Poems Teachers Ask For, Book Two

Casabianca

The boy stood on the burning deck,Whence all but him had fled;The flame that lit the battle's wreckShone round him o'er the dead.Yet beautiful and bright he stood,As born to rule the storm;A creature of heroic blood,A proud, though childlike form.The flames roll'd on—he would not goWithout his father's word;That father, faint in death below,His voice no longer heard.He called aloud: "Say, father, sayIf yet my task is done?"He knew not that the chieftain layUnconscious of his son."Speak, father!" once again he cried,"If I may yet be gone!"And but the booming shots replied,And fast the flames roll'd on.Upon his brow he felt their breath,And in his waving hair;And looked from that lone post of deathIn still, yet brave despair.And shouted but once more aloud,"My father! must I stay?"While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,The wreathing fires made way.They wrapt the ship in splendor wild,They caught the flag on high,And streamed above the gallant child,Like banners in the sky.There came a burst of thunder sound—The boy—oh! where was he?Ask of the winds that far aroundWith fragments strewed the sea!With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,That well had borne their part—But the noblest thing that perished thereWas that young, faithful heart.Felicia Hemans.

Monterey

We were not many,—we who stoodBefore the iron sleet that day;Yet many a gallant spirit wouldGive half his years if he but couldHave been with us at Monterey.Now here, now there, the shot it hailedIn deadly drifts of fiery spray,Yet not a single soldier quailedWhen wounded comrades round them wailedTheir dying shout at Monterey.And on, still on our column kept,Through walls of flame, its withering way;Where fell the dead, the living stept,Still charging on the guns which sweptThe slippery streets of Monterey.The foe himself recoiled aghast,When, striking where he strongest lay,We swooped his flanking batteries past,And braving full their murderous blast,Stormed home the towers of Monterey.Our banners on those turrets wave,And there our evening bugles play;Where orange boughs above their graveKeep green the memory of the braveWho fought and fell at Monterey.We are not many, we who pressedBeside the brave who fell that day;But who of us has not confessedHe'd rather share their warrior rest,Than not have been at Monterey?Charles Fenno Hoffman.

The Teacher's "If"

If you can take your dreams into the classroom,And always make them part of each day's work—If you can face the countless petty problemsNor turn from them nor ever try to shirk—If you can live so that the child you work withDeep in his heart knows you to be a man—If you can take "I can't" from out his languageAnd put in place a vigorous "I can"—If you can take Love with you to the classroom,And yet on Firmness never shut the door—If you can teach a child the love of NatureSo that he helps himself to all her store—If you can teach him life is what we make it,That he himself can be his only bar—If you can tell him something of the heavens,Or something of the wonder of a star—If you, with simple bits of truth and honor,His better self occasionally reach—And yet not overdo nor have him dub youAs one who is inclined to ever preach—If you impart to him a bit of likingFor all the wondrous things we find in print—Yet have him understand that to be happy,Play, exercise, fresh air he must not stint—If you can give of all the best that's in you,And in the giving always happy be—If you can find the good that's hidden somewhereDeep in the heart of every child you see—If you can do these things and all the othersThat teachers everywhere do every day—You're in the work that you were surely meant for;Take hold of it! Know it's your place and stay!R.J. Gale.

The Good Shepherd

There were ninety and nineOf a flock, sleek and fineIn a sheltering cote in the vale;But a lamb was away,On the mountain astray,Unprotected within the safe pale.Then the sleet and the rainOn the mountain and plain,And the wind fiercely blowing a gale,And the night's growing dark,And the wolf's hungry barkStir the soul of the shepherd so hale.And he says, "Hireling, go;For a lamb's in the snowAnd exposed to the wild hungry beast;'Tis no time to keep seat,Nor to rest weary feet,Nor to sit at a bounteous feast."Then the hireling replied,"Here you have at your sideAll your flock save this one little sheep.Are the ninety and nine,All so safe and so fine,Not enough for the shepherd to keep?"Then the shepherd replied,"Ah! this lamb from my sidePresses near, very near, to my heart.Not its value in payMakes me urge in this way,But the longings and achings of heart.""Let me wait till the day,O good shepherd, I pray;For I shudder to go in the darkOn the mountain so highAnd its precipice nigh'Mong the wolves with their frightening bark."Then the shepherd said, "No;Surely some one must goWho can rescue my lamb from the cold,From the wolf's hungry mawAnd the lion's fierce pawAnd restore it again to the fold."Then the shepherd goes outWith his cloak girt aboutAnd his rod and his staff in his hand.What cares he for the coldIf his sheep to the foldHe can bring from the dark mountain land?You can hear his clear voiceAs the mountains rejoice,"Sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep!"Up the hillside so steep,Into caverns so deep,"Sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep!"Now he hears its weak "baa,"And he answers it, "Ah!Sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep!"Then its answering bleatHurries on his glad feet,And his arms gather up his lost sheep.Wet and cold on his breastThe lost lamb found its restAs he bore it adown to the fold.And the ninety and nineBleat for joy down the line,That it's safe from the wolf and the cold.Then he said to his friends,"Now let joy make amendsFor the steeps and the deeps I have crossed—For the pelting of sleetAnd my sore, weary feet,For I've found the dear lamb that was lost."Let the hirelings upbraidFor the nights that He stayedOn the mountains so rugged and high.Surely never a jeerFrom my lips shall one hear,For—that poor lonely lambkin—was—I.While the eons shall rollO'er my glad ransomed soulI will praise the Good Shepherd above,For a place on His breast,For its comfort and rest,For His wonderful, wonderful love.D. N. Howe.

A Sermon in Rhyme

If you have a friend worth loving,Love him. Yes, and let him knowThat you love him ere life's eveningTinge his brow with sunset glow;Why should good words ne'er be saidOf a friend—till he is dead?If you hear a song that thrills you,Sung by any child of song,Praise it. Do not let the singerWait deserved praises long;Why should one that thrills your heartLack that joy it may impart?If you hear a prayer that moves youBy its humble pleading tone,Join it. Do not let the seekerBow before his God alone;Why should not your brother shareThe strength of "two or three" in prayer?If you see the hot tears fallingFrom a loving brother's eyes,Share them, and by sharing,Own your kinship with the skies;Why should anyone be glad,When his brother's heart is sad?If a silver laugh goes ripplingThrough the sunshine on his face,Share it. 'Tis the wise man's saying,For both grief and joy a place;There's health and goodness in the mirthIn which an honest laugh has birth.If your work is made more easyBy a friendly helping hand,Say so. Speak out brave and truly,Ere the darkness veil the land.Should a brother workman dearFalter for a word of cheer?Scatter thus your seed of kindness,All enriching as you go—Leave them, trust the Harvest-Giver;He will make each seed to grow.So, until its happy end,Your life shall never lack a friend.

The Fortunate Isles

You sail and you seek for the Fortunate Isles,The old Greek Isles of the yellow bird's song?Then steer right on through the watery miles,Straight on, straight on, and you can't go wrong.Nay, not to the left, nay, not to the right;But on, straight on, and the Isles are in sight,The Fortunate Isles, where the yellow birds singAnd life lies girt with a golden ring.These Fortunate Isles, they are not far;They lie within reach of the lowliest door;You can see them gleam by the twilight star;You can hear them sing by the moon's white shore,Nay, never look back! Those leveled gravestones,They were landing steps; they were steps unto thronesOf glory for souls that have sailed beforeAnd have set white feet on the fortunate shore.And what are the names of the Fortunate Isles?Why, Duty and Love and a large content.Lo! there are the isles of the watery milesThat God let down from the firmament;Lo! Duty and Love, and a true man's trust;Your forehead to God and your feet in the dust;Lo! Duty and Love, and a sweet babe's smiles,And there, O friend, are the Fortunate Isles.Joaquin Miller.

What the Choir Sang About the New Bonnet

A foolish little maiden bought a foolish little bonnet,With a ribbon, and a feather, and a bit of lace upon it;And that the other maidens of the little town might know it,She thought she'd go to meeting the next Sunday just to show it.But though the little bonnet was scarce larger than a dime,The getting of it settled proved to be a work of time;So when 'twas fairly tied, all the bells had stopped their ringing,And when she came to meeting, sure enough the folks were singing.So this foolish little maiden stood and waited at the door;And she shook her ruffles out behind and smoothed them down before."Hallelujah! hallelujah!" sang the choir above her head."Hardly knew you! hardly knew you!" were the words she thought they said.This made the little maiden feel so very, very cross,That she gave her little mouth a twist, her little head a toss;For she thought the very hymn they sang was all about her bonnet,With the ribbon, and the feather, and the bit of lace upon it.And she would not wait to listen to the sermon or the prayer,But pattered down the silent street, and hurried up the stair,Till she reached her little bureau, and in a band-box on it,Had hidden, safe from critics' eyes, her foolish little bonnet.Which proves, my little maidens, that each of you will findIn every Sabbath service but an echo of your mind;And the silly little head, that's filled with silly little airs,Will never get a blessing from sermon or from prayers.M. T. Morrison.

Work Thou for Pleasure

Work thou for pleasure; paint or sing or carveThe thing thou lovest, though the body starve.Who works for glory misses oft the goal;Who works for money coins his very soul.Work for work's sake then, and it well may beThat these things shall be added unto thee.Kenyon Cox.

The Tin Gee Gee

I was strolling one day down the Lawther Arcade,That place for children's toys,Where you can purchase a dolly or spadeFor your good little girls and boys.And as I passed a certain stall, said a wee little voice to me:O, I am a Colonel in a little cocked hat, and I ride on a tin Gee Gee;O, I am a Colonel in a little cocked hat, and I ride on a tin Gee Gee.Then I looked and a little tin soldier I saw,In his little cocked hat so fine.He'd a little tin sword that shone in the lightAs he led a glittering line of tin hussars,Whose sabers flashed in a manner à la military.And that little tin soldier he rode at their head,So proud on his tin Gee Gee.Then that little tin soldier he sobbed and he sighed,So I patted his little tin head.What vexes your little tin soul? said I,And this is what he said:I've been on this stall a very long time,And I'm marked twenty-nine, as you see;Whilst just on the shelf above my head,There's a fellow marked sixty-three.Now he hasn't got a sword and he hasn't got a horse,And I'm quite as good as he.So why mark me at twenty-nine,And him at sixty-three?There's a pretty little dolly girl over there,And I'm madly in love with she.But now that I'm only marked twenty-nine,She turns up her nose at me,She turns up her little wax nose at me,And carries on with sixty-three.And, oh, she's dressed in a beautiful dress;It's a dress I do admire,She has pearly blue eyes that open and shutWhen worked inside by a wire,And once on a time when the folks had gone,She used to ogle at me.But now that I'm only marked twenty-nine,She turns up her nose at me.She turns up her little snub nose at me,And carries on with sixty-three.Cheer up, my little tin man, said I,I'll see what I can do.You're a fine little fellow, and it's a shameThat she should so treat you.So I took down the label from the shelf above,And I labeled him sixty-three,And I marked the other one twenty-nine,Which was very, very wrong of me,But I felt so sorry for that little tin soul,As he rode on his tin Gee Gee.Now that little tin soldier he puffed with pride,At being marked sixty-three,And that saucy little dolly girl smiled once more,For he'd risen in life, do you see?And it's so in this world; for I'm in loveWith a maiden of high degree;But I am only marked twenty-nine,And the other chap's sixty-three—And a girl never looks at twenty-nineWith a possible sixty-three!Fred Cape.

"Tommy"

I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer,The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here."The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,I outs into the street again, an' to myself sez I:O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy go away";But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins," when the band begins to play,The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins," when the band begins to play.I went into a theater as sober as could be,They give a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls,But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls.For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy wait outside";But it's "Special train for Atkins," when the trooper's on the tide,The troopship's on the tide, my boys, etc.O makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleepIs cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap;An' hustlin' drunken sodgers when they're goin' large a bitIs five times better business than paradin' in full kit.Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?"But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll,The drums begin to roll, my boys, etc.We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints.While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy fall be'ind";But it's "Please to walk in front, sir," when there's trouble in the wind.There's trouble in the wind, my boys, etc.You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all:We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face,The Widow's uniform is not the soldierman's disgrace.For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!"But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot;An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool—you bet that Tommy sees!Rudyard Kipling.

Widow's uniform"—i.e., uniform of a soldier of Queen Victoria, who was often affectionately called "the Widow of Windsor."

The Mystic Weaver

The weaver at his loom is sitting,Throws his shuttle to and fro;Foot and treadle,Hand and pedal,Upward, downward, hither, thither,How the weaver makes them go:As the weaver wills they go.Up and down the web is plying,And across the woof is flying;What a rattling!What a battling!What a shuffling!What a scuffling!As the weaver makes his shuttleHither, thither, scud and scuttle.Threads in single, threads in double;How they mingle, what a trouble!Every color, what profusion!Every motion, what confusion!While the web and woof are mingling,Signal bells above are jingling,—Telling how each figure ranges,Telling when the color changes,As the weaver makes his shuttleHither, thither, scud and scuttle.The weaver at his loom is sitting,Throws his shuttle to and fro;'Mid the noise and wild confusion,Well the weaver seems to know,As he makes his shuttle go,What each motionAnd commotion,What each fusionAnd confusion,In the grand result will show.Weaving daily,Singing gaily,As he makes his busy shuttleHither, thither, scud and scuttle.The weaver at his loom is sitting,Throws his shuttle to and fro;See you not how shape and orderFrom the wild confusion grow,As he makes his shuttle go?—As the web and woof diminish,Grows beyond the beauteous finish,—Tufted plaidings,Shapes, and shadings;All the mysteryNow is history;—And we see the reason subtle,Why the weaver makes his shuttleHither, thither, scud and scuttle.See the Mystic Weaver sittingHigh in heaven—His loom below;Up and down the treadles go;Takes for web the world's long ages,Takes for woof its kings and sages,Takes the nobles and their pages,Takes all stations and all stages,—Thrones are bobbins in His shuttle;Armies make them scud and scuttle;Web into the woof must flow,Up and down the nations go,As the weaver wills they go;Men are sparring,Powers are jarring,Upward, downward, hither, thitherJust like puppets in a show.Up and down the web is plying,And across the woof is flying,What a battling!What a rattling!What a shuffling!What a scuffling!As the weaver makes his shuttleHither, thither, scud and scuttle.Calmly see the Mystic WeaverThrow His shuttle to and fro;'Mid the noise and wild confusion.Well the Weaver seems to knowWhat each motionAnd commotion,What each fusionAnd confusion,In the grand result will show,As the nations,Kings and stations,Upward, downward, hither, thither,As in mystic dances, go.In the present all is mystery;In the past, 'tis beauteous history.O'er the mixing and the mingling,How the signal bells are jingling!See you not the Weaver leavingFinished work behind, in weaving?See you not the reason subtle,As the web and woof diminish,Changing into beauteous finish,Why the Weaver makes his shuttle,Hither, thither, scud and scuttle?Glorious wonder! what a weaving!To the dull beyond believing!Such, no fabled ages know.Only Faith can see the mystery,How, along the aisle of historyWhere the feet of sages go,Loveliest to the purest eyes,Grand the mystic tapet lies,—Soft and smooth, and even spreadingEvery figure has its plaidings,As if made for angels' treading;Tufted circles touching ever,Inwrought figures fading never;Brighter form and softer shadings;Each illumined,—what a riddleFrom a cross that gems the middle.'Tis a saying—some reject it—That its light is all reflected;That the tapet's hues are givenBy a sun that shines in heaven!'Tis believed, by all believing,That great God himself is weaving,—Bringing out the world's dark mystery,In the light of truth and history;And as web and woof diminish,Comes the grand and glorious finish;When begin the golden agesLong foretold by seers and sages.

The Mortgage on the Farm

'Tis gone at last, and I am glad; it stayed a fearful while,And when the world was light and gay, I could not even smile;It stood before me like a giant, outstretched its iron arm;No matter where I looked, I saw the mortgage on the farm.I'll tell you how it happened, for I want the world to knowHow glad I am this winter day whilst earth is white with snow;I'm just as happy as a lark. No cause for rude alarmConfronts us now, for lifted is the mortgage on the farm.The children they were growing up and they were smart and trim.To some big college in the East we'd sent our youngest, Jim;And every time he wrote us, at the bottom of his screedHe tacked some Latin fol-de-rol which none of us could read.The girls they ran to music, and to painting, and to rhymes,They said the house was out of style and far behind the times;They suddenly diskivered that it didn't keep'm warm—Another step of course towards a mortgage on the farm.We took a cranky notion, Hannah Jane and me one day,While we were coming home from town, a-talking all the way;The old house wasn't big enough for us, although for yearsBeneath its humble roof we'd shared each other's joys and tears.We built it o'er and when 'twas done, I wish you could have seen it,It was a most tremendous thing—I really didn't mean it;Why, it was big enough to hold the people of the townAnd not one half as cosy as the old one we pulled down.I bought a fine pianner and it shortened still the pile,But, then, it pleased the children and they banged it all the while;No matter what they played for me, their music had no charm,For every tune said plainly: "There's a mortgage on the farm!"I worked from morn till eve, and toiled as often toils the slaveTo meet that grisly interest; I tried hard to be brave,And oft when I came home at night with tired brain and arm,The chickens hung their heads, they felt the mortgage on the farm.—But we saved a penny now and then, we laid them in a row,The girls they played the same old tunes, and let the new ones go;And when from college came our Jim with laurels on his brow,I led him to the stumpy field and put him to the plow.He something said in Latin which I didn't understand,But it did me good to see his plow turn up the dewy land;And when the year had ended and empty were the cribs,We found we'd hit the mortgage, sir, a blow between the ribs.To-day I harnessed up the team and thundered off to town,And in the lawyer's sight I planked the last bright dollar down;And when I trotted up the lanes a-feeling good and warm,The old red rooster crowed his best: "No mortgage on the farm!"I'll sleep almighty good to-night, the best for many a day,The skeleton that haunted us has passed fore'er away.The girls can play the brand-new tunes with no fears to alarm,And Jim can go to Congress, with no mortgage on the farm!

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 contritionFor his sins of indecision,Prayed for greater self-denialIn temptation and in trial;It was noonday by the dial,And the Monk was all alone.Suddenly, as if it lightened,An unwonted splendor brightenedAll within him and without himIn that narrow cell of stone;And he saw the blessed visionOf our Lord, with light ElysianLike a vesture wrapped about Him,Like a garment round Him thrown.Not as crucified and slainNot 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 deignestTo reveal Thyself to me?Who am I, that from the centerOf Thy glory Thou shouldst enterThis poor cell, my guest to be?Then amid his exaltation,Loud the convent bell appalling,From its belfrey calling, calling,Rang through court and corridorWith persistent iteration,He had never heard before.It was now the appointed hourWhen alike in shine or shower,Winter's cold or summer's heat,To the convent portals cameAll the blind and halt and lame,All the beggars of the street,For their daily dole of foodDealt them by the brotherhood;And their almoner was heWho upon his bended kneesRapt in silent ecstasyOf divinest self-surrender,Saw the vision and the splendor.Deep distress and hesitationMingled with his adoration;Should he go, or should he stay?Should he leave the poor to waitHungry at the convent gate,Till the vision passed away?Should he slight his radiant guest,Slight this visitant celestialFor a crowd of ragged, bestialBeggars at the convent gate?Would the vision there remain?Would the vision come again?Then a voice within his breastWhispered 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 intentOn 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 eyeThat is only seen in thoseWho amid their wants and woesHear the sound of doors that close.And of feet that pass them by:Grown familiar with disfavor,Grown familiar with the savorOf the bread by which men die;But to-day, they knew not why,Like the gate of ParadiseSeemed the convent gate to rise,Like a sacrament divineSeemed 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 doestTo the least of mine and lowest,That thou doest unto me."Unto me! but had the visionCome 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 brightWith a supernatural light,Like a luminous cloud expandingOver floor and wall and ceiling.But he paused with awe-struck feelingAt the threshold of his door,For the vision still was standingAs 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 interveningIt 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.