Present gives, and cannot wait, 
 
 Safe in himself as in a fate. 195 
 
 So always firmly he : 
 He knew to bide his time. 
 
SEVENTH YEAR 127 
 
 And can his fame abide, 
 Still patient in his simple faith sublime, 
 
 Till the wise years decide. 200 
 
 Great captains, with their guns and drums, 
 Disturb our judgment for the hour, 
 But at last silence comes ; 
 These all are gone, and, standing like a tower, 
 Our children shall behold his fame, 205 
 
 The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man, 
 Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, not blame. 
 New birth of our new soil, the first American. 
 
 VII 
 
 Long as man's hope insatiate can discern 
 
 Or only guess some more inspiring goal 210 
 
 Outside of Self, enduring as the pole. 
 
 Along whose course the flying axles burn 
 
 Of spirits bravely-pitched, earth's manlier brood; 
 
 Long as below we cannot find 
 The meed that stills the inexorable mind; 215 
 
 So long this faith to some ideal Good, 
 Under whatever mortal names it masks. 
 Freedom, Law, Country, this ethereal mood 
 
 That thanks the Fates for their severer tasks, . 
 
 Feeling its challenged pulses leap, 220 
 
 While others skulk in subterfuges cheap, 
 
 And, set in Danger's van, has all the boon it asks. 
 Shall win man's praise and woman's love, 
 Shall be a wisdom that we set above 
 
 All other skills and gifts to culture dear, 225 
 
 A virtue round whose forehead we inwreathe 
 Laurels that with a living passion breathe 
 
 When other crowns grow, while we twine them, sear. 
 What brings us thronging these high rites to pay, 
 
128 SEVENTH YEAR 
 
 And seal these hours the noblest of our year, 230 
 
 Save that our brothers found this better way ? 
 
 VIII 
 
 We sit here in the Promised Land 
 That flows with Freedom's honey and milk ; 
 But 't was they won it, sword in hand, 
 Making the nettle danger soft for us as silk. 235 
 
 We welcome back our bravest and our best ; — 
 Ah me ! not all ! some come not with the rest, 
 Who went forth brave and bright as any here ! 
 I strive to mix some gladness with my strain, 
 
 But the sad strings complain, 240 
 
 And will not please the ear : 
 I sweep them for a paean, but they wane 
 
 Again and yet again 
 Into a dirge, and die away, in pain. 
 In these brave ranks I only see the gaps, 245 
 
 Thinking of dear ones whom the dumb turf wraps. 
 Dark to the triumph which they died to gain : 
 Fitlier may others greet the living. 
 For me the past is unforgiving ; 
 
 I with uncovered head 250 
 
 Salute the sacred dead. 
 Who went, and who return not. — Say not so ! 
 'T is not the grapes of Canaan that repay. 
 But the high faith that failed not by the way ; 
 Virtue treads paths that end not in the grave ; 255 
 No ban of endless night exiles the brave ; 
 
 And to the saner mind 
 We rather seem the dead that stayed behind. 
 Blow, trumpets, all your exultations blow ! 
 For never shall their aureoled presence lack : 260 
 
 I see them muster in a gleaming row, 
 
SEVENTH YEAR 129 
 
 With ever-youthful brows that nobler show ; 
 We find in our dull road their shining track; 
 
 In every nobler mood 
 We feel the orient of their spirit glow, 265 
 
 Part of our life's unalterable good, 
 Of all our saintlier aspiration ; 
 
 They come transfigured back, 
 Secure from change in their high-hearted ways, 
 Beautiful evermore, and with the rays 270 
 
 Of morn on their white Shields of Expectation ! 
 
 IX 
 
 But is there hope to save 
 Even this ethereal essence from the grave ? 
 What ever 'scaped Oblivion's subtle wrong 
 Save a few clarion names, or golden threads of song? 275 
 Before my musing eye 
 The mighty ones of old sweep by, 
 Disvoiced now and insubstantial things. 
 As noisy ones as we; poor ghosts of kings. 
 Shadows of empire wholly gone to dust, 280 
 
 And many races, nameless long ago. 
 To darkness driven by that imperious gust 
 Of ever-rushing Time that here doth blow : 
 O visionary world, condition strange, 
 Where naught abiding is but only Change, 285 
 
 Where the deep-bolted stars themselves still shift and 
 range ! 
 Shall we to more continuance make pretence ? 
 Renown builds tombs ; a life-estate is Wit ; 
 
 And, bit by bit. 
 The cunning years steal all from us but woe ; 290 
 
 Leaves are we, whose decays no harvest sow. 
 But, when we vanish hence. 
 
130 SEVENTH YEAR 
 
 Shall they lie forceless in the dark below, 
 
 Save to make green their little length of sods, 
 
 Or deepen pansies for a year or two, 295 
 
 Who now to us are shining-sweet as gods ? 
 
 Was dying all they had the skill to do ? 
 
 That were not fruitless : but the Soul resents 
 
 Such short-lived service, as if blind events 
 
 Ruled without her, or earth could so endure ; 300 
 
 She claims a more divine investiture 
 
 Of longer tenure than Fame's airy rents ; 
 
 Whate'er she touches doth her nature share ; 
 
 Her inspiration haunts the ennobled air, 
 
 Gives eyes to mountains blind, 305 
 
 Ears to the deaf earth, voices to the wind, 
 And her clear trump sings succor everywhere 
 By lonely bivouacs to the wakeful mind ; 
 For soul inherits all that soul could dare ; 
 
 Yea, Manhood hath a wider span 310 
 
 And larger privilege of life than man. 
 The single deed, the private sacrifice. 
 So radiant now through proudly-hidden tears, 
 Is covered up erelong from mortal ej^es 
 With thoughtless drift of the deciduous years ; 315 
 But that high privilege that makes all men peers, 
 That leap of heart whereby a people rise 
 
 Up to a noble anger's height. 
 And, flamed on by the Fates, not shrink, but grow more 
 
 bright. 
 That swift validity in noble veins, 320 
 
 Of choosing danger and disdaining shame. 
 
 Of being set on flame 
 By the pure fire that flies all contact base, 
 But wraps its chosen with angelic might. 
 
 These are imperishable gains. 
 
SEVENTH YEAR 131 
 
 Sure as the sun, medicinal as light, 
 These hold great futures in their lusty reins 
 And certify to earth a new imperial race. 
 
 Who now shall sneer? 
 
 Who dare again to say we trace 330 
 
 Our lines to a plebeian race ? 
 Roundhead and Cavalier! 
 Dumb are those names erewhile in battle loud ; 
 Dream-footed as the shadow of a cloud, 
 
 They flit across the ear : 335 
 
 That is best blood that hath most iron in 't. 
 To edge resolve with, pouring without stint 
 
 For what makes manhood dear. 
 
 Tell us not of Plantagenets, 
 Hapsburgs, and Guelfs, whose thin bloods crawl 340 
 Down from some victor in a border-brawl ! 
 
 How poor their outworn coronets, 
 Matched with one leaf of that plain civic wreath 
 Our brave for honor's blazon shall bequeath, 
 
 Through whose desert a rescued Nation sets 345 
 Her heel on treason, and the trumpet hears 
 Shout victory, tingling Europe's sullen ears 
 With vain resentments and more vain regrets ! 
 
 XI 
 
 Not in anger, not in pride. 
 
 Pure from passion's mixture rude 350 
 
 Ever to base earth allied. 
 But with far-heard gratitude, 
 Still with heart and voice renewed. 
 To heroes living and dear martyrs dead. 
 The strain should close that consecrates our brave. 355 
 
132 SEVENTH YEAR 
 
 Lift the heart and lift the head ! 
 
 Lofty be its mood and grave, 
 
 Not without a martial ring, 
 
 Not without a prouder tread 
 
 And a peal of exultation : 360 
 
 Little right has he to sing 
 
 Through whose heart in such an hour 
 
 Beats no march of conscious power. 
 
 Sweeps no tumult of elation ! 
 
 'T is no Man we celebrate, 365 
 
 By his country's victories great, 
 A hero half, and half the whim of Fate, 
 
 But the pith and marrow of a Nation 
 
 Drawing force from all her men. 
 
 Highest, humblest, weakest, all, 370 
 
 For her time of need, and then 
 
 Pulsing it again through them. 
 Till the basest can no longer cower. 
 Feeling his soul spring up divinely tall. 
 Touched but in passing by her mantle-hem. 375 
 
 Come back, then, noble pride, for 't is her dower ! 
 
 How could poet ever tower, 
 
 If his passions, hopes, and fears, 
 
 If his triumphs and his tears. 
 
 Kept not measure with his people ? 380 
 
 Boom, cannon, boom to all the winds and waves ! 
 Clash out, glad bells, from every rocking steeple ! 
 Banners, adance with triumph, bend your staves ! 
 
 And from every mountain-peak 
 
 Let beacon-fire to answering beacon speak, 385 
 
 Katahdin tell Monadnock, Whiteface he, 
 And so leap on in light from sea to sea. 
 Till the glad news be sent 
 Across a kindling continent, 
 
SEVENTH YEAR 133 
 
 Making earth feel more firm and air breathe braver : 
 " Be proud ! for she is saved, and all have helped to 
 save her! 391 
 
 She that lifts up the manhood of the poor, 
 She of the open soul and open door, 
 With room about her hearth for all mankind ! 
 The fire is dreadful in her eyes no more ; 395 
 
 From her bold front the helm she doth unbind. 
 Sends all her handmaid armies back to spin. 
 And bids her navies, that so lately hurled 
 Their crashing battle, hold their thunders in. 
 Swimming like birds of calm along the unharm- 
 ful shore, 400 
 
 No challenge sends she to the elder world, 
 That looked askance and hated ; a light scorn 
 Plays o'er her mouth, as round her mighty knees 
 She calls her children back, and waits the morn 
 Of nobler day, enthroned between her subject seas." 405 
 
 XII 
 
 Bow down, dear Land, for thou hast found release ! 
 Thy God, in these distempered days. 
 Hath taught thee the sure wisdom of His ways. 
 And through thine enemies hath wrought thy peace ! 
 
 Bow down in prayer and praise ! 410 
 
 No poorest in thy borders but may now 
 Lift to the juster skies a man's enfranchised brow. 
 O Beautiful ! my Country ! ours once more ! 
 Smoothing thy gold of war-dishevelled hair 
 O'er such sweet brows as never other wore, 415 
 
 And letting thy set lips. 
 
 Freed from wrath's pale eclipse. 
 The rosy edges of their smile lay bare, 
 What words divine of lover or of poet 
 
134 SEVENTH YEAR 
 
 Could tell our love and make thee know it, 420 
 Among the Nations bright beyond compare ? 
 
 What were our lives without thee ? 
 
 What all our lives to save thee ? 
 
 We reek not what we gave thee ; 
 
 We will not dare to doubt thee, 425 
 
 But ask whatever else, and we will dare ! 
 
 THOSE EVENING BELLS 
 
 Thomas Moore 
 
 Those evening bells ! those evening bells ! 
 How many a tale their music tells, 
 Of youth, and home, and that sweet time 
 When last I heard their soothing chime ! 
 
 Those joyous hours are passed away ; 5 
 
 And many a heart, that then was gay, 
 Within the tomb now darkly dwells, 
 And hears no more those evening bells. 
 
 And so 't will be when I am gone ; 
 That tuneful peal will still ring on, 10 
 
 While other bards shall walk these dells, 
 And sing your praise, sweet evening bells! 
 
 THE OAK 
 
 James Russell Lowell 
 
 What gnarled stretch, what depth of shade, is his ! 
 
 There needs no crown to mark the forest's king; 
 How in his leaves outshines full summer's bliss ! 
 
 Sun, storm, rain, dew, to him their tribute bring. 
 Which he with such benignant royalty 5 
 
 Accepts, as overpayeth what is lent ; 
 
SEVENTH YEAR 135 
 
 All nature seems his vassal proud to be, 
 And cunning only for his ornament. 
 
 How towers he, too, amid the billowed snows. 
 
 An unquelled exile from the summer's throne, 10 
 Whose plain, uncinctured front more kingly shows, 
 
 Now that the obscuring courtier leaves are flown. 
 His boughs make music of the winter air, 
 
 Jewelled with sleet, like some cathedral front 
 Where clinging snow-flakes with quaint art repair 15 
 
 The dints and furrows of time's envious brunt. 
 
 How doth his patient strength the rude March wind 
 
 Persuade to seem glad breaths of summer breeze. 
 And win the soil that fain would be unkind. 
 
 To swell his revenues with proud increase ! '20 
 
 He is the gem ; and all the landscape wide 
 
 (So doth his grandeur isolate the sense) 
 Seems but the setting, worthless all beside, 
 
 An empty socket, were he fallen thence. 
 
 So, from oft converse with life's wintry gales, 25 
 
 Should man learn how to clasp with tougher roots 
 The inspiring earth ; how otherwise avails 
 
 The leaf -creating sap that sunward shoots ? 
 So every year that falls with noiseless flake 
 
 Should fill old scars up on the stormward side, 30 
 And make hoar age revered for age's sake. 
 
 Not for traditions of youth's leafy pride. 
 
 So, from the pinched soil of a churlish fate. 
 True hearts compel the sap of sturdier growth. 
 
 So between earth and heaven stand simply great, 35 
 That these shall seem but their attendants both ; 
 
136 SEVENTH YEAR 
 
 For nature's forces with obedient zeal 
 
 Wait on the rooted faith and oaken will ; 
 
 As quickly the pretender's cheat they feel, 
 
 And turn mad Pucks to flout and mock him still. 
 
 Lord ! all Thy works are lessons ; each contains 41 
 
 Some emblem of man's all-containing soul ; 
 Shall he make fruitless all Thy glorious pains, 
 
 Delving within Thy grace an eyeless mole ? 
 Make me the least of thy Dodona-grove, 45 
 
 Cause me some message of thy truth to bring, 
 Speak but a word through me, nor let thy love 
 
 Among my boughs disdain to perch and sing. 
 
 TO THE DANDELION 
 
 James Russell Lowell 
 
 Dear common flower, that grow'st beside the way, 
 Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold, 
 
 First pledge of blithesome May, 
 Which children pluck, and, full of pride uphold, 
 
 High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoyed that they 5 
 
 An Eldorado in the grass have found. 
 
 Which not the rich earth's ample round 
 May match in wealth, thou art more dear to me 
 Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be. 
 
 Gold such as thine ne'er drew the Spanish prow 10 
 Through the primeval hush of Indian seas, 
 
 Nor wrinkled the lean brow 
 Of age, to rob the lover's heart of ease ; 
 
 40. See Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night\s Dream. 
 45. A grove of oaks at Dodona, in ancient Greece, was the 
 seat of a famous oracle. 
 
SEVENTH YEAR 137 
 
 'T is the Spring's largess, which she scatters now 
 To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand, 15 
 
 Though most hearts never understand 
 To take it at God's value, but pass by 
 The offered wealth with unrewarded eye. 
 
 Thou art my tropics and mine Italy ; 
 To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime ; 20 
 
 The eyes thou givest me 
 Are in the heart, and heed not space or time: 
 
 Not in mid June the golden-cuirassed bee 
 Feels a more summer-like warm ravishment 
 
 In the white lily's breezy tent, 25 
 
 His fragrant Sybaris, than I, when first 
 From the dark green thy yellow circles burst. 
 
 Then think I of deep shadows on the grass. 
 Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze. 
 
 Where, as the breezes pass, 30 
 
 The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways, 
 Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass, 
 Or whiten in the wind, of waters blue 
 
 That from the distance sparkle through 
 Some woodland gap, and of a sky above, 35 
 
 Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move. 
 
 My childhood's earliest thoughts are linked with 
 thee ; 
 The sight of thee calls back the robin's song, 
 
 Who, from the dark old tree 
 Beside the door, sang clearly all day long, 40 
 
 And I, secure in childish piety. 
 Listened as if I heard an angel sing 
 
 With news from heaven, which he could bring 
 
138 SEVENTH YEAR 
 
 Fresh every day to my untainted ears 
 
 When birds and flowers and I were happy peers. 46 
 
 How like a prodigal doth nature seem, 
 When thou, for all thy gold, so common art ! 
 
 Thou teachest me to deem 
 More sacredly of every human heart, 
 
 Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam 50 
 
 Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show. 
 Did we but pay the love we owe, 
 And with a child's un doubting wisdom look 
 On all these living pages of God's book. 
 
 TO WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON 
 
 James Russell Lowell 
 
 " Some time afterward, it was reported to me by the city officers 
 that they had ferreted out the paper and its editor ; that his office was 
 an obscure hole, his only visible auxiliary a negro boy, and his sup- 
 porters a few very insignificant persons of all colors.' ' — Letter ofH. G, 
 Otis. 
 
 In a small chamber, friendless and unseen, 
 
 Toiled o'er his types one poor, unlearned young man ; 
 
 The place was dark, unf urnitured, and mean ; 
 Yet there the freedom of a race beg^. 
 
 Help came but slowly ; surely no man yet 6 
 
 Put lever to the heavy world with less : 
 
 What need of help? He knew how types were set, 
 He had a dauntless spirit, and a press. 
 
 Such earnest natures are the fiery pith, 
 
 The compact nucleus, round which systems grow ; 10 
 Mass after mass becomes inspired therewith. 
 
 And whirls impregnate with the central glow. 
 
SEVENTH YEAR 139 
 
 O Truth! O Freedom! how are ye still born 
 In the rude stable, in the manger nurst I 
 
 What humble hands unbar those gates of morn 15 
 Through which the splendors of the New Day burst ! 
 
 What ! shall one monk, scarce known beyond his cell, 
 Front Rome's far-reaching bolts, and scorn her 
 frown ? 
 
 Brave Luther answered Yes ; that thunder's swell 19 
 Rocked Europe, and discharmed the triple crown. 
 
 Whatever can be known of earth we know, 
 
 Sneered Europe's wise men, in their snail-shells 
 curled ; 
 
 No ! said one man in Genoa, and that No 
 
 Out of the darkness summoned this New World. 
 
 Who is it will not dare himself to trust? 25 
 
 Who is it hath not strength to stand alone ? 
 
 Who is it thwarts and bilks the inward MUST ? 
 
 He and his works, like sand, from earth are blown. 
 
 Men of a thousand shifts and wiles, look here ! 
 
 See one straightforward conscience put in pawn 30 
 To win a world ; see the obedient sphere 
 
 By bravery's simple gravitation drawn ! 
 
 Shall we not heed the lesson taught of old, 
 And by the Present's lips repeated still. 
 
 In our own single manhood to be bold, 35 
 
 Fortressed in conscience and impregnable will? 
 
 We stride the river daily at its spring. 
 
 Nor, in our childish thoughtlessness, foresee, 
 
140 SEVENTH YEAR 
 
 What myriad vassal streams shall tribute bring, 
 How like an equal it shall greet the sea. 4) 
 
 O small beginnings, ye are great and strong, 
 Based on a faithful heart and weariless brain ! 
 
 Ye build the future fair, ye conquer wrong, 
 Ye earn the crow^n, and wear it not in vain. 
 
EIGHTH YEAR 
 
 RECESSIONAL 1 
 
 A VICTORIAN ODE 
 
 RuDYARD Kipling 
 
 God of our fathers, known of old — 
 Lord of our far-flung battle line — 
 
 Beneath whose awful hand we hold 
 Dominion over palm and pine — 
 
 Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, 5 
 
 Lest we forget — lest we forget ! 
 
 The tumult and the shouting dies — 
 The Captains and the Kings depart — 
 
 Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice. 
 
 An humble and a contrite heart. 10 
 
 Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, 
 
 Lest we forget — lest we forget ! 
 
 Far-called our navies melt away — 
 
 On dune and headland sinks the fire — 
 
 Lo, all our pomp of yesterday ' 15 
 
 Is one with Nineveh and Tyre ! 
 
 Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, 
 
 Lest we forget — lest we forget ! 
 
 If, drunk with sight of power, we loose 
 
 Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe — 20 
 
 ^ From T'he Collected Verse of Rudyard Kipling, published by 
 Doubleday, Page & Co. 
 
142 EIGHTH YEAR 
 
 Such boastings as the Gentiles use, 
 
 Or lesser breeds without the Law — 
 Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, 
 Lest we forget — lest we forget ! 
 
 For heathen heart that puts her trust 35 
 
 In reeking tube and iron shard — 
 
 All valiant dust that builds on dust, 
 And guarding calls not Thee to guard. 
 
 For frantic boast and foolish word, 
 
 Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord ! 30 
 
 Amen. 
 
 ABRAHAM DAVENPORT 
 
 John Greenleaf Whittibr 
 
 The famou* Dark Day of New England, May 19, 1780, was a physi- 
 cal puzzle for many years to our ancestors, but its occurrence brought 
 something- more than philosophical speculation into the minds of those 
 who passed through it. The incident of Colonel Abraham Davenport's 
 sturdy protest is a matter of history. 
 
 In the old days (a custom laid aside 
 
 With breeches and cocked hats) the people sent 
 
 Their wisest men to make the public laws. 
 
 And so, from a brown homestead, where the Sound 
 
 Drinks the small tribute of the Mianas, 5 
 
 Waved over by the woods of Rippowams, 
 
 And hallowed by pure lives and tranquil deaths, 
 
 Stamford sent up to the councils of the State 
 
 Wisdom and grace in Abraham Davenport. 
 
 'T was on a Ma,y-day of the far old year 10 
 
 Seventeen hundred eighty, that there fell 
 Over the bloom and sweet life of the Spring, 
 Over the fresh earth and the heaven of noon, 
 
EIGHTH YEAR 143 
 
 A horror of great darkness, like the night 
 In day of which the Norland sagas tell, — 15 
 
 The Twilight of the Gods. The low-hung sky- 
 Was black with ominous cl®uds, save where its rim 
 Was fringed with a dull glow, like that which climbs 
 The crater's sides from the red hell below, 
 Birds ceased to sing, and all the barn-yard fowls 20 
 Roosted; the cattle at the pasture bars 
 Lowed, and looked homeward ; bats on leathern 
 
 wings 
 Flitted abroad ; the sounds of labor died ; 
 Men prayed, and women wept ; all ears grew sharp 
 To hear the doom-blast of the trumpet shatter 25 
 The black sky, that the dreadful face of Christ 
 Might look from the rent clouds, not as he looked 
 A loving guest at Bethany, but stern 
 As Justice and inexorable Law. 
 
 Meanwhile in the old State House, dim as 
 ghosts, 30 
 
 Sat the lawgivers of Connecticut, 
 Trembling beneath their legislative robes. 
 " It is the Lord's Great Day ! Let us adjourn," 
 Some said ; and then, as if with one accord. 
 All eyes were turned to Abraham Davenport. 35 
 He rose, slow cleaving with his steady voice 
 The intolerable hush. " This well may be 
 The Day of Judgment which the world awaits ; 
 But be it so or not, I only know 
 My present duty, and my Lord's command 40 
 
 To occupy till He come. So at the post 
 Where He hath set me in His Providence, 
 I choose, for one, to meet Him face to face, — 
 No faithless servant frightened from my task, 
 
144 EIGHTH YEAR 
 
 But ready when the Lord of the harvest calls ; 45 
 And therefore, with all reverence, I would say, 
 Let God do His work, we will see to ours, 
 Bring in the candles." And they brought them in. 
 
 Then by the flaring lights the Speaker read. 
 Albeit with husky voice and shaking hands, 50 
 
 An act to amend an act to regulate 
 The shad and alewive fisheries. Whereupon 
 Wisely and well spake Abraham Davenport, 
 Straight to the question, with no figures of speech 
 Save the ten Arab signs, yet not without 55 
 
 The shrewd dry humor natural to the man : 
 His awestruck colleagues listening all the while, 
 Between the pauses of his argument, 
 To hear the thunder of the wrath of God 
 Break from the hollow trumpet of the cloud. 60 
 
 And there he stands in memory to this day, 
 Erect, self-poised, a rugged face, half seen 
 Against the background of unnatural dark, 
 A witness to the ages as they pass, 
 That simple duty hath no place for fear. 65 
 
 THE AMERICAN FLAG 
 
 Joseph Rodman Drake 
 
 When Freedom from her mountain height 
 Unfurled her standard to the air, 
 
 She tore the azure robe of night. 
 And set the stars of glory there. 
 
 She mingled with its gorgeous dyes 
 
 The milky baldric of the skies. 
 
 And striped its pure celestial white 
 
EIGHTH YEAR 146 
 
 With streaklngs of the morning light ; 
 
 Then from his mansion in the sun 
 
 She called her eagle bearer down, 10 
 
 And gave into his mighty hand 
 
 The symbol of her chosen land. 
 
 Majestic monarch of the cloud, 
 
 Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, 
 To hear the tempest trumpings loud 15 
 
 And see the lightning lances driven. 
 
 When strive the warriors of the storm. 
 And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven. 
 Child of the sun I to thee 't is given 
 
 To guard the banner of the free, 20 
 
 To hover in the sulphur smoke, 
 To ward away the battle stroke. 
 And bid its blendings shine afar. 
 Like rainbows on the cloud of war. 
 
 The harbingers of victory ! 25 
 
 Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly, 
 
 The sign of hope and triumph high. 
 
 When speaks the signal trumpet tone. 
 
 And the long line comes gleaming on. 
 
 Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, 30 
 
 Has dimmed the glistening bayonet. 
 
 Each soldier eye shall brightly turn 
 
 To where thy sky-born glories burn. 
 
 And, as his springing steps advance. 
 
 Catch war and vengeance from the glance. 35 
 
 And when the cannon-mouthings loud 
 
 Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud. 
 
 And gory sabres rise and fall 
 
 Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall. 
 
146 EIGHTH YEAR 
 
 Then shall thy meteor glances glow, 40 
 
 And cowering foes shall shrink beneath 
 
 Each gallant arm that strikes below 
 That lovely messenger of death. 
 
 Flag of the seas ! on ocean wave 
 
 Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave ; 45 
 
 When death, careering on the gale, 
 
 Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail. 
 
 And frighted waves rush wildly back, 
 
 Before the broadside's reeling rack. 
 
 Each dying wanderer of the sea 50 
 
 Shall look at once to heaven and thee, 
 
 And smile to see thy splendors fly 
 
 In triumph o'er his closing eye. 
 
 Flag of the free heart's hope and home ! 
 
 By angel hands to valor given ; 55 
 
 Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, 
 
 And all thy hues were born in heaven. 
 Forever float that standard sheet ! 
 
 Where breathes* the foe but falls before us. 
 With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, 60 
 
 And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us? 
 
 FOR AN AUTUMN FESTIVAL 
 John Gkeenleaf Whittier 
 
 The Persian's flowery gifts, the shrine 
 Of fruitful Ceres charm no more ; 
 
 The woven wreaths of oak and pine 
 Are dust along the Isthmian shore. 
 
 But beauty hath its homage still, 5 
 
 And nature holds us still in debt ; 
 
EIGHTH YEAR 147 
 
 And woman's grace and household skill, 
 And manhood's toil are honored yet. 
 
 And we, to-day, amidst our flowers 
 
 And fruits, have come to own again 10 
 
 The blessings of the summer hours, 
 
 The early and the latter rain ; 
 
 To see our Father's hand once more 
 
 Reverse for us the plenteous horn 
 Of autumn, filled and running o'er 15 
 
 With fruit, and flower, and golden corn I 
 
 Once more the liberal year laughs out 
 O'er richer stores than gems or gold ; 
 
 Once more with harvest-song and shout 
 
 Is Nature's bloodless triumph told. 20 
 
 Our common mother rests and sings. 
 
 Like Ruth, among her garnered sheaves ; 
 
 Her lap is full of goodly things, 
 
 Her brow is bright with autumn leaves. 
 
 Oh, favors every year made new ! 25 
 
 Oh, gifts with rain and sunshine sent ! 
 
 The bounty overruns our due. 
 
 The fulness shames our discontent. 
 
 We shut our eyes, the flowers bloom on ; 
 
 We murmur, but the corn -ears fill, 30 
 
 We choose the shadow, but the sun 
 
 That casts it shines behind us still. 
 
 God gives us with our rugged soil 
 
 The power to make it Eden-fair, 
 And richer fruits to crown our toil 35 
 
 Than summer-wedded islands bear. 
 
148 EIGHTH YEAR 
 
 Who murmurs at his lot to-day? 
 
 Who scorns his native fruit and bloom ? 
 Or sighs for dainties far away, 
 
 Beside the bounteous board of home ? 40 
 
 Thank Heaven, instead, that Freedom's arm 
 Can change a rocky soil to gold, — 
 
 That brave and generous lives can warm 
 A clime with northern ices cold. 
 
 And let these altars, wreathed with flowers 45 
 And piled with fruits, awake again 
 
 Thanksgivings for the golden hours, 
 The early and the latter rain ! 
 
 THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS 
 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes 
 
 ** We need not trouble ourselves abont the distinction between this 
 [the Pearly Nautilus] and the Paper Nautilus, the Arg-onauta of the 
 ancients. The name applied to both shows that each has long- been 
 compared to a ship, as you may see more fully in Webster's Dictionary 
 or the Encyclopaedia, to which he refers. If you will look into Roget's 
 3ridgewater Treatise, you will find a figure of one of these shells, and 
 a section of it. The last will show you the series of enlarging com- 
 partments successively dwelt in by the animal that inhabits the shell, 
 which is built in a widening spiral. . . . 
 
 **I have now and then found a naturalist who still worried over the 
 distinction between the Pearly Nautilus and the Paper Nautilus, or 
 Argonauta. As the stories about both are mere fables, attaching to 
 the Physalia, or Portuguese man-of-war, as well as to these two mol- 
 lusks, it seems over-nice to quarrel with the poetical handling of a 
 fiction sufficiently justified by the name commonly applied to the ship 
 of pearl as well as the ship of paper." — The Autocrat of the Break' 
 fast-Table. 
 
 This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, 
 Sails the unshadowed main, — 
 The venturous bark that flings 
 
EIGHTH YEAR 149 
 
 On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings 
 
 In gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings, 5 
 
 And coral reefs lie bare, 
 Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming 
 hair. 
 
 Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl ; 
 
 Wrecked is the ship of pearl ; 
 
 And every chambered cell, 10 
 
 Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, 
 As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, 
 
 Before thee lies revealed, — 
 Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed ! 
 
 Year after year beheld the silent toil 15 
 
 That spread his lustrous coil ; 
 
 Still, as the spiral grew. 
 He left the past year's dwelling for the new, 
 Stole with soft step its shining archway through, 
 
 Built up its idle door, 20 
 
 Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no 
 more. 
 
 Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, 
 
 Child of the wandering sea, 
 
 Cast from her lap, forlorn ! 
 From thy dead lips a clearer note is born 25 
 
 Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn ! 
 
 While on mine ear it rings, 
 Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that 
 sings : — 
 
 Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul. 
 
 As the swift seasons roll ! 30 
 
150 EIGHTH YEAR 
 
 Leave thy low-vaulted past ! 
 Let each new temple, nobler than the last, 
 Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, 
 
 Till thou at length art free, 
 Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea! 35 
 
 THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR 
 
 Alfred, Lord Tennyson 
 
 Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, 
 
 And the winter winds are wearily sighing; 
 
 Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow. 
 
 And tread softly and speak low. 
 
 For the old year lies a-dying. 5 
 
 Old year, you must not die; \ 
 
 You came to us so readily. 
 
 You lived with us so steadily, 
 
 Old year, you shall not die. 
 
 He lieth still, he doth not move ; 10 
 
 He will not see the dawn of day. 
 
 He hath no other life above. 
 
 He gave me a friend, and a true true-love, 
 
 And the New-year will take 'em away. 
 
 Old year, you must not go ; 15 
 
 So long as you have been with us. 
 Such joy as you have seen with us. 
 Old year, you shall not go. 
 
 He f roth'd his bumpers to the brim; 
 
 A jollier year we shall not see. 20 
 
 But tho' his eyes are waxing dim. 
 
 And tho' his foes speak ill of him, 
 
 He was a friend to me. 
 
EIGHTH YEAR 151 
 
 Old year, you shall not die ; 
 
 We did so laugh and cry with you, 25 
 
 I 've half a mind to die with you, 
 
 Old year, if you must die. 
 
 He was full of joke and jest. 
 
 But all his merry quips are o'er. 
 
 To see him die, across the waste 30 
 
 His son and heir doth ride post-haste. 
 
 But he '11 be dead before. 
 
 Every one for his own. 
 
 The night is starry and cold, my friend, 
 
 And the New-year blithe and bold, my friend, 35 
 
 Comes up to take his own. 
 
 How hard he breathes ! over the snow 
 
 I heard just now the crowing cock. 
 
 The shadows flicker to and fro ; 
 
 The cricket chirps ; the light burns low ; 40 
 
 'T is nearly twelve o'clock. 
 
 Shake hands, before you die. 
 
 Old year, we '11 dearly rue for you. 
 
 What is it we can do for you? 
 
 Speak out before you die. 45 
 
 His face is growing sharp and thin. 
 
 Alack ! our friend is gone. 
 
 Close up his eyes; tie up his chin ; 
 
 Step from the corpse, and let him in 
 
 That standeth there alone, 50 
 
 And waiteth at the door. 
 
 There 's a new foot on the floor, my friend. 
 
 And a new face at the door, my friend, 
 
 A new face at the door. 
 
152 EIGHTH YEAR 
 
 FLOWER IN THE CRANNIED WALL 
 
 Alfred, Lord Tennyson 
 
 Flower in the crannied wall, 
 
 I pluck you out of the crannies, 
 
 I hold you here, root and all, in my hand, 
 
 Little flower — but if I could understand 
 
 What you are, root and all, and all in all, 5 
 
 I should know what God and man is. 
 
 THE NEW YEAR 
 
 ADDRESSED TO THE PATRONS OF THE PENNSYLVANIA 
 
 FREEMAN 
 
 John Greenleaf Whittier 
 
 The wave is breaking on the shore, 
 The echo fading from the chime; 
 
 Again the shadow moveth o'er 
 The dial-plate of time ! 
 
 O seer-seen Angel ! waiting now, 5 
 
 With weary feet on sea and shore, 
 
 Impatient for the last dread vow 
 That time shall be no more ! 
 
 Once more across thy sleepless eye 
 
 The semblance of a smile has passed: 10 
 
 The year departing leaves more nigh 
 Time's fearfullest and last. 
 
 Oh, in that dying year hath been 
 The sum of all since time began ; 
 
 The birth and death, the joy and pain, 15 
 
 Of Nature and of Man. 
 
EIGHTH YEAR . 153 
 
 Spring*, with her change of sun and shower, 
 And streams released from Winter's chain, 
 
 And bursting bud, and opening flower, 
 
 And greenly growing grain ; 20 
 
 And Summer's shade, and sunshine warm. 
 And rainbows o'er her hill-tops bowed, 
 
 And voices in her rising storm ; 
 God speaking from his cloud ! 
 
 And Autumn's fruits and clustering sheaves, 25 
 And soft, warm days of golden light. 
 
 The glory of her forest leaves, 
 And harvest-moon at night ; 
 
 And Winter with her leafless grove. 
 
 And prisoned stream, and drifting snow, 30 
 
 The brilliance of her heaven above 
 
 And of her earth below : 
 
 And man, in whom an angel's mind 
 With earth's low instincts finds abode, 
 
 The highest of the links which bind 35 
 
 Brute nature to her God ; 
 
 His infant eye hath seen the light. 
 
 His childhood's merriest laughter rung, 
 
 And active sports to manlier might 
 
 The nerves of boyhood strung ! 40 
 
 And quiet love, and passion's fires, 
 
 Have soothed or burned in manhood's breast. 
 And lofty aims and low desires 
 
 By turns disturbed his rest. 
 
154 EIGHTH YEA.R 
 
 The wailing of the newly-born 45 
 
 Has mingled with the funeral knell ; 
 
 And o'er the dying's ear has gone 
 The merry marriage-bell. 
 
 And Wealth has filled his halls with mirth, 
 While Want, in many a humble shed, 50 
 
 Toiled, shivering by her cheerless hearth, 
 The live-long night for bread. 
 
 And worse than all, the human slave, 
 The sport of lust, and pride, and scorn ! 
 
 Plucked off the crown his Maker gave, 55 
 
 His regal manhood gone ! 
 
 Oh, still, my country ! o'er thy plains. 
 Blackened with slavery's blight and b^n, 
 
 That human chattel drags his chains. 
 
 An uncreated man ! 60 
 
 And still, where'er to sun and breeze. 
 
 My country, is thy flag unrolled. 
 With scorn, the gazing stranger sees 
 
 A stain on every fold. 
 
 Oh, tear the gorgeous emblem down ! 65 
 
 It gathers scorn from every eye. 
 And despots smile and good men frown 
 
 Whene'er it passes by. 
 
 Shame! shame! its starry splendors glow 
 
 Above the slaver's loathsome jail ; 70 
 
 Its folds are ruffling even now 
 His crimson flag of sale. 
 
EIGHTH YEAR 155 
 
 Still round our country's proudest hall 
 The trade in human flesh is driven. 
 
 And at each careless hammer-fall 75 
 
 A human heart is riven. 
 
 And this, too, sanctioned by the men 
 Vested with power to shield the right, 
 
 And throw each vile and robber den 
 
 Wide open to the light. 80 
 
 Yet, shame upon them ! there they sit, 
 Men of the North, subdued and still ; 
 
 Meek, pliant poltroons, only fit 
 To work a master's will. 
 
 Sold, bargained off for Southern votes, 85 
 
 A passive herd of Northern mules. 
 
 Just braying through their purchased throats 
 Whate'er their owner rules. 
 
 And he, the basest of the base. 
 
 The vilest of the vile, whose name, 90 
 
 Embalmed in infinite disgrace. 
 
 Is deathless in its shame ! 
 
 A tool, to bolt the people's door 
 
 Against the people clamoring there, 
 
 An ass, to trample on their floor 95 
 
 A people's right of prayer ! 
 
 Nailed to his self-made gibbet fast. 
 
 Self -pilloried to the public view, 
 A mark for every passing blast 
 
 Of scorn to whistle through ; 100 
 
156 EIGHTH YEAR 
 
 There let him hang, and hear the boast 
 Of Southrons o'er their pliant tool, — 
 
 A new Stylites on his post, 
 '' Sacred to ridicule ! " 
 
 Look we at home ! our noble hall, 105 
 
 To Freedom's holy purpose given, 
 
 Now rears its black and ruined wall 
 Beneath the wintry heaven, 
 
 Telling the story of its doom, 
 
 The fiendish mob, the prostrate law, 110 
 
 The fiery jet through midnight's gloom, 
 
 Our gazing thousands saw. 
 
 Look to our State ! the poor man's right 
 Torn from him : and the sons of those 
 
 Whose blood in Freedom's sternest fight 115 
 
 Sprinkled the Jersey's snows, 
 
 Outlawed within the land of Penn, 
 
 That Slavery's guilty fears might cease. 
 
 And those whom God created men 
 
 Toil on as brutes in peace. 120 
 
 Yet o'er the blackness of the storm 
 
 A bow of promise bends on high. 
 And gleams of sunshine, soft and warm, 
 
 Break through our clouded sky. 
 
 East, West, and North, the shout is heard, 125 
 
 Of freemen rising for the right : 
 Each valley hath its rallying word. 
 
 Each hill its signal light. 
 
EIGHTH YEAR 157 
 
 O'er Massachusetts' rocks of gray 
 
 The strengthening light of freedom shines, 130 
 Rhode Island's Narragansett Bay, 
 
 And Vermont's snow-hung pines ! 
 
 From Hudson's frowning palisades 
 
 To Alleghany's laurelled crest, 
 O'er lakes and prairies, streams and glades, 135 
 
 It shines upon the West. 
 
 Speed on the light to those who dwell 
 
 In Slavery's land of woe and sin. 
 And through the blackness of that Hell 
 
 Let Heaven's own light break in. 140 
 
 So shall the Southern conscience quake 
 Before that light poured full and strong, 
 
 So shall the Southern heart awake 
 To all the bondman's wrong. 
 
 And from that rich and sunny land 145 
 
 The song of grateful millions rise, 
 Like that of Israel's ransomed band 
 
 Beneath Arabia's skies : 
 
 And all who now are bound beneath. 
 
 Our banner's shade, our eagle's wing, 150 
 
 From Slavery's night of moral death 
 To light and life shall spring. 
 
 Broken the bondman's chain, and gone 
 The master's guilt, and hate, and fear, 
 
 And unto both alike shall dawn 155 
 
 A New and Happy Year. 
 
158 EIGHTH YEAR 
 
 THE FROST SPIRIT 
 John Greenleaf Whittier 
 
 He comes, — he comes, — the Frost Spirit comes! You 
 
 may trace his footsteps now 
 On the naked woods and the blasted fields and the 
 
 brown hill's withered brow. 
 He has smitten the leaves of the gray old trees where 
 
 their pleasant green came forth, 
 And the winds, which follow wherever he goes, have 
 
 shaken them down to earth. 
 
 He comes, — he comes, — the Frost Spirit comes! from 
 
 the frozen Labrador, 5 
 
 From the icy bridge of the Northern seas, which the 
 
 white bear wanders o'er. 
 Where the fisherman's sail is stiff with ice, and the 
 
 luckless forms below 
 In the sunless cold of the lingering night into marble 
 
 statues grow ! 
 
 He comes, — he comes, — the Frost Spirit comes ! on 
 the rushing Northern blast. 
 
 And the dark Norwegian pines have bowed as his fear- 
 ful breath went past. 10 
 
 With an un scorched wing he has hurried on, where the 
 fires of Hecla glow 
 
 On the darkly beautiful sky above and the ancient ice 
 below. 
 
 He comes, — he comes, — the Frost Spirit comes! and 
 
 the quiet lake shall feel 
 The torpid touch of his glazing breath, and ring to the 
 
 skater's heel ; 
 
EIGHTH YEAR 159 
 
 And the streams which danced on the broken rocks, or 
 sang to the leaning grass, 15 
 
 Shall bow again to their winter chain, and in mourn- 
 ful silence pass. 
 
 He comes, — he comes, — the Frost Spirit comes! Let 
 
 us meet him as we may, 
 And turn with the light of the parlor-fire his evil power 
 
 away; 
 And gather closer the circle round, when that firelight 
 
 dances high. 
 And laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend as his 
 
 sounding wing goes by ! 20 
 
 ICHABOD 
 John Greenleaf Whittier 
 
 So fallen ! so lost ! the light withdrawn 
 
 Which once he wore ! 
 The glory #from his gray hairs gone 
 
 Forever more I 
 
 Revile him not, — the Tempter hath 5 
 
 A snare for all ; 
 And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath, 
 
 Befit his fall! 
 
 Oh, dumb be passion's stormy rage, 
 
 When he who might 10 
 
 Have lighted up and led his age. 
 Falls back in night. 
 
 Scorn ! would the angels laugh, to mark 
 A bright soul driven, 
 
160 EIGHTH YEAR 
 
 Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark, 15 
 
 From hope and heaven! 
 
 Let not the land once proud of him 
 
 Insult him now, 
 Nor brand with deeper shame his dim, 
 
 Dishonored brow. 20 
 
 But let its humbled sons, instead, 
 
 From sea to lake, 
 A long lament, as for the dead, 
 
 In sadness make. 
 
 Of all we loved and honored, naught 25 
 
 Save power remains ; 
 A fallen angel's pride of thought, 
 
 Still strong in chains. 
 
 All else IS gone ; from those great eyes 
 
 The soul has fled : 30 
 
 When faith is lost, when honor dies. 
 The man is dead ! 
 
 Then, pay the reverence of old days 
 
 To his dead fame ; 
 Walk backward, with averted gaze, 35 
 
 And hide the shame ! 
 
 SIR GALAHAD 
 
 Alfred, Lord Tennyson 
 
 My good blade carves the casques of men. 
 My tough lance thrusteth sure, 
 
 My strength is as the strength of ten. 
 Because my heart is pure. 
 
EIGHTH YEAR 161 
 
 The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, 5 
 
 The hard brands shiver on the steel, 
 
 The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly, 
 The horse and rider reel ; 
 
 They reel, they roll in clanging lists, 
 
 And when the tide of combat stands, 10 
 
 Perfume and flowers fall in showers, 
 ^ That lightly rain from ladies' hands. 
 
 How sweet are looks that ladies bend 
 
 On whom their favors fall ! 
 For them I battle till the end, 15 
 
 To save from shame and thrall ; 
 But all my heart is drawn above. 
 
 My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine ; 
 I never felt the kiss of love, 
 
 Nor maiden's hand in mine. 20 
 
 More bounteous aspects on me beam. 
 
 Me mightier transports move and thrill ; 
 So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer 
 
 A virgin heart in work and will. 
 
 When down the stormy crescent goes, 25 
 
 A light before me swims, 
 Between dark stems the forest glows, 
 
 I hear a noise of hymns. 
 Then by some secret shrine I ride ; 
 
 I hear a voice, but none are there ; 30 
 
 The stalls are void, the doors are wide. 
 
 The tapers burning fair. 
 Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, 
 
 The silver vessels sparkle clean. 
 The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, 35 
 
 And solemn chaunts resound between. 
 
162 EIGHTH YEAR 
 
 Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres 
 
 I find a magic bark. 
 I leap on board ; no helmsman steers ; 
 
 I float till all is dark. 40 
 
 A gentle sound, an awful light ! 
 
 Three angels bear the Holy Grail ; 
 With folded feet, in stoles of white, 
 
 On sleeping wings they sail. 
 Ah, blessed vision ! blood of God ! 45 
 
 My spirit beats her mortal bars, 
 As down dark tides the glory slides, 
 
 And starlike mingles with the stars. 
 
 When on my goodly charger borne 
 
 Thro' dreaming towns I go, 50 
 
 The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, 
 
 The streets are dumb with snow. 
 The tempest crackles on the leads, 
 
 And, ringing, springs from brand and mail ; 
 But o'er the dark a glory spreads, 55 
 
 And gilds the driving hail. 
 I leave the plain, I climb the height ; 
 
 No branchy thicket shelter yields ; 
 But blessed forms in whistling storms 
 
 Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields. 60 
 
 A maiden knight — to me is given 
 
 Such hope, I know not fear ; 
 I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven 
 
 That often meet me here. 
 I muse on joy that will not cease, 65 
 
 Pure spaces clothed in living beams, 
 Pure lilies of eternal peace, 
 
 Whose odors haunt my dreams ; 
 
EIGHTH YEAR 163 
 
 And, stricken by an angel's hand, 
 
 This mortal armor that I wear, 70 
 
 This weight and size, this heart and eyes. 
 
 Are touch'd, and turn'd to finest air. 
 
 The clouds are broken in the sky. 
 
 And thro' the mountain-walls 
 A rolling organ-harmony 75 
 
 Swells up and shakes and falls. 
 Then move the trees, the copses nod, 
 
 Wings flutter, voices hover clear ; 
 " O just and faithful knight of God ! 
 
 Ride on ! the prize is near." 80 
 
 So pass I hostel, hall, and grange ; 
 
 By bridge and ford, by park and pale, 
 AU-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide, 
 
 Until I find the Holy Grail. 
 
 CROSSING THE BAR 
 
 Alfred, Lord Tennyson 
 
 Sunset and evening star, 
 
 And one clear call for me ! 
 And may there be no moaning of the bar, 
 
 When I put out to sea. 
 
 But such a tide as moving seems asleep, 6 
 
 Too full for sound and foam. 
 When that which drew from out the boundless deep 
 
 Turns again home. 
 
 Twilight and evening bell. 
 
 And after that the dark ! 10 
 
 And may there be no sadness of farewell, 
 
 When I embark ; 
 
164 EIGHTH YEAR 
 
 For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place 
 
 The flood may bear me far, 
 I hope to see my Pilot face to face 15 
 
 When I have crost the bar. 
 
 THE LITTLE LAND^ 
 
 Robert Louis Stevenson 
 
 When at home alone I sit 
 
 And am very tired of it, 
 
 I have just to shut my eyes 
 
 To go sailing through the skies — 
 
 To go sailing far away 6 
 
 To the pleasant Land of Play ; 
 
 To the fairy land afar 
 
 Where the Little People are ; 
 
 Where the-clover-tops are trees, 
 
 And the rain-pools are the seas, 10 
 
 And the leaves like little ships 
 
 Sail about on tiny trips ; 
 
 And above the daisy tree 
 
 Through the grasses, 
 High o'erhead the Bumble Bee 15 
 
 Hums and passes. 
 
 In that forest to and fro 
 
 I can wander, I can go ; 
 
 See the spider and the fly. 
 
 And the ants go marching by 20 
 
 Carrying parcels with their feet 
 
 Down the green and grassy street. 
 
 ^ From Poems and Ballads. Copyright, 1895, 1896, by Charles 
 Scribner's Sons. 
 
EIGHTH YEAR 165 
 
 I can in the sorrel sit 
 
 Where the ladybird alit. 
 
 I can climb the jointed grass ; 25 
 
 And on high 
 See the greater swallows pass 
 
 In the sky, 
 And the round sun rolling by 
 Heeding no such things as I. 30 
 
 Through that forest I can pass 
 
 Till, as in a looking-glass. 
 
 Humming fly and daisy tree 
 
 And my tiny self I see. 
 
 Painted very clear and neat 35 
 
 On the rain-pool at my feet. 
 
 Should a leaflet come to land 
 
 Drifting near to where I stand, 
 
 Straight I '11 board that tiny boat 
 
 Round the rain-pool sea to float. 40 
 
 Little thoughtful creatures sit 
 
 On the grassy coasts of it; 
 
 Little things with lovely eyes 
 
 See me sailing with surprise. 
 
 Some are clad in armor green — 45 
 
 (These have sure to battle been !) — 
 
 Some are pied with ev'ry hue. 
 
 Black and crimson, gold and blue ; 
 
 Some have wings and swift are gone ; — 
 
 But they all look kindly on. 50 
 
 When my eyes I once again 
 Open, and see all things plain : 
 High bare walls, great bare floor ; 
 
166 EIGHTH YEAR 
 
 Great big knobs on drawer and door ; 
 
 Great big people perched on chairs, 55 
 
 Stitching tucks and mending tears, 
 
 Each a hill that I could climb, 
 
 And talking nonsense all the time — 
 
 O dear me, 
 
 That I could be 60 
 
 A sailor on the rain-pool sea, 
 A climber in the clover tree. 
 And just come back, a sleepy-head, 
 Late at night to go to bed. 
 
 THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS 
 
 William Cullen Bryant 
 
 I HEAR, from many a little throat, 
 
 A warble interrupted long ; 
 I hear the robin's flute-like note. 
 
 The bluebird's slenderer song. 
 
 Brown meadows and the russet hill, 5 
 
 Not yet the haunt of grazing herds. 
 
 And thickets by the glimmering rill, 
 Are all alive with birds. 
 
 O choir of spring, why come so soon ? 
 
 On leafless grove and herbless lawn 10 
 
 Warm lie the yellow beams of moon ; 
 
 Yet winter is not gone. 
 
 For frost shall sheet the pools again ; 
 
 Again the blustering East shall blow — 
 Whirl a white tempest through the glen, 15 
 
 And load the pines with snow. 
 
EIGHTH YEAR 167 
 
 Yet, haply, from the region where, 
 
 Waked by an earlier spring than here, 
 
 The blossomed wild-plum scents the air, 
 
 Ye come in haste and fear. 20 
 
 For there is heard the bugle-blast, 
 The booming gun, the jarring drum. 
 
 And on their chargers, spurring fast. 
 Armed warriors go and come. 
 
 There mighty hosts have pitched the camp 25 
 In valleys that were yours till then. 
 
 And Earth has shuddered to the tramp 
 Of half a million men ! 
 
 In groves where once ye used to sing. 
 
 In orchards where ye had your birth, 30 
 
 A thousand glittering axes swing 
 To smite the trees to earth. 
 
 Ye love the fields by ploughmen trod ; 
 
 But there, when sprouts the beechen spray, 
 The soldier only breaks the sod 35 
 
 To hide the slain away. 
 
 Stay, then, beneath our ruder sky; 
 
 Heed not the storm-clouds rising black, 
 Nor yelling winds that with them fly ; 
 
 Nor let them fright you back, — 40 
 
 Back to the stifling battle-cloud. 
 To burning towns that blot the day. 
 
 And trains of mounting dust that shroud 
 The armies on their way. 
 
168 EIGHTH YEAR 
 
 Stay, for a tint of green shall creep 45 
 
 Soon o'er the orchard's grassy floor, 
 
 And from its bed the crocus peep 
 Beside the housewife's door. 
 
 Here build, and dread no harsher sound, 
 
 To scare you from the sheltering tree, 60 
 
 Than winds that stir the branches round, 
 And murmur of the bee. 
 
 And we will pray that, ere again 
 
 The flowers of autumn bloom and die, 
 
 Our generals and their strong-armed men 55 
 
 May lay their weapons by. 
 
 Then may ye warble, unafraid, 
 
 Where hands, that wear the fetter now, 
 
 Free as your wings shall ply the spade. 
 
 And guide the peaceful plough. 6C 
 
 FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT 
 
 Robert Burks 
 
 Is there, for honest poverty, 
 
 That hangs his head, and a' that ! 
 The coward slave, we pass him by. 
 We dare be poor for a' that ! 
 
 For a' that, and a' that, 6 
 
 Our toils obscure, and a' that ; 
 The rank is but the guinea's stamp. 
 The man's the gowd for a' that ! 
 
 What though on hamely fare we dine. 
 
 Wear hodden-gray, and a' that ; 10 
 
EIGHTH YEAR 169 
 
 Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, 
 A man 's a' man for a' that ! 
 For a' that, and a' that ! 
 
 Their tinsel show, and a' that ; 
 The honest man, though e'er sae poor, 15 
 Is king o' men for a' that ! 
 
 Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, 
 
 Wha struts, and stares, and a' that ; 
 Though hundreds worship at his word, 
 
 He 's but a coof for a' that. 20 
 
 For a' that, and a' that. 
 
 His ribbon, star, and a' that ; 
 The man of independent mind. 
 He looks and laughs at a' that. 
 
 A prince can mak a belted knight, 25 
 
 A marquis, duke, and a' that ; 
 But an honest man 's aboon his might, 
 Guid faith, he maunna fa' that ! 
 For a' that, and a' that. 
 
 Their dignities, and a' that ; 30 
 
 The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, 
 Are higher rank than a' that. 
 
 Then let us pray that come it may -^ 
 
 As come it will for a' that — 
 That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, 35 
 
 May bear the gree, and a' that. 
 For a' that, and a' that. 
 
 It 's coming yet, for a' that. 
 That man to man, the warld o'er. 
 
 Shall brothers be for a' that ! 40 
 
170 EIGHTH YEAR 
 
 SONG OF THE CHATTAHOOCHEE ' 
 Sidney Lanier 
 
 Out of the hills of Habersham, 
 
 Down the valleys of Hall, 
 I hurry amain to reach the plain. 
 Run the rapid and leap the fall, 
 Split at the rock and together again, 6 
 
 Accept my bed, or narrow or wide. 
 And flee from folly on every side 
 With a lover's pain to attain the plain 
 
 Far from the hills of Habersham, 
 
 Far from the valleys of Hall. 10 
 
 All down the hills of Habersham, 
 
 All through the valleys of Hall, 
 The rushes cried Abide^ ahide^ 
 The wilful waterweeds held me thrall. 
 The laving laurel turned my tide, 15 
 
 The ferns and the fondling grass said Stay^ 
 The dewberry dipped for to work delay, 
 And the little reeds sighed Ahide^ abide^ 
 
 Here in the hills of Habersham^ 
 
 Here in the valleys of Hall. 20 
 
 High o'er the hills of Habersham, 
 
 Veiling the valleys of Hall, 
 The hickory told me manifold 
 Fair tales of shade, the poplar tall 
 Wrought me her shadowy self to hold, 25 
 
 The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine, 
 
 1 From Poems of Sidney Lanier, Copyright, 1884, 1891, by 
 Mary D. Lanier. Published by Charles Scribiier's Sons. 
 
EIGHTH YEAR 171 
 
 Overleaning, with flickering meaning and sign, 
 Said, Pass not^ so cold^ these manifold 
 Deep shades of the hills of Habersham^ 
 These glades in the valleys of HalL 30 
 
 And oft in the hills of Habersham, 
 
 And oft in the valleys of Hall, 
 The white quartz shone, and the smooth brook- 
 stone 
 Did bar me of passage with friendly brawl, 
 And many a luminous jewel lone 35 
 
 — Crystals clear or a-cloud with mist, 
 Ruby, garnet, and amethyst — 
 Made lures with the lights of streaming stone 
 
 In the clefts of the hills of Habersham, 
 
 In the beds of the valleys of Hall. 40 
 
 But oh, not the hills of Habersham, 
 
 And oh, not the valleys of Hall 
 Avail : I am fain for to water the plain. 
 Downward the voices of Duty call — 
 Downward, to toil and be mixed with the main, 45 
 The dry fields burn, and the mills are to turn. 
 And a myriad flowers mortally yearn. 
 And the lordly main from beyond the plain 
 
 Calls o'er the hills of Habersham, 
 
 Calls through the valleys of Hall. 50 
 
 MY NATIVE LAND 
 
 (From the Lay of the Last Minstrel) 
 
 Sir Walter Scott 
 
 Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, 
 Who never to himself hath said, 
 
172 EIGHTH YEAR 
 
 This is my own, my native land ? 
 Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, 
 As home his footsteps he hath turned 5 
 
 From wandering on a foreign strand ? 
 If such there breathe, go, mark him well ; 
 For him no minstrel raptures swell; 
 High though his titles, proud his name, — 
 Boundless his wealth as wish can claim ; 10 
 
 Despite those titles, power, and pelf, 
 The wretch, concentred all in self, 
 Living, shall forfeit fair renown, 
 And, doubly dying, shall go down 
 To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, 15 
 
 Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS 
 
 Andersen, Hans Christian 
 
 The Ugly Duckling, 10. 
 Brooks, Phillips 
 
 Christmas Everywhere, 58. 
 Bryant, William Cullen 
 
 Abraham Lincoln, 60 ; March, 9 ; The Return of the 
 
 Birds, 166 ; To a Waterfowl, 99 ; The Yellow Violet, 104. 
 Burns, Robert 
 
 For A' That, and A' That, 168. 
 Burton, Richard 
 
 Christmastide, 84. 
 Byron, Lord 
 
 Washington (From Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte), 91. 
 Cary, Phcebe 
 
 Little Gottlieb, 54 ; Our Heroes, 36 ; The Leak in the 
 
 Dike, 41. 
 Drake, Joseph Rodman 
 
 The American Flag, 144. 
 Field, Eugene 
 
 Dutch Lullaby, 26. 
 Finch, Francis Miles 
 
 The Blue and the Gray, 68. 
 Hawthorne, Nathaniel 
 
 Benjamin Franklin as a Boy, 22. 
 Hemans, Felicia D. 
 
 The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers in New England, 
 
 53 ; The Voice of Spring, 38. 
 Holmes, Oliver Wendell 
 
 The Chambered Nautilus, 148 ; Old Ironsides, 35. 
 
174 INDEX OF AUTHORS 
 
 Hood, Thomas 
 
 I Remember, I Remember, 37. 
 
 Ingelow, Jean 
 
 Seven Times One, 46. 
 
 Jackson, Helen Hunt 
 
 October's Bright Blue Weather, 2 ; September, 1. 
 
 Key, Frances Scott 
 
 The Star-Spangled Banner, 61. 
 
 Kipling, Rudyard 
 The Recessional, 141. 
 
 Lanier, Sidney 
 
 Song of the Chattahoochee, 170. 
 
 Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth 
 
 The Children's Hour, 7 ; The Legend of the Crossbill, 
 96 ; Paul Revere's Ride, 63 ; Story of Mondamin (Hia- 
 watha), 77 ; The Village Blacksmith, 28 ; The Wreck of 
 the Hesperus, 92. 
 
 Lowell, James Russell 
 
 The First Snow-Fall, 5 ; Ode recited at the Harvard Com- 
 memoration, 120; The Oak, 134; The Present Crisis, 
 111 ; The Shepherd of King Admetus, 109 ; To the Dan- 
 delion, 136 ; To William Lloyd Garrison, 138 ; Wendell 
 Phillips, 111 ; Yussouf, 106. 
 
 Moore, Thomas 
 
 Those Evening Bells, 134. 
 
 O'Hara, Theodore 
 
 The Bivouac of the Dead, 101. 
 
 Read, Thomas Buchanan 
 Sheridan's Ride, 51. 
 
 RusKiN, John 
 
 Gluck's Visitor (First Visit), 71. 
 
 Scott, Sir Walter 
 
 My Native Land (From The Lay of the Last Minstrel), 
 171. 
 
 Shelley, Percy Bysshe 
 The Cloud, 81. 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS 175 
 
 SmitHj Samuel Francis 
 America, 62. 
 
 Stevenson, Robert Louis 
 
 The Little Land, 164 ; Winter-Time, 7. 
 
 Tennyson, Alfred, Lord 
 
 The Brook, 16 ; The Charge of the Light Brigade, 107 ; 
 Crossing the Bar, 163 ; The Death of the Old Year, 150 ; 
 Flower in the Crannied Wall, 152 ; Sir Galahad, 160. 
 
 Thaxter, Celia 
 
 Maize, the Nation's Emblem, 76 ; The Sparrows, 30. 
 
 Van Dyke, Henry 
 
 The Ruby-Crowned Kinglet, 97. 
 
 Wallace, William Ross 
 The Sword of Bunker Hill, 59. 
 
 Whittier, John Greenleaf 
 
 Abraham Davenport, 142 ; Barbara Frietchie, 48 ; The 
 Barefoot Boy, 19 ; The Corn-Song, 3 ; For an Autumn 
 Festival, 146 ; The Huskers, 117 ; The Frost Spirit, 158 ; 
 Ichabod, 159 ; King Solomon and the Ants, 84 ; The New 
 Year, 152 ; Snow-Bound (Selections): The Kitchen Scene, 
 33 ; The Mother, 86 ; The Schoolmaster, 89 ; The Sis- 
 ters, 87 ; The Storm, 32. 
 
INDEX OF TITLES 
 
 Abraham Davenport (Whit- 
 tier), 142. 
 
 Abraham Lincoln (Bryant), 60. 
 
 America (Smith), 62. 
 
 American Flag, The (Drake), 
 144. 
 
 Barbara Frietchie (Whittier), 
 
 48. 
 Barefoot Boy, The (Whittier), 
 
 19. 
 Benjamin Franklin as a Boy 
 
 (Hawthorne), 22. 
 Bivouac of the Dead, The 
 
 (O'Hara), 101. 
 Blue and the Gray, The 
 
 (Finch), 68. 
 Brook, The (Tennyson), 16. 
 
 Chambered Nautilus, The 
 (Holmes), 148. 
 
 Charge of the Light Brigade, 
 The (Tennyson), 107. 
 
 Children's Hour, The (Long- 
 fellow), 7. 
 
 Christmas Everywhere 
 
 (Brooks), 58. 
 
 Christmastide (Burton), 84. 
 
 Cloud, The (Shelley), 81. 
 
 Corn-Song, The (Whittier), 3. 
 
 Crossing the Bar (Tennyson), 
 163. 
 
 Death of the Old Year, The 
 
 (Tennyson), 150. 
 Dutch Lullaby (Field), 26. 
 
 First Snow-Fall, The (Lowell), 
 
 5. 
 Flower in the Crannied Wall 
 
 (Tennyson), 152. 
 
 For A' That, and A' That 
 (Burns), 168. 
 
 For an Autumn Festival (Whit- 
 tier), 146. 
 
 Frost Spirit, The (Whittier), 
 158. 
 
 Gluck's Visitor (First Visit) 
 (Ruskin), 71. 
 
 Huskers, The (Whittier), 117. 
 
 Ichabod (Whittier), 159. 
 I Remember, I Remember 
 (Hood), 37. 
 
 King Solomon and the Ants 
 (Whittier), 84. 
 
 Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers 
 in New England, The (He- 
 mans), 53. 
 
 Leak in the Dike, The (Gary), 
 
 Legend of the Crossbill, The 
 
 (Longfellow), 96. 
 Little Gottlieb (Gary), 54. 
 Little Land, The (Stevenson), 
 
 164. 
 
 Maize, the Nation's Emblem 
 
 (Thaxter), 76. 
 March (Bryant), 9. 
 My Native Land (Scott), 171. 
 
 New Year, The (Whittier), 152. 
 
 Oak, The (Lowell), 134. 
 October's Bright Blue Weather 
 (Jackson), 2, 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 177 
 
 Ode Recited at the Harvard 
 Commemoration (Lowell), 
 120. 
 
 Old Ironsides (Holmes), 35. 
 
 Our Heroes (Gary), 36. 
 
 Paul Revere's Ride (Longfel- 
 low), 63. 
 
 Present Crisis, The (Lowell), 
 IIL 
 
 Recessional, The (Kipling), 
 
 Return of the Birds, The 
 
 (Bryant), 166. 
 Ruby-Crowned Kinglet, The 
 
 (Van Dyke), 97. 
 
 September (Jackson), 1. 
 
 Seven Times One (Ingelow), 
 46. 
 
 Shepherd of King Admetus,The 
 (Lowell), 109. 
 
 Sheridan's Ride (Read), 51. 
 
 Sir Galahad (Tennyson), 160. 
 
 Snow-Bound (Whittier) (Selec- 
 tions): The Kitchen Scene, 
 33; The Mother, 86; The 
 Scboolmaster,89; The Sisters, 
 87; The Storm, 32. 
 
 Song of the Chattahoochee 
 (Lanier), 170. 
 
 Sparrows, The (Thaxter), 30. 
 
 Star-Spangled Banner, The 
 (Key), 61. 
 
 Story of Mondamin, The (Hia- 
 watha), (Longfellow), 77. 
 
 Sword of Bunker Hill, The 
 (Wallace), 59. 
 
 Those Evening Bells (Moore), 
 
 134. 
 To a Waterfowl (Bryant), 99. 
 To the Dandelion (Lowell), 
 
 136. 
 To William Lloyd Garrison 
 
 (Lowell), 138. 
 
 Ugly Duckling, The (Ander- 
 sen), 10. 
 
 Village Blacksmith, The 
 (Longfellow), 28. 
 
 Voice of Spring, The (He- 
 mans), 38. 
 
 Washington (From Ode to Na- 
 poleon Buonaparte), (By- 
 ron), 91. 
 
 Wendell Phillips (Lowell), 111. 
 
 Winter-Time (Stevenson), 7. 
 
 Wreck of the Hesperus, The 
 (Longfellow), 92. 
 
 Yellow Violet, The (Bryant), 
 
 104. 
 Yussouf (Lowell), 106. 
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 \y 
 
 Henry Wads worth Longfellow . Frontispiece 
 
 Craigie House, Cambridge .... 8 »^ 
 
 John Greenleaf Whittier .... 20 
 
 Kitchen in the Whittier Homestead . . 32 , 
 
 William Cullen Bryant 60/" 
 
 Whittier's Birthplace in Winter ... 86 
 
 James Russell Lowell 110 
 
 Elmwood, Cambridge 120 
 
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