Poems Teachers Ask For, Book Two

Boy and Girl of Plymouth

 
Little lass of Plymouth,—gentle, shy, and sweet;
Primly, trimly tripping down the queer old street;
Homespun frock and apron, clumsy buckled shoe;
Skirts that reach your ankles, just as Mother's do;
Bonnet closely clinging over braid and curl;
Modest little maiden,—Plymouth's Pilgrim girl!
 
 
Little lad of Plymouth, stanchly trudging by;
Strong your frame, and sturdy; kind and keen your eye;
Clad in belted doublet, buckles at your knee;
Every garment fashioned as a man's might be;
Shoulder-cloak and breeches, hat with bell-shaped crown;
Manly little Pilgrim,—boy of Plymouth town!
 
 
Boy and girl of Plymouth, brave and blithe, and true;
Finer task than yours was, children never knew;
Sharing toil and hardship in the strange, new land;
Hope, and help, and promise of the weary band;
Grave the life around you, scant its meed of joy;
Yours to make it brighter,—Pilgrim girl and boy!
 

Helen L. Smith.

Work: A Song of Triumph

 
Work!
Thank God for the might of it,
The ardor, the urge, the delight of it,
Work that springs from the heart's desire,
Setting the brain and the soul on fire—
Oh, what is so good as the heat of it,
And what is so glad as the beat of it,
And what is so kind as the stern command,
Challenging brain and heart and hand?
 
 
Work!
Thank God for the pride of it,
For the beautiful, conquering tide of it,
Sweeping the life in its furious flood,
Thrilling the arteries, cleansing the blood,
Mastering stupor and dull despair,
Moving the dreamer to do and dare—
Oh, what is so good as the urge of it,
And what is so glad as the surge of it,
And what is so strong as the summons deep,
Rousing the torpid soul from sleep?
 
 
Work!
Thank God for the pace of it,
For the terrible, swift, keen race of it,
Fiery steeds in full control,
Nostrils a-quiver to reach the goal.
Work, the power that drives behind,
Guiding the purposes, taming the mind,
Holding the runaway wishes back,
Reining the will to one steady track,
Speeding the energies, faster, faster,
Triumphing ever over disaster;
Oh, what is so good as the pain of it,
And what is so great as the gain of it,
And what is so kind as the cruel goad,
Forcing us on through the rugged road?
 
 
Work!
Thank God for the swing of it,
For the clamoring, hammering ring of it,
Passion of labor daily hurled
On the mighty anvils of the world.
Oh, what is so fierce as the flame of it?
And what is so huge as the aim of it?
Thundering on through dearth and doubt,
Calling the plan of the Maker out,
Work, the Titan; Work, the friend,
Shaping the earth to a glorious end,
Draining the swamps and blasting hills,
Doing whatever the Spirit wills—
Rending a continent apart,
To answer the dream of the Master heart.
Thank God for a world where none may shirk—
Thank God for the splendor of Work!
 

Angela Morgan.

Reply to "A Woman's Question"

("A Woman's Question" is given on page 129 of Book I, "Poems Teachers Ask For.")

 
You say I have asked for the costliest thing
Ever made by the Hand above—
A woman's heart and a woman's life,
And a woman's wonderful love.
 
 
That I have written your duty out,
And, man-like, have questioned free—
You demand that I stand at the bar of your soul,
While you in turn question me.
 
 
And when I ask you to be my wife,
The head of my house and home,
Whose path I would scatter with sunshine through life,
Thy shield when sorrow shall come—
 
 
You reply with disdain and a curl of the lip,
And point to my coat's missing button,
And haughtily ask if I want a cook,
To serve up my beef and my mutton.
 
 
'Tis a king that you look for. Well, I am not he,
But only a plain, earnest man,
Whose feet often shun the hard path they should tread,
Often shrink from the gulf they should span.
 
 
'Tis hard to believe that the rose will fade
From the cheek so full, so fair;
'Twere harder to think that a heart proud and cold
Was ever reflected there.
 
 
True, the rose will fade, and the leaves will fall,
And the Autumn of life will come;
But the heart that I give thee will be true as in May,
Should I make it thy shelter, thy home.
 
 
Thou requir'st "all things that are good and true;
All things that a man should be";
Ah! lady, my truth, in return, doubt not,
For the rest, I leave it to thee.
 

Nettie H. Pelham.

The Romance of Nick Van Stann

 
I cannot vouch my tale is true,
Nor say, indeed, 'tis wholly new;
But true or false, or new or old,
I think you'll find it fairly told.
A Frenchman, who had ne'er before
Set foot upon a foreign shore,
Weary of home, resolved to go
And see what Holland had to show.
He didn't know a word of Dutch,
But that could hardly grieve him much;
He thought, as Frenchmen always do,
That all the world could "parley-voo."
At length our eager tourist stands
Within the famous Netherlands,
And, strolling gaily here and there,
In search of something rich or rare,
A lordly mansion greets his eyes;
"How beautiful!" the Frenchman cries,
And, bowing to the man who sate
In livery at the garden gate,
"Pray, Mr. Porter, if you please,
Whose very charming grounds are these?
And, pardon me, be pleased to tell
Who in this splendid house may dwell."
To which, in Dutch, the puzzled man
Replied what seemed like "Nick Van Stann,"²
 
 
"Thanks!" said the Gaul; "the owner's taste
Is equally superb and chaste;
So fine a house, upon my word,
Not even Paris can afford.
With statues, too, in every niche;
Of course Monsieur Van Stann is rich,
And lives, I warrant, like a king,—
Ah! wealth mast be a charming thing!"
In Amsterdam the Frenchman meets
A thousand wonders in the streets,
But most he marvels to behold
A lady dressed in silk and gold;
Gazing with rapture on the dame,
He begs to know the lady's name,
And hears, to raise his wonders more,
The very words he heard before!
"Mercie!" he cries; "well, on my life,
Milord has got a charming wife;
'Tis plain to see, this Nick Van Stann
Must be a very happy man."
 
 
Next day our tourist chanced to pop
His head within a lottery shop,
And there he saw, with staring eyes,
The drawing of the mammoth prize.
"Ten millions! 'tis a pretty sum;
I wish I had as much at home:
I'd like to know, as I'm a sinner,
What lucky fellow is the winner?"
Conceive our traveler's amaze
To hear again the hackneyed phrase.
"What? no! not Nick Van Stann again?
Faith! he's the luckiest of men.
You may be sure we don't advance
So rapidly as that in France:
A house, the finest in the land;
A lovely garden, nicely planned;
A perfect angel of a wife,
And gold enough to last a life;
There never yet was mortal man
So blest—as Monsieur Nick Van Stann!"
 
 
Next day the Frenchman chanced to meet
A pompous funeral in the street;
And, asking one who stood close by
What nobleman had pleased to die,
Was stunned to hear the old reply.
The Frenchman sighed and shook his head,
"Mon Dieu! poor Nick Van Stann is dead;
With such a house, and such a wife,
It must be hard to part with life;
And then, to lose that mammoth prize,—
He wins, and, pop,—the winner dies!
Ah, well! his blessings came so fast,
I greatly feared they could not last:
And thus, we see, the sword of Fate
Cuts down alike the small and great."
 

John G. Saxe.

Armageddon

 
Marching down to Armageddon—
Brothers, stout and strong!
Let us cheer the way we tread on,
With a soldier's song!
Faint we by the weary road,
Or fall we in the rout,
Dirge or Pæan, Death or Triumph!—
Let the song ring out!
 
 
We are they who scorn the scorners—
Love the lovers—hate
None within the world's four corners—
All must share one fate;
We are they whose common banner
Bears no badge nor sign,
Save the Light which dyes it white—
The Hope that makes it shine.
 
 
We are they whose bugle rings,
That all the wars may cease;
We are they will pay the Kings
Their cruel price for Peace;
We are they whose steadfast watchword
Is what Christ did teach—
"Each man for his Brother first—
And Heaven, then, for each."
 
 
We are they who will not falter—
Many swords or few—
Till we make this Earth the altar
Of a worship new;
We are they who will not take
From palace, priest or code,
A meaner Law than "Brotherhood"—
A lower Lord than God.
 
 
Marching down to Armageddon—
Brothers, stout and strong!
Ask not why the way we tread on
Is so rough and long!
God will tell us when our spirits
Grow to grasp His plan!
Let us do our part to-day—
And help Him, helping Man!
 
 
Shall we even curse the madness
Which for "ends of State"
Dooms us to the long, long sadness
Of this human hate?
Let us slay in perfect pity
Those that must not live;
Vanquish, and forgive our foes—
Or fall—and still forgive!
 
 
We are those whose unpaid legions,
In free ranks arrayed,
Massacred in many regions—
Never once were stayed:
We are they whose torn battalions,
Trained to bleed, not fly,
Make our agonies a triumph,—
Conquer, while we die!
 
 
Therefore, down to Armageddon—
Brothers, bold and strong;
Cheer the glorious way we tread on,
With this soldier song!
Let the armies of the old Flags
March in silent dread!
Death and Life are one to us,
Who fight for Quick and Dead!
 

Edwin Arnold.

Picciola

 
It was a sergeant old and gray,
Well singed and bronzed from siege and pillage.
Went tramping in an army's wake
Along the turnpike of the village.
 
 
For days and nights the winding host
Had through the little place been marching,
And ever loud the rustics cheered,
Till every throat was hoarse and parching.
 
 
The squire and farmer, maid and dame,
All took the sight's electric stirring,
And hats were waved and staves were sung,
And kerchiefs white were countless whirring.
 
 
They only saw a gallant show
Of heroes stalwart under banners,
And, in the fierce heroic glow,
'Twas theirs to yield but wild hosannas.
 
 
The sergeant heard the shrill hurrahs,
Where he behind in step was keeping;
But, glancing down beside the road,
He saw a little maid sit weeping.
 
 
"And how is this?" he gruffly said,
A moment pausing to regard her;—
"Why weepest thou, my little chit?"
And then she only cried the harder.
 
 
"And how is this, my little chit?"
The sturdy trooper straight repeated,
"When all the village cheers us on,
That you, in tears, apart are seated?
 
 
"We march two hundred thousand strong,
And that's a sight, my baby beauty,
To quicken silence into song
And glorify the soldier's duty."
 
 
"It's very, very grand, I know,"
The little maid gave soft replying;
"And father, mother, brother too,
All say 'Hurrah' while I am crying;
 
 
"But think, oh, Mr. Soldier, think,
How many little sisters' brothers
Are going all away to fight,
And may be killed, as well as others!"
 
 
"Why, bless thee, child," the sergeant said,
His brawny hand her curls caressing,
"'Tis left for little ones like thee
To find that war's not all a blessing."
 
 
And "Bless thee!" once again he cried,
Then cleared his throat and looked indignant
And marched away with wrinkled brow
To stop the struggling tear benignant.
 
 
And still the ringing shouts went up
From doorway, thatch, and fields of tillage;
The pall behind the standard seen
By one alone of all the village.
 
 
The oak and cedar bend and writhe
When roars the wind through gap and braken;
But 'tis the tenderest reed of all
That trembles first when Earth is shaken.
 

Robert Henry Newell.

The King's Ring

 
Once in Persia reigned a king
Who upon his signet ring
Graved a maxim true and wise
Which, if held before his eyes,
Gave him counsel at a glance
Fit for every change and chance.
Solemn words; and these are they:
"Even this shall pass away."
 
 
Trains of camels through the sand
Brought him gems from Samarcand,
Fleets of galleys through the seas
Brought him pearls to match with these;
But he counted not his gain—
Treasurer of the mine and main,
"What is wealth?" the king would say;
"Even this shall pass away."
 
 
In the revels of his court
At the zenith of the sport,
When the palms of all his guests
Burned with clapping at his jests,
He, amid his figs and wine,
Cried: "O loving friends of mine!
Pleasures come, but not to stay,
Even this shall pass away."
 
 
Fighting on a furious field
Once a javelin pierced his shield;
Soldiers with loud lament
Bore him bleeding to his tent,
Groaning with his tortured side.
"Pain is hard to bear," he cried;
"But with patience day by day,
Even this shall pass away."
 
 
Struck with palsy, sere and old,
Waiting at the gates of gold,
Spake he with his dying breath:
"Life is done, but what is death?"
Then, in answer to the king,
Fell a sunbeam on his ring,
Showing by a heavenly ray:
"Even this shall pass away."
 

Theodore Tilton.

Leaving the Homestead

 
You're going to leave the homestead, John,
You're twenty-one to-day:
And very sorry am I, John,
To see you go away.
You've labored late and early, John,
And done the best you could;
I ain't going to stop you, John,
I wouldn't if I could.
 
 
Yet something of your feelings, John,
I s'pose I'd ought to know,
Though many a day has passed away—
'Twas forty years ago—
When hope was high within me, John,
And life lay all before,
That I, with strong and measured stroke,
"Cut loose" and pulled from shore.
 
 
The years they come and go, my boy,
The years they come and go;
And raven locks and tresses brown
Grow white as driven snow.
My life has known its sorrows, John,
Its trials and troubles sore;
Yet God withal has blessed me, John,
"In basket and in store."
 
 
But one thing let me tell you, John,
Before you make a start,
There's more in being honest, John,
Twice o'er than being smart.
Though rogues may seem to flourish, John,
And sterling worth to fail,
Oh! keep in view the good and true;
'Twill in the end prevail.
 
 
Don't think too much of money, John,
And dig and delve and plan,
And rake and scrape in every shape,
To hoard up all you can.
Though fools may count their riches, John,
In dollars and in cents,
The best of wealth is youth and health,
And good sound common sense.
 
 
And don't be mean and stingy, John,
But lay a little by
Of what you earn; you soon will learn
How fast 'twill multiply.
So when old age comes creeping on,
You'll have a goodly store
Of wealth to furnish all your needs—
And maybe something more.
 
 
There's shorter cuts to fortune, John,
We see them every day;
But those who save their self-respect
Climb up the good old way.
"All is not gold that glitters," John,
And makes the vulgar stare,
And those we deem the richest, John,
Have oft the least to spare.
 
 
Don't meddle with your neighbors, John,
Their sorrows or their cares;
You'll find enough to do, my boy,
To mind your own affairs.
The world is full of idle tongues—
You can afford to shirk!
There's lots of people ready, John,
To do such dirty work.
 
 
And if amid the race for fame
You win a shining prize,
The humbler work of honest men
You never should despise;
For each one has his mission, John,
In life's unchanging plan—
Though lowly be his station, John,
He is no less a man.
 
 
Be good, be pure, be noble, John;
Be honest, brave, be true;
And do to others as you would
That they should do to you;
And put your trust in God, my boy,
Though fiery darts be hurled;
Then you can smile at Satan's rage,
And face a frowning world.
 
 
Good-by! May Heaven guard and bless
Your footsteps day by day;
The old house will be lonesome, John,
When you are gone away.
The cricket's song upon the hearth
Will have a sadder tone;
The old familiar spots will be
So lonely when you're gone.
 

Bernardo Del Carpio

King Alphonso of Asturias had imprisoned the Count Saldana, about the time of the birth of the Count's son Bernardo. In an effort to secure his father's release, Bernardo, when old enough, took up arms. Finally the King offered Bernardo possession of his father's person, in exchange for the Castle of Carpio and all the King's subjects there imprisoned. The cruel trick played by the King on Bernardo is here described.

 
The warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire,
And sued the haughty king to free his long-imprisoned sire;
"I bring thee here my fortress-keys, I bring my captive train,
I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord!—oh break my father's chain!"
"Rise, rise! even now thy father comes, a ransomed man this day;
Mount thy good horse; and thou and I will meet him on his way."
Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed,
And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's foamy speed.
And lo! from far, as on they pressed, there came a glittering band,
With one that midst them stately rode, as leader in the land:
"Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there, in very truth, is he,
The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearned so long to see."
His dark eye flashed, his proud breast heaved, his cheek's hue came and went;
He reached that gray-haired chieftain's side, and there, dismounting, bent;
A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand he took—
What was there in its touch that all his fiery spirit shook?
That hand was cold,—a frozen thing,—it dropped from his like lead!
He looked up to the face above,—the face was of the dead!
A plume waved o'er the noble brow,—the brow was fixed and white,
He met, at last, his father's eyes, but in them was no sight!
Up from the ground he sprang and gazed, but who could paint that gaze?
They hushed their very hearts that saw its horror and amaze.
They might have chained him, as before that stony form he stood,
For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his lip the blood.
"Father!" at length he murmured low, and wept like childhood then;
Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men!
He thought on all his glorious hopes, and all his young renown;
He flung the falchion from his side, and in the dust sat down.
Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his darkly mournful brow:
"No more, there is no more," he said, "to lift the sword for now;
My king is false, my hope betrayed, my father—oh, the worth,
The glory, and the loveliness, are passed away from earth!
I thought to stand where banners waved, my sire, beside thee, yet!
I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's free soil had met!
Thou wouldst have known my spirit then;—for thee my fields were won;
And thou hast perished in thy chains, as though thou hadst no son!"
Then, starting from the ground once more, he seized the monarch's rein,
Amidst the pale and 'wildered looks of all the courtier train;
And, with a fierce, o'ermastering grasp, the rearing war-horse led,
And sternly set them face to face, the king before the dead:
"Came I not forth, upon thy pledge, my father's hand to kiss?
Be still, and gaze thou on, false king! and tell me what is this?
The voice, the glance, the heart I sought—give answer, where are they?
If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life through this cold clay!
Into these glassy eyes put light; be still! keep down thine ire;
Bid these white lips a blessing speak, this earth is not my sire.
Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood was shed!
Thou canst not?—and a king!—his dust be mountains on thy head."
He loosed the steed—his slack hand fell; upon the silent face
He cast one long, deep, troubled look, then turned from that sad place.
His hope was crushed, his after fate untold in martial strain;
His banner led the spears no more, amidst the hills of Spain.
 

Felicia Hemans.

Mizpah

 
Go thou thy way, and I go mine,
Apart—but not afar.
Only a thin veil hangs between
The pathways where we are,
And God keep watch 'tween thee and me
This is my prayer.
He looks thy way—He looketh mine
And keeps us near.
 
 
I know not where thy road may lie
Nor which way mine will be,
If thine will lead through parching sands
And mine beside the sea.
Yet God keeps watch 'tween thee and me,
So never fear.
He holds thy hand—He claspeth mine
And keeps us near.
 
 
Should wealth and fame perchance be thine
And my lot lowly be,
Or you be sad and sorrowful
And glory be for me,
Yet God keep watch 'tween thee and me,
Both are his care.
One arm round me and one round thee
Will keep us near.
 
 
I sigh sometimes to see thy face
But since this may not be
I leave thee to the love of Him
Who cares for thee and me.
"I'll keep ye both beneath My wings,"
This comforts—dear.
One wing o'er thee—and one o'er me,
So we are near.
 
 
And though our paths be separate
And thy way be not mine—
Yet coming to the mercy seat
My soul shall meet with thine.
And "God keep watch 'tween thee and me"
I'll whisper there.
He blesses me—He blesses thee
And we are near.
 

God

 
O Thou eternal One! whose presence bright
All space doth occupy, all motion guide—
Unchanged through time's all-devastating flight!
Thou only God—there is no God beside!
Being above all beings! Mighty One,
Whom none can comprehend and none explore,
Who fill'st existence with Thyself alone—
Embracing all, supporting, ruling o'er,—
Being whom we call God, and know no more!
 
 
In its sublime research, philosophy
May measure out the ocean-deep—may count
The sands or the sun's rays—but, God! for Thee
There is no weight nor measure; none can mount
Up to thy mysteries:* Reason's brightest spark,
Though kindled by Thy light, in vain would try
To trace Thy counsels, infinite and dark:
And thought is lost ere thought can soar so high,
Even like past moments in eternity.
 
 
Thou from primeval nothingness didst call
First chaos, then existence—Lord! in Thee
Eternity had its foundation; all
Sprung forth from Thee—of light, joy, harmony,
Sole Origin—all life, all beauty Thine;
Thy word created all, and doth create;
Thy splendor fills all space with rays divine;
Thou art and wert and shalt be! Glorious! Great!
Light-giving, life-sustaining Potentate!
 
 
Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround—
Upheld by Thee, by Thee inspired with breath!
Thou the beginning with the end hast bound,
And beautifully mingled life and death!
As sparks mount upward from the fiery blaze,
So suns are born, so worlds spring forth from Thee;
And as the spangles in the sunny rays
Shine round the silver snow, the pageantry
Of heaven's bright army glitters in Thy praise.
 
 
A million torches, lighted by Thy hand,
Wander unwearied through the blue abyss—
They own Thy power, accomplish Thy command,
All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss.
What shall we call them? Piles of crystal light—
A glorious company of golden streams—
Lamps of celestial ether burning bright—
Suns lighting systems with their joyous beams?
But Thou to these art as the noon to night.
 
 
Yes! as a drop of water in the sea,
All this magnificence in Thee is lost:—
What are ten thousand worlds compared to Thee?
And what am I then?—Heaven's unnumbered host,
Though multiplied by myriads, and arrayed
In all the glory of sublimest thought,
Is but an atom in the balance, weighed
Against Thy greatness—is a cipher brought
Against infinity! What am I then? Naught!
 
 
Naught! But the effluence of Thy light divine,
Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom too;
Yes! in my spirit doth Thy spirit shine
As shines the sunbeam in a drop of dew.
Naught! but I live, and on hope's pinions fly
Eager toward Thy presence; for in Thee
I live, and breathe, and dwell; aspiring high,
Even to the throne of Thy divinity.
I am, O God! and surely Thou must be!
 
 
Thou art!—directing, guiding all—Thou art!
Direct my understanding then to Thee;
Control my spirit, guide my wandering heart;
Though but an atom midst immensity,
Still I am something, fashioned by Thy hand!
I hold a middle rank 'twixt heaven and earth—
On the last verge of mortal being stand.
Close to the realm where angels have their birth,
Just on the boundaries of the spirit-land!
 
 
The chain of being is complete in me—
In me is matter's last gradation lost,
And the next step is spirit—Deity!
I can command the lightning, and am dust!
A monarch and a slave—a worm, a god!
Whence came I here, and how? so marvelously
Constructed and conceived? unknown! this clod
Lives surely through some higher energy;
For from itself alone it could not be!
 
 
Creator, yes! Thy wisdom and Thy word
Created me! Thou source of life and good!
Thou spirit of my spirit, and my Lord!
Thy light, Thy love, in their bright plenitude
Filled me with an immortal soul, to spring
Over the abyss of death; and bade it wear
The garments of eternal day, and wing
Its heavenly flight beyond this little sphere,
Even to its source—to Thee—its Author there.
 
 
O thoughts ineffable! O visions blest!
Though worthless our conceptions all of Thee,
Yet shall Thy shadowed image fill our breast.
And waft its homage to Thy Deity.
God! thus alone my lowly thoughts can soar,
Thus seek thy presence—Being wise and good!
Midst Thy vast works admire, obey, adore;
And when the tongue is eloquent no more
The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude.
 

Gabriel Somanovitch Derzhavin.