Poems Teachers Ask For, Book Two

The Legend Beautiful

 
"Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!"
 

 
That is what the vision said.
In his chamber all alone,
Kneeling on the floor of stone,
Prayed the Monk in deep contrition
For his sins of indecision,
Prayed for greater self-denial
In temptation and in trial;
It was noonday by the dial,
And the Monk was all alone.
 
 
Suddenly, as if it lightened,
An unwonted splendor brightened
All within him and without him
In that narrow cell of stone;
And he saw the blessed vision
Of our Lord, with light Elysian
Like a vesture wrapped about Him,
Like a garment round Him thrown.
 
 
Not as crucified and slain
Not in agonies of pain,
Not with bleeding hands and feet,
Did the Monk his Master see;
But as in the village street,
In the house or harvest field,
Halt and lame and blind He healed,
When He walked in Galilee.
 
 
In as attitude imploring,
Hands upon his bosom crossed,
Wondering, worshiping, adoring,
Knelt the Monk, in rapture lost,
Lord, he thought, in heaven that reignest,
Who am I that thus Thou deignest
To reveal Thyself to me?
Who am I, that from the center
Of Thy glory Thou shouldst enter
This poor cell, my guest to be?
 
 
Then amid his exaltation,
Loud the convent bell appalling,
From its belfrey calling, calling,
Rang through court and corridor
With persistent iteration,
He had never heard before.
It was now the appointed hour
When alike in shine or shower,
Winter's cold or summer's heat,
To the convent portals came
All the blind and halt and lame,
All the beggars of the street,
For their daily dole of food
Dealt them by the brotherhood;
 
 
And their almoner was he
Who upon his bended knees
Rapt in silent ecstasy
Of divinest self-surrender,
Saw the vision and the splendor.
Deep distress and hesitation
Mingled with his adoration;
Should he go, or should he stay?
Should he leave the poor to wait
Hungry at the convent gate,
Till the vision passed away?
Should he slight his radiant guest,
Slight this visitant celestial
For a crowd of ragged, bestial
Beggars at the convent gate?
Would the vision there remain?
Would the vision come again?
Then a voice within his breast
Whispered audible and clear,
As if to the outward ear:
"Do thy duty; that is best;
Leave unto thy Lord the rest!"
 
 
Straightway to his feet he started,
And with longing look intent
On the blessed vision bent,
Slowly from his cell departed,
Slowly on his errand went.
 
 
At the gate the poor were waiting,
Looking through the iron grating,
With that terror in the eye
That is only seen in those
Who amid their wants and woes
Hear the sound of doors that close.
And of feet that pass them by:
Grown familiar with disfavor,
Grown familiar with the savor
Of the bread by which men die;
But to-day, they knew not why,
Like the gate of Paradise
Seemed the convent gate to rise,
Like a sacrament divine
Seemed to them the bread and wine.
In his heart the Monk was praying,
Thinking of the homeless poor,
What they suffer and endure;
What we see not, what we see;
And the inward voice was saying:
"Whatsoever thing thou doest
To the least of mine and lowest,
That thou doest unto me."
 
 
Unto me! but had the vision
Come to him in beggar's clothing,
Come a mendicant imploring,
Would he then have knelt adoring,
Or have listened with derision,
And have turned away with loathing?
 
 
Thus his conscience put the question,
Full of troublesome suggestion,
As at length, with hurried pace,
Toward his cell he turned his face,
And beheld the convent bright
With a supernatural light,
Like a luminous cloud expanding
Over floor and wall and ceiling.
 
 
But he paused with awe-struck feeling
At the threshold of his door,
For the vision still was standing
As he left it there before,
When the convent bell appalling,
From its belfry calling, calling,
Summoned him to feed the poor.
Through the long hour intervening
It had waited his return,
And he felt his bosom burn,
Comprehending all the meaning,
When the blessed vision said:
"Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled."
 

Henry W. Longfellow.

Somebody's Darling

 
Into a ward of the whitewashed halls,
Where the dead and dying lay,
Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls,
Somebody's Darling was borne one day—
 
 
Somebody's Darling, so young and so brave,
Wearing yet on his pale, sweet face,
Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave,
The lingering light of his boyhood's grace.
 
 
Matted and damp are the curls of gold,
Kissing the snow of the fair young brow,
Pale are the lips of delicate mold—
Somebody's Darling is dying now.
 
 
Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow
Brush all the wandering waves of gold,
Cross his hands on his bosom now—
Somebody's Darling is still and cold.
 
 
Kiss him once for somebody's sake,
Murmur a prayer both soft and low;
One bright curl from its fair mates take—
They were somebody's pride, you know.
 
 
Somebody's hand hath rested there—
Was it a mother's, soft and white?
And have the lips of a sister fair
Been baptized in their waves of light?
 
 
God knows best! he was somebody's love;
Somebody's heart enshrined him there;
Somebody wafted his name above,
Night and morn on the wings of prayer.
 
 
Somebody wept when he marched away,
Looking so handsome, brave, and grand;
Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay,
Somebody clung to his parting hand.
 
 
Somebody's waiting and watching for him—
Yearning to hold him again to her heart;
And there he lies with his blue eyes dim,
And the smiling, child-like lips apart.
 
 
Tenderly bury the fair young dead,
Pausing to drop on his grave a tear;
Carve in the wooden slab at his head,
"Somebody's Darling slumbers here."
 

Maria La Coste.

The Pride of Battery B

 
South Mountain towered upon our right, far off the river lay,
And over on the wooded height we held their lines at bay.
At last the muttering guns were still; the day died slow and wan;
At last the gunners pipes did fill, the sergeant's yarns began.
When, as the wind a moment blew aside the fragrant flood
Our brierwoods raised, within our view a little maiden stood.
A tiny tot of six or seven, from fireside fresh she seemed,
(Of such a little one in heaven one soldier often dreamed.)
And as we stared, her little hand went to her curly head
In grave salute. "And who are you?" at length the sergeant said.
"And where's your home?" he growled again. She lisped out, "Who is me?
Why, don't you know? I'm little Jane, the Pride of Battery B.
My home? Why, that was burned away, and pa and ma are dead;
And so I ride the guns all day along with Sergeant Ned.
And I've a drum that's not a toy, a cap with feathers, too;
And I march beside the drummer boy on Sundays at review.
But now our 'bacca's all give out, the men can't have their smoke,
And so they're cross—why, even Ned won't play with me and joke.
And the big colonel said to-day—I hate to hear him swear—
He'd give a leg for a good pipe like the Yanks had over there.
And so I thought when beat the drum, and the big guns were still,
I'd creep beneath the tent and come out here across the hill
And beg, good Mister Yankee men, you'd give me some 'Lone Jack.'
Please do: when we get some again, I'll surely bring it back.
Indeed I will, for Ned—says he,—if I do what I say,
I'll be a general yet, maybe, and ride a prancing bay."
 
 
We brimmed her tiny apron o'er; you should have heard her laugh
As each man from his scanty store shook out a generous half.
To kiss the little mouth stooped down a score of grimy men,
Until the sergeant's husky voice said,"'Tention squad!" and then
We gave her escort, till good-night the pretty waif we bid,
And watched her toddle out of sight—or else 'twas tears that hid
Her tiny form—nor turned about a man, nor spoke a word,
Till after awhile a far, hoarse shout upon the wind we heard!
We sent it back, then cast sad eyes upon the scene around;
A baby's hand had touched the ties that brothers once had bound.
 
 
That's all—save when the dawn awoke again the work of hell,
And through the sullen clouds of smoke the screaming missiles fell,
Our general often rubbed his glass, and marveled much to see
Not a single shell that whole day fell in the camp of Battery B.
 

Frank H. Gassaway.

The Wood-Box

 
It was kept out in the kitchen, and 'twas long and deep and wide,
And the poker hung above it and the shovel stood beside,
And the big, black cookstove, grinnin' through its grate from ear to ear,
Seemed to look as if it loved it like a brother, pretty near.
Flowered oilcloth tacked around it kept its cracks and knot-holes hid,
And a pair of leather hinges fastened on the heavy lid,
And it hadn't any bottom—or, at least, it seemed that way
When you hurried in to fill it, so's to get outside and play.
 
 
When the noons was hot and lazy and the leaves hung dry and still,
And the locust in the pear tree started up his planin'-mill,
And the drum-beat of the breakers was a soothin', temptin' roll,
And you knew the "gang" was waitin' by the brimmin' "swimmin' hole"—
Louder than the locust's buzzin,' louder than the breakers' roar,
You could hear the wood-box holler, "Come and fill me up once more!"
And the old clock ticked and chuckled as you let each armful drop,
Like it said, "Another minute, and you're nowheres near the top!"
 
 
In the chilly winter mornin's when the bed was snug and warm,
And the frosted winders tinkled 'neath the fingers of the storm,
And your breath rose off the piller in a smoky cloud of steam—
Then that wood-box, grim and empty, came a-dancin' through your dream,
Came and pounded at your conscience, screamed in aggravatin' glee,
"Would you like to sleep this mornin'? You git up and 'tend to me!"
Land! how plain it is this minute—shed and barn and drifted snow,
And the slabs of oak a-waitin!, piled and ready, in a row.
 
 
Never was a fishin' frolic, never was a game of ball,
But that mean, provokin' wood-box had to come and spoil it all;
You might study at your lessons and 'twas full and full to stay,
But jest start an Injun story, and 'twas empty right away.
Seemed as if a spite was in it, and although I might forgit
All the other chores that plagued me, I can hate that wood-box yit:
And when I look back at boyhood—shakin' off the cares of men—
Still it comes to spoil the picture, screamin', "Fill me up again!"
 

Joseph C. Lincoln.

Inasmuch

 
Good Deacon Roland—"may his tribe increase!"—
Awoke one Sabbath morn feeling at peace
With God and all mankind. His wants supplied,
He read his Bible and then knelt beside
The family altar, and uplifted there
His voice to God in fervent praise and prayer;
In praise for blessings past, so rich and free,
And prayer for benedictions yet to be.
Then on a stile, which spanned the dooryard fence,
He sat him down complacently, and thence
Surveyed with pride, o'er the far-reaching plain,
His flocks and herds and fields of golden grain;
His meadows waving like the billowy seas,
And orchards filled with over-laden trees,
Quoth he: "How vast the products of my lands;
Abundance crowns the labor of my hands,
Great is my substance; God indeed is good,
Who doth in love provide my daily food."
 
 
While thus he sat in calm soliloquy,
A voice aroused him from his reverie,—
A childish voice from one whose shoeless feet
Brought him unnoticed to the deacon's seat;
"Please mister, I have eaten naught to-day;
If I had money I would gladly pay
For bread; but I am poor, and cannot buy
My breakfast; mister, would you mind if I
Should ask for something, just for what you call
Cold pieces from your table, that is all?"
The deacon listened to the child's request,
The while his penetrating eye did rest
On him whose tatters, trembling, quick revealed
The agitation of the heart concealed
Within the breast of one unskilled in ruse,
Who asked not alms like one demanding dues.
Then said the deacon: "I am not inclined
To give encouragement to those who find
It easier to beg for bread betimes,
Than to expend their strength in earning dimes
Wherewith to purchase it. A parent ought
To furnish food for those whom he has brought
Into this world, where each one has his share
Of tribulation, sorrow, toil and care.
I sympathize with you, my little lad,
Your destitution makes me feel so sad;
But, for the sake of those who should supply
Your wants, I must your earnest plea deny;
And inasmuch as giving food to you
Would be providing for your parents, too,
Thus fostering vagrancy and idleness,
I cannot think such charity would bless
Who gives or takes; and therefore I repeat,
I cannot give you anything to eat."
Before this "vasty deep" of logic stood
The child nor found it satisfying food.
Nor did he tell the tale he might have told
Of parents slumbering in the grave's damp mould,
But quickly shrank away to find relief
In giving vent to his rekindled grief,
While Deacon Roland soon forgot the appeal
In meditating on his better weal.
 
 
Ere long the Sabbath bells their peals rang out
To summon worshippers, with hearts devout,
To wait on God and listen to His word;
And then the deacon's pious heart was stirred;
And in the house of God he soon was found
Engaged in acts of worship most profound.
Wearied, however, with his week-day care,
He fell asleep before the parson's prayer
Was ended; then he dreamed he died and came
To heaven's grand portal, and announced his name:
"I'm Deacon Roland, called from earth afar,
To join the saints; please set the gates ajar,
That I may 'join the everlasting song,'
And mingle ever with the ransomed throng."
Then lo! "a horror of great darkness" came
Upon him, as he heard a voice exclaim:
"Depart from me! you cannot enter here!
I never knew you, for indeed, howe'er
You may have wrought on earth, the sad, sad fact
Remains, that life's sublimest, worthiest act—"
The deacon woke to find it all a dream
Just as the minister announced his theme:
"My text," said he, "doth comfort only such
As practice charity; for 'inasmuch
As ye have done it to the least of these
My little ones' saith He who holds the keys
Of heaven, 'ye have done it unto me,'
And I will give you immortality."
 
 
Straightway the deacon left his cushioned pew,
And from the church in sudden haste withdrew,
And up the highway ran, on love's swift feet
To overtake the child of woe, and greet
Him as the worthy representative
Of Christ the Lord and to him freely give
All needful good, that thus he might atone
For the neglect which he before had shown.
Thus journeying, God directed all his way,
O'er hill and dale, to where the outcast lay
Beside the road bemoaning his sad fate.
And then the deacon said, "My child, 'tis late;
Make haste and journey with me to my home;
To guide you thither, I myself have come;
And you shall have the food you asked in vain,
For God himself hath made my duty plain;
If he demand it, all I have is thine;
Shrink not, but trust me; place thy hand in mine."
And as they journeyed toward the deacon's home,
The child related how he came to roam,
Until the listening deacon understood
The touching story of his orphanhood.
Then, finding in the little waif a gem
Worthy to deck the Saviour's diadem,
He drew him to his loving breast, and said,
"My child, you shall by me be clothed and fed;
Nor shall you go from hence again to roam
While God in love provides for us a home."
And as the weeks and months roll on apace,
The deacon held the lad in love's embrace;
And being childless did on him confer
The boon of sonship.
 
 
Thus the almoner
Of God's great bounty to the destitute
The deacon came to be; and as the fruit
Of having learned to keep the golden rule
His charity became all-bountiful;
And from thenceforth he lived to benefit
Mankind; and when in life's great book were writ
Their names who heeded charity's request,
Lo! Deacon Roland's "name led all the rest."
 

S.V.R. Ford.

No Sects in Heaven

 
Talking of sects quite late one eve,
What one and another of saints believe,
That night I stood in a troubled dream
By the side of a darkly-flowing stream.
 
 
And a "churchman" down to the river came,
When I heard a strange voice call his name,
"Good father, stop; when you cross this tide
You must leave your robes on the other side."
 
 
But the aged father did not mind,
And his long gown floated out behind
As down to the stream his way he took,
His hands firm hold of a gilt-edged book.
 
 
"I'm bound for heaven, and when I'm there
I shall want my book of Common Prayer,
And though I put on a starry crown,
I should feel quite lost without my gown."
 
 
Then he fixed his eye on the shining track,
But his gown was heavy and held him back,
And the poor old father tried in vain,
A single step in the flood to gain.
 
 
I saw him again on the other side,
But his silk gown floated on the tide,
And no one asked, in that blissful spot,
If he belonged to "the church" or not.
 
 
Then down to the river a Quaker strayed;
His dress of a sober hue was made,
"My hat and coat must be all of gray,
I cannot go any other way."
 
 
Then he buttoned his coat straight up to his chin
And staidly, solemnly, waded in,
And his broad-brimmed hat he pulled down tight
Over his forehead, so cold and white.
 
 
But a strong wind carried away his hat,
And he sighed a few moments over that,
And then, as he gazed to the farther shore
The coat slipped off and was seen no more.
 
 
Poor, dying Quaker, thy suit of gray
Is quietly sailing—away—away,
But thou'lt go to heaven, as straight as an arrow,
Whether thy brim be broad or narrow.
 
 
Next came Dr. Watts with a bundle of psalms
Tied nicely up in his aged arms,
And hymns as many, a very wise thing,
That the people in heaven, "all round," might sing.
 
 
But I thought that he heaved an anxious sigh,
As he saw that the river ran broad and high,
And looked rather surprised, as one by one,
The psalms and hymns in the wave went down.
 
 
And after him, with his MSS.,
Came Wesley, the pattern of godliness,
But he cried, "Dear me, what shall I do?
The water has soaked them through and through."
 
 
And there, on the river, far and wide,
Away they went on the swollen tide,
And the saint, astonished, passed through alone,
Without his manuscripts, up to the throne.
 
 
Then gravely walking, two saints by name,
Down to the stream together came,
But as they stopped at the river's brink,
I saw one saint from the other shrink.
 
 
"Sprinkled or plunged—may I ask you, friend,
How you attained to life's great end?"
"Thus, with a few drops on my brow";
"But I have been dipped, as you'll see me now.
 
 
"And I really think it will hardly do,
As I'm 'close communion,' to cross with you.
You're bound, I know, to the realms of bliss,
But you must go that way, and I'll go this."
 
 
And straightway plunging with all his might,
Away to the left—his friend at the right,
Apart they went from this world of sin,
But how did the brethren "enter in"?
 
 
And now where the river was rolling on,
A Presbyterian church went down;
Of women, there seemed an innumerable throng,
But the men I could count as they passed along.
 
 
And concerning the road they could never agree,
The old or the new way, which it could be;
Nor ever a moment paused to think
That both would lead to the river's brink.
 
 
And a sound of murmuring long and loud
Came ever up from the moving crowd,
"You're in the old way, and I'm in the new,
That is the false, and this is the true":
Or, "I'm in the old way, and you're in the new,
That is the false, and this is the true."
 
 
But the brethren only seemed to speak,
Modest the sisters walked, and meek,
And if ever one of them chanced to say
What troubles she met with on the way,
 
 
How she longed to pass to the other side,
Nor feared to cross over the swelling tide,
A voice arose from the brethren then,
"Let no one speak but the 'holy men,'
For have ye not heard the words of Paul?
'Oh, let the women keep silence all.'"
 
 
I watched them long in my curious dream.
Till they stood by the border of the stream,
Then, just as I thought, the two ways met.
But all the brethren were talking yet,
And would talk on, till the heaving tide
Carried them over, side by side;
Side by side, for the way was one,
The toilsome journey of life was done,
And priest and Quaker, and all who died,
Came out alike on the other side;
No forms or crosses, or books had they,
No gowns of silk, or suits of gray,
No creeds to guide them, or MSS.,
For all had put on "Christ's righteousness."
 

Elizabeth H. Jocelyn Cleaveland.

The Railroad Crossing

 
I can't tell much about the thing, 'twas done so powerful quick;
But 'pears to me I got a most outlandish heavy lick:
It broke my leg, and tore my skulp, and jerked my arm 'most out.
But take a seat: I'll try and tell jest how it kem about.
 
 
You see, I'd started down to town, with that 'ere team of mine,
A-haulin' down a load o' corn to Ebenezer Kline,
And drivin' slow; for, jest about a day or two before,
The off-horse run a splinter in his foot, and made it sore.
 
 
You know the railroad cuts across the road at Martin's Hole:
Well, thar I seed a great big sign, raised high upon a pole;
I thought I'd stop and read the thing, and find out what it said,
And so I stopped the hosses on the railroad-track, and read.
 
 
I ain't no scholar, rekollect, and so I had to spell,
I started kinder cautious like, with R-A-I and L;
And that spelt "rail" as clear as mud; R-O-A-D was "road."
I lumped 'em: "railroad" was the word, and that 'ere much I knowed.
 
 
C-R-O and double S, with I-N-G to boot,
Made "crossing" jest as plain as Noah Webster dared to do't.
"Railroad crossing"—good enough!—L double-O-K, "look";
And I wos lookin' all the time, and spellin' like a book.
 
 
O-U-T spelt "out" just right; and there it was, "look out,"
I's kinder cur'us like, to know jest what't was all about;
F-O-R and T-H-E; 'twas then "look out for the—"
And then I tried the next word; it commenced with E-N-G.
 
 
I'd got that fur, when suddintly there came an awful whack;
A thousand fiery thunderbolts just scooped me off the track;
The hosses went to Davy Jones, the wagon went to smash,
And I was histed seven yards above the tallest ash.
 
 
I didn't come to life ag'in fur 'bout a day or two;
But, though I'm crippled up a heap, I sorter struggled through;
It ain't the pain, nor 'taint the loss o' that 'ere team of mine;
But, stranger, how I'd like to know the rest of that 'ere sign!
 

Hezekiah Strong.