The Bible My Mother Gave Me
Give me that grand old volume, the gift of a mother's love,
Tho' the spirit that first taught me has winged its flight above.
Yet, with no legacy but this, she has left me wealth untold,
Yea, mightier than earth's riches, or the wealth of Ophir's gold.
When a child, I've kneeled beside her, in our dear old cottage home,
And listened to her reading from that prized and cherished tome,
As with low and gentle cadence, and a meek and reverent mien,
God's word fell from her trembling lips, like a presence felt and seen.
Solemn and sweet the counsels that spring from its open page,
Written with all the fervor and zeal of the prophet age;
Full of the inspiration of the holy bards who trod,
Caring not for the scoffer's scorn, if they gained a soul to God.
Men who in mind were godlike, and have left on its blazoned scroll
Food for all coming ages in its manna of the soul;
Who, through long days of anguish, and nights devoid of ease,
Still wrote with the burning pen of faith its higher mysteries.
I can list that good man yonder, in the gray church by the brook,
Take up that marvelous tale of love, of the story and the Book,
How through the twilight glimmer, from the earliest dawn of time,
It was handed down as an heirloom, in almost every clime.
How through strong persecution and the struggle of evil days
The precious light of the truth ne'er died, but was fanned to a beacon blaze.
How in far-off lands, where the cypress bends o'er the laurel bough,
It was hid like some precious treasure, and they bled for its truth, as now.
He tells how there stood around it a phalanx none could break,
Though steel and fire and lash swept on, and the cruel wave lapt the stake;
How dungeon doors and prison bars had never damped the flame,
But raised up converts to the creed whence Christian comfort came.
That housed in caves and caverns—how it stirs our Scottish blood!—
The Convenanters, sword in hand, poured forth the crimson flood;
And eloquent grows the preacher, as the Sabbath sunshine falls,
Thro' cobwebbed and checkered pane, a halo on the walls!
That still 'mid sore disaster, in the heat and strife of doubt,
Some bear the Gospel oriflamme, and one by one march out,
Till forth from heathen kingdoms, and isles beyond the sea,
The glorious tidings of the Book spread Christ's salvation free.
So I cling to my mother's Bible, in its torn and tattered boards,
As one of the greatest gems of art, and the king of all other hoards,
As in life the true consoler, and in death ere the Judgment call,
The guide that will lead to the shining shore, where the Father waits for all.
Lincoln, the Man of the People
This poem was read by Edwin Markham at the dedication of the Lincoln Memorial at Washington, D.C., May 30, 1922. Before reading, he said: "No oration, no poem, can rise to the high level of this historic hour. Nevertheless, I venture to inscribe this revised version of my Lincoln poem to this stupendous Lincoln Memorial, to this far-shining monument of remembrance, erected in immortal marble to the honor of our deathless martyr—the consecrated statesman, the ideal American, the ever-beloved friend of humanity."
When the Norn Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour
Greatening and darkening as it hurried on,
She left the Heaven of Heroes and came down
To make a man to meet the mortal need,
She took the tried clay of the common road—
Clay warm yet with the genial heat of Earth,
Dasht through it all a strain of prophecy;
Tempered the heap with thrill of human tears;
Then mixt a laughter with the serious stuff.
Into the shape she breathed a flame to light
That tender, tragic, ever-changing face;
And laid on him a sense of the Mystic Powers,
Moving—all husht—behind the mortal veil.
Here was a man to hold against the world,
A man to match the mountains and the sea.
The color of the ground was in him, the red earth;
The smack and tang of elemental things;
The rectitude and patience of the cliff;
The good-will of the rain that loves all leaves;
The friendly welcome of the wayside well;
The courage of the bird that dares the sea;
The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn;
The pity of the snow that hides all scars;
The secrecy of streams that make their way
Under the mountain to the rifted rock;
The tolerance and equity of light
That gives as freely to the shrinking flower
As to the great oak flaring to the wind—
To the grave's low hill as to the Matterhorn
That shoulders out the sky. Sprung from the West,
He drank the valorous youth of a new world.
The strength of virgin forests braced his mind,
The hush of spacious prairies stilled his soul.
His words were oaks in acorns; and his thoughts
Were roots that firmly gript the granite truth.
Up from log cabin to the Capitol,
One fire was on his spirit, one resolve—
To send the keen ax to the root of wrong,
Clearing a free way for the feet of God,
The eyes of conscience testing every stroke,
To make his deed the measure of a man.
He built the rail-pile as he built the State,
Pouring his splendid strength through every blow;
The grip that swung the ax in Illinois
Was on the pen that set a people free.
So came the Captain with the mighty heart;
And when the judgment thunders split the house,
Wrenching the rafters from their ancient rest,
He held the ridgepole up, and spikt again
The rafters of the Home. He held his place—
Held the long purpose like a growing tree—
Held on through blame and faltered not at praise.
And when he fell in whirlwind, he went down
As when a lordly cedar, green with boughs,
Goes down with a great shout upon the hills,
And leaves a lonesome place against the sky.
Edwin Markham.
Our Own
If I had known in the morning
How wearily all the day
The words unkind
Would trouble my mind
I said when you went away,
I had been more careful, darling,
Nor given you needless pain;
But we vex "our own"
With look and tone
We may never take back again.
For though in the quiet evening
You may give me the kiss of peace,
Yet it might be
That never for me,
The pain of the heart should cease.
How many go forth in the morning,
That never come home at night!
And hearts have broken
For harsh words spoken
That sorrow can ne'er set right.
We have careful thoughts for the stranger,
And smiles for the sometime guest,
But oft for "our own"
The bitter tone,
Though we love "our own" the best.
Ah, lips with the curve impatient!
Ah, brow with that look of scorn!
'Twere a cruel fate,
Were the night too late
To undo the work of morn.
Margaret E. Sangster.
How Salvator Won
The gate was thrown open, I rode out alone,
More proud than a monarch, who sits on a throne.
I am but a jockey, but shout upon shout
Went up from the people who watched me ride out.
And the cheers that rang forth from that warm-hearted crowd
Were as earnest as those to which monarch e'er bowed.
My heart thrilled with pleasure so keen it was pain,
As I patted my Salvator's soft, silken mane;
And a sweet shiver shot from his hide to my hand
As we passed by the multitude down to the stand.
The great wave of cheering came billowing back
As the hoofs of brave Tenny ran swift down the track,
And he stood there beside us, all bone and all muscle,
Our noble opponent, well trained for the tussle
That waited us there on the smooth, shining course.
My Salvator, fair to the lovers of horse
As a beautiful woman is fair to man's sight—
Pure type of the thoroughbred, clean-limbed and bright—
Stood taking the plaudits as only his due
And nothing at all unexpected or new.
And then there before us as the bright flag is spread,
There's a roar from the grand stand, and Tenny's ahead;
At the sound of the voices that shouted, "A go!"
He sprang like an arrow shot straight from the bow.
I tighten the reins on Prince Charlie's great son;
He is off like a rocket, the race is begun.
Half-way down the furlong their heads are together,
Scarce room 'twixt their noses to wedge in a feather;
Past grand stand, and judges, in neck-to-neck strife,
Ah, Salvator, boy, 'tis the race of your life!
I press my knees closer, I coax him, I urge,
I feel him go out with a leap and a surge;
I see him creep on, inch by inch, stride by stride,
While backward, still backward, falls Tenny beside.
We are nearing the turn, the first quarter is passed—
'Twixt leader and chaser the daylight is cast;
The distance elongates; still Tenny sweeps on,
As graceful and free-limbed and swift as a fawn,
His awkwardness vanished, his muscles all strained—
A noble opponent well born and well trained.
I glanced o'er my shoulder; ha! Tenny! the cost
Of that one second's flagging will be—the race lost;
One second's yielding of courage and strength,
And the daylight between us has doubled its length.
The first mile is covered, the race is mine—no!
For the blue blood of Tenny responds to a blow;
He shoots through the air like a ball from a gun,
And the two lengths between us are shortened to one.
My heart is contracted, my throat feels a lump,
For Tenny's long neck is at Salvator's rump;
And now with new courage grown bolder and bolder,
I see him once more running shoulder to shoulder.
With knees, hands and body I press my grand steed;
I urge him, I coax him, I pray him to heed!
O Salvator! Salvator! List to my calls,
For the blow of my whip will hurt both if it falls.
There's a roar from the crowd like the ocean in storm,
As close to the saddle leaps Tenny's great form;
One mighty plunge, and with knee, limb and hand,
I lift my horse first by a nose past the stand.
We are under the string now—the great race is done—
And Salvator, Salvator, Salvator won!
Cheer, hoary-headed patriarchs; cheer loud, I say;
'Tis the race of a century witnessed to-day!
Though ye live twice the space that's allotted to men
Ye never will see such a grand race again.
Let the shouts of the populace roar like the surf,
For Salvator, Salvator, king of the turf,
He has rivaled the record of thirteen long years;
He has won the first place in the vast line of peers.
'Twas a neck-to-neck contest, a grand, honest race,
And even his enemies grant him his place.
Down into the dust let old records be hurled,
And hang out 2:05 to the gaze of the world!
Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
I Got to Go to School
I'd like to hunt the Injuns 't roam the boundless plain!
I'd like to be a pirate an' plow the ragin' main!
An' capture some big island, in lordly pomp to rule;
But I just can't be nothin' cause I got to go to school.
'Most all great men, so I have read, has been the ones 'at got
The least amount o' learnin' by a flickerin' pitch pine knot;
An' many a darin' boy like me grows up to be a fool,
An' never 'mounts to nothin' 'cause he's got to go to school.
I'd like to be a cowboy an' rope the Texas steer!
I'd like to be a sleuth-houn' or a bloody buccaneer!
An' leave the foe to welter where their blood had made a pool;
But how can I git famous? 'cause I got to go to school.
I don't see how my parents kin make the big mistake.
O' keepin' down a boy like me 'at's got a name to make!
It ain't no wonder boys is bad, an' balky as a mule;
Life ain't worth livin' if you've got to waste your time in school.
I'd like to be regarded as "The Terror of the Plains"!
I'd like to hear my victims shriek an' clank their prison chains!
I'd like to face the enemy with gaze serene an' cool,
An' wipe 'em off the earth, but pshaw! I got to go to school.
What good is 'rithmetic an' things, exceptin' jest for girls,
Er them there Fauntleroys 'at wears their hair in pretty curls?
An' if my name is never seen on hist'ry's page, why, you'll
Remember 'at it's all because I got to go to school.
Nixon Waterman.
With Little Boy Blue
(Written after the death of Eugene Field.)
Silent he watched them—the soldiers and dog—
Tin toys on the little armchair,
Keeping their tryst through the slow going years
For the hand that had stationed them there;
And he said that perchance the dust and the rust
Hid the griefs that the toy friends knew,
And his heart watched with them all the dark years,
Yearning ever for Little Boy Blue.
Three mourners they were for Little Boy Blue,
Three ere the cold winds had begun;
Now two are left watching—the soldier and dog;
But for him the vigil is done.
For him too, the angel has chanted a song
A song that is lulling and true.
He has seen the white gates of the mansions of rest,
Thrown wide by his Little Boy Blue.
God sent not the Angel of Death for his soul—
Not the Reaper who cometh for all—
But out of the shadows that curtained the day
He heard his lost little one call,
Heard the voice that he loved, and following fast,
Passed on to the far-away strand;
And he walks the streets of the City of Peace,
With Little Boy Blue by the hand.
Sarah Beaumont Kennedy.
The Charge of Pickett's Brigade
In Gettysburg at break of day
The hosts of war are held in leash
To gird them for the coming fray,
E'er brazen-throated monsters flame,
Mad hounds of death that tear and maim.
Ho, boys in blue,
And gray so true,
Fate calls to-day the roll of fame.
On Cemetery Hill was done
The clangor of four hundred guns;
Through drifting smoke the morning sun
Shone down a line of battled gray
Where Pickett's waiting soldiers lay.
Virginians all,
Heed glory's call,
You die at Gettysburg to-day,
'Twas Pickett's veteran brigade,
Great Lee had named; he knew them well;
Oft had their steel the battle stayed.
O warriors of the eagle plume,
Fate points for you the hour of doom.
Ring rebel yell,
War cry and knell!
The stars, to-night, will set in gloom.
O Pickett's men, ye sons of fate,
Awe-stricken nations bide your deeds.
For you the centuries did wait,
While wrong had writ her lengthening scroll
And God had set the judgment roll.
A thousand years
Shall wait in tears,
And one swift hour bring to goal.
The charge is done, a cause is lost;
But Pickett's men heed not the din
Of ragged columns battle tost;
For fame enshrouds them on the field,
And pierced, Virginia, is thy shield.
But stars and bars
Shall drape thy scars;
No cause is lost till honor yield.
Hullo
W'en you see a man in woe,
Walk right up and say "Hullo!"
Say "Hullo" and "How d'ye do?
How's the world a-usin' you?"
Slap the fellow on the back;
Bring your hand down with a whack;
Walk right up, and don't go slow;
Grin an' shake, an' say "Hullo!"
Is he clothed in rags? Oh! sho;
Walk right up an' say "Hullo!"
Rags is but a cotton roll
Jest for wrappin' up a soul;
An' a soul is worth a true
Hale and hearty "How d'ye do?"
Don't wait for the crowd to go,
Walk right up and say "Hullo!"
When big vessels meet, they say
They saloot an' sail away.
Jest the same are you an' me
Lonesome ships upon a sea;
Each one sailin' his own log,
For a port behind the fog;
Let your speakin' trumpet blow;
Lift your horn an' cry "Hullo!"
Say "Hullo!" an' "How d'ye do?"
Other folks are good as you.
W'en you leave your house of clay
Wanderin' in the far away,
W'en you travel through the strange
Country t'other side the range,
Then the souls you've cheered will know
Who ye be, an' say "Hullo."
Sam Walter Foss.
The Women of Mumbles Head
Bring, novelist, your note-book! bring, dramatist, your pen!
And I'll tell you a simple story of what women do for men.
It's only a tale of a lifeboat, of the dying and the dead,
Of the terrible storm and shipwreck that happened off Mumbles Head!
Maybe you have traveled in Wales, sir, and know it north and south;
Maybe you are friends with the "natives" that dwell at Oystermouth;
It happens, no doubt, that from Bristol you've crossed in a casual way,
And have sailed your yacht in the summer in the blue of Swansea Bay.
Well! it isn't like that in the winter, when the lighthouse stands alone,
In the teeth of Atlantic breakers that foam on its face of stone;
It wasn't like that when the hurricane blew, and the storm-bell tolled,or when
There was news of a wreck, and the lifeboat launched, and a desperate cry for men.
When in the world did the coxswain shirk? a brave old salt was he!
Proud to the bone of as four strong lads as ever had tasted the sea,
Welshmen all to the lungs and loins, who, about that coast, 'twas said,
Had saved some hundred lives apiece—at a shilling or so a head!
So the father launched the lifeboat, in the teeth of the tempest's roar,
And he stood like a man at the rudder, with an eye on his boys at the oar,
Out to the wreck went the father! out to the wreck went the sons!
Leaving the weeping of women, and booming of signal guns;
Leaving the mother who loved them, and the girls that the sailors love;
Going to death for duty, and trusting to God above!
Do you murmur a prayer, my brothers, when cozy and safe in bed,
For men like these, who are ready to die for a wreck off Mumbles Head?
It didn't go well with the lifeboat! 'twas a terrible storm that blew!
And it snapped the' rope in a second that was flung to the drowning crew;
And then the anchor parted—'twas a tussle to keep afloat!
But the father stuck to the rudder, and the boys to the brave old boat.
Then at last on the poor doomed lifeboat a wave broke mountains high!
"God help us now!" said the father. "It's over, my lads! Good-bye"!
Half of the crew swam shoreward, half to the sheltered caves,
But father and sons were fighting death in the foam of the angry waves.
Up at a lighthouse window two women beheld the storm,
And saw in the boiling breakers a figure—a fighting form;
It might be a gray-haired father, then the women held their breath;
It might be a fair-haired brother, who was having a round with death;
It might be a lover, a husband, whose kisses were on the lips
Of the women whose love is the life of men going down to the sea in ships.
They had seen the launch of the lifeboat, they had seen the worst, and more,
Then, kissing each other, these women went down from the lighthouse, straight to shore.
There by the rocks on the breakers these sisters, hand in hand,
Beheld once more that desperate man who struggled to reach the land,
'Twas only aid he wanted to help him across the wave,
But what are a couple of women with only a man to save?
What are a couple of women? well, more than three craven men
Who stood by the shore with chattering teeth, refusing to stir—and then
Off went the women's shawls, sir; in a second they're torn and rent,
Then knotting them into a rope of love, straight into the sea they went!
"Come back!" cried the lighthouse-keeper. "For God's sake, girls, come back!"
As they caught the waves on their foreheads, resisting the fierce attack.
"Come back!" moaned the gray-haired mother, as she stood by the angry sea,
"If the waves take you, my darlings, there's nobody left to me!"
"Come back!" said the three strong soldiers, who still stood faint and pale,
"You will drown if you face the breakers! you will fall if you brave the gale!"
"
Come back
!" said the girls, "we will not! go tell it to all the town,
We'll lose our lives, God willing, before that man shall drown!"
"Give one more knot to the shawls, Bess! give one strong clutch of your hand!
Just follow me, brave, to the shingle, and we'll bring him safe to land!
Wait for the next wave, darling! only a minute more,
And I'll have him safe in my arms, dear, and we'll drag him to the shore."
Up to the arms in the water, fighting it breast to breast,
They caught and saved a brother alive. God bless them! you know the rest—
Well, many a heart beat stronger, and many a tear was shed,
And many a glass was tossed right off to "The Women of Mumbles Head!"
Clement Scott.
The Fireman's Story
"'A frightful face'? Wal, yes, yer correct;
That man on the enjine thar
Don't pack the han'somest countenance—
Every inch of it sportin' a scar;
But I tell you, pard, thar ain't money enough
Piled up in the National Banks
To buy that face, nor a single scar—
(No, I never indulges. Thanks.)
"Yes, Jim is an old-time engineer,
An' a better one never war knowed!
Bin a runnin' yar since the fust machine
War put on the Quincy Road;
An' thar ain't a galoot that pulls a plug
From Maine to the jumpin' off place
That knows more about the big iron hoss
Than him with the battered-up face.
"'Got hurt in a smash-up'? No,'twar done
In a sort o' legitimate way;
He got it a-trying to save a gal
Up yar on the road last May.
I heven't much time for to spin you the yarn,
For we pull out at two-twenty-five—
Just wait till I climb up an' toss in some coal,
So's to keep old '90' alive.
"Jim war pullin' the Burlin'ton passenger then,
Left Quincy a half an hour late,
An' war skimmin' along purty lively, so's not
To lay out No. 21 freight.
T