This etext was transcribed by Les Bowler.
“_Whatever your occupation may be_, _and however crowded_
_your hours with affairs_, _do not fail to secure at least_
_a few minutes every day for refreshment of your_
_inner life with a bit of poetry_.”
* * * * *
Poems
You Ought to Know
* * * * *
SELECTED BY
ELIA W. PEATTIE
(_Literary Editor of the Chicago Tribune_)
* * * * *
ILLUSTRATED BY
ELLSWORTH YOUNG
* * * * *
[Picture: Publisher’s logo]
* * * * *
CHICAGO NEW YORK TORONTO
Fleming H. Revell Company
LONDON AND EDINBURGH
* * * * *
Copyright, 1902
By Tribune Company
* * * * *
Each illustration copyrighted separately
* * * * *
Copyright, 1903
Fleming H. Revell Company
* * * * *
INTRODUCTION
Each morning, for several months, THE CHICAGO TRIBUNE has published at
the head of its first column, verses under the caption: “Poems You Ought
to Know.” It has explained its action by the following quotation from
Professor Charles Eliot Norton:
“_Whatever your occupation may be_, _and however crowded your hours
with affairs_, _do not fail to secure at least a few minutes every
day for refreshment of your inner life with a bit of poetry_.”
By publishing these poems THE TRIBUNE hopes to accomplish two things:
first, to inspire a love of poetry in the hearts of many of its readers
who have never before taken time or thought to read the best poems of
this and other centuries and lands; and, secondly, to remind those who
once loved song, but forgot it among the louder voices of the world, of
the melody that enchanted them in youth.
The title has carried with it its own standard, and the poems have been
kept on a plane above jocularity or mere prettiness of versification;
rather have they tried to teach the doctrines of courage, of nature-love,
of pure and noble melody. It has been the ambition of those selecting
the verses to choose something to lift the reader above the “petty round
of irritating concerns and duties,” and the object will have been
achieved if it has helped anyone to “play the man,” “to go blithely about
his business all the day,” with a consciousness of that abounding beauty
in the world of thought which is the common property of all men.
No anthology of English verse can be complete, and none can satisfy all.
The compiler’s individual taste, tempered and guided by established
authority, is almost the only standard. This collection has been
compiled not by one but by many thousands, and their selections here
appear edited and winnowed as the idea of the series seemed to dictate.
The book appears at the wide-spread and almost universal request of those
who have watched the bold experiment of a great Twentieth-Century
American newspaper giving the place of honor in its columns every day to
a selection from the poets.
For permission to reprint certain poems by Longfellow, Lowell, Harte,
Hay, Bayard Taylor, Holmes, Whittier, Parsons, and Aldrich, graciously
accorded by Houghton, Mifflin & Co., the publishers, thanks are
gratefully acknowledged. To Charles Scribner’s Sons, for an extract from
Lanier’s poems, and, lastly, to the many thousand readers, who, by their
sympathy, appreciation, and help have encouraged the continuance of the
daily publication of the poems, similar gratitude is felt.
CONTENTS
ADDISON, JOSEPH
The Spacious Firmament on High 58
ALDRICH, THOMAS BAILEY
An Untimely Thought 73
Nocturne 210
ALLEN, ELIZABETH AKERS
Rock Me to Sleep 30
ARNOLD, MATTHEW
Requiescat 90
Self Dependence 156
Song of Callicles 214
BARBAULD, MRS. A. L.
Life 161
BEATTY, PAKENHAM
To Thine Own Self Be True 37
BEGBIE, HAROLD
Grounds of the “Terrible” 164
BLAKE, WILLIAM
The Lamb 153
The Tiger 176
BOKER, GEORGE H.
Dirge for a Soldier 53
BOURDILLON, FRANCIS WILLIAM
The Night Has a Thousand Eyes 115
BRONTË, EMILY
Remembrance 42
BROWN, BROWNLEE
Thalassa 140
BROWNING, ELIZABETH BARRETT
The Cry of the Children 106
BROWNING, ROBERT
Misconceptions 184
The Year’s at the Spring 135
BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN
Thanatopsis 112
To a Waterfowl 225
BUNYAN, JOHN
The Shepherd Boy’s Song 100
BURNS, ROBERT
Banks o’ Doon 76
Highland Mary 152
John Anderson My Jo 185
Scots Wha Hae 182
BYRON, LORD
Destruction of the Sennacherib 32
Maid of Athens 186
She Walks in Beauty 57
The Isles of Greece 232
CAMPION, THOMAS
Cherry Ripe 36
CAREY, HENRY
Sally in Our Alley 68
CARLYLE, THOMAS
To-Day 179
CARY, PHOEBE
Nearer Home 174
CHATTERTON, THOMAS
Faith 144
CHAUCER, GEOFFREY
An Emperor’s Daughter Stands Alone 60
CLARKE, MACDONALD
In the Graveyard 166
COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAYLOR
Kubla Khan 190
CUNNINGHAM, ALLAN
A Sea Song 134
DAVID
Psalm XXIV 155
Psalm XLVIII 231
Psalm XLVI 44
Psalm XIX 74
Psalm LXXXIV 111
Psalm CXXI 119
DICKINSON, EMILY
The Grass 217
DOBSON, AUSTIN
A Lovers’ Quarrel 188
The Paradox of Time 208
The Pompadour’s Fan 75
In Quaque 188
DURIVAGE, FRANCIS A.
All 160
ELIOT, GEORGE
Two Lovers 48
FINCH, FRANCIS MILES
Nathan Hale 212
FOSS, SAM WALTER
He’d Had No Show 93
GARNETT, RICHARD
The Ballad of the Boat 172
GILLINGTON, MARY C.
Intra Muros 21
GOETHE, JOHANN WOLFGANG
Mignon’s Song 110
HARTE, FRANCIS BRET
Flynn of Virginia 204
The Society upon the Stanislaus 210
HAWKER, ROBERT STEPHEN
The Song of the Western Men 129
HAY, JOHN
Jim Bludso 64
Little Breeches 202
HENLEY, W. E.
Invictus 131
HERBERT, GEORGE
Virtue 34
HERRICK, ROBERT
Counsel to Virgins 138
Delight in Disorder 62
HOLLAND, JOSIAH GILBERT
Babyhood 40
HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL
The Chambered Nautilus 87
The Last Leaf 84
HOOD, THOMAS
Her Moral from Miss Kilmanseg 95
Past and Present 123
Song of the Shirt 85
The Death-Bed 33
HUNT, LEIGH
Abou Ben Adhem 107
INGALLS, JOHN JAMES
Opportunity 109
JACKSON, HENRY R.
My Wife and Child 220
JONSON, BEN
To Celia 187
KEATS, JOHN
Ode on a Grecian Urn 97
KEY, FRANCIS SCOTT
The Star-Spangled Banner 120
KINGSLEY, CHARLES
The Three Fishers 230
KNOX, WILLIAM
O Why Should the Spirit of Mortal 228
LAMB, CHARLES
The Old Familiar Faces 18
LANIER, SIDNEY
Evening Song 54
LEVER, CHARLES
The Widow Malone 218
LOGAN, JOHN
To the Cuckoo 94
LONGFELLOW, HENRY WADSWORTH
Arsenal at Springfield 158
Serenade (“The Spanish Student”) 96
The Bridge 76
The Day Is Done 200
LOVELACE, RICHARD
To Althea from Prison 98
To Lucasta on Going to the Wars 35
LOWE, JOHN
Mary’s Dream 124
LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL
Jonathan to John 222
June 194
The Heritage 116
To the Dandelion 170
LYTLE, WILLIAM H.
Antony and Cleopatra 226
MACKAY, CHARLES
A Deed and a Word 47
MAHONY, FRANCIS
The Bells of Shandon 196
MCCREERY, J. L.
There Is No Death 25
MCPHELIM, E. J.
Elia 70
MEYNELL, ALICE
The Shepherdess 130
MILTON, JOHN
Song on a May Morning 163
MOORE, THOMAS
Believe Me if All Those Endearing Young 101
Charms
Oft in the Stilly Night 63
The Harp that Once 195
Though Lost to Sight 20
’Tis the Last Rose of Summer 132
MULOCK, DINAH MARIA
Douglas, Douglas, Tender and True 149
NEALE, JOHN M.
Jerusalem the Golden 183
NEWMAN, JOHN HENRY
Lead Kindly Light 72
O’CONNOR, JOSEPH
The Fount of Castaly 142
PARSONS, THOMAS W.
On a Bust of Dante 126
POE, EDGAR A.
Annabel Lee 178
POPE, ALEXANDER
Ode on Solitude 103
READ, THOMAS BUCHANAN
Drifting 50
REALF, RICHARD
A Holy Nation 23
RONSARD, PIERRE
The Rose 143
ROSSETTI, CHRISTINA
Uphill 148
RYAN, ABRAM
Song of the Mystic 81
SCOTT, SIR WALTER
Bonny Dundee 167
Border Ballad 169
Breathes there the Man 104
Where Shall the Lover Rest 216
SHAKESPEARE, WILLIAM
One Touch of Nature 89
Portia’s Speech on Mercy 207
Ruthless Time 46
Song from “Cymbeline” 71
Time Hath, My Lord 46
To Be or Not to Be 224
Macbeth’s Soliloquy 200
When in Disgrace with Fortune 19
SHELLEY, PERCY BYSSHE
Music when Soft Voices Die 133
An Indian Serenade 141
SIDNEY, SIR PHILIP
A Ditty 118
SILL, EDWARD ROWLAND
The Fool’s Prayer 28
SPALDING, SUSAN MARR
Fate 22
STEVENSON, ROBERT LOUIS
A Requiem 90
SUCKLING, SIR JOHN
Ballad upon a Wedding 192
Why So Pale and Wan 139
SWINBURNE, ALGERNON CHARLES
A Match 137
TAYLOR, BAYARD
Bedouin Song 67
The Song of the Camp 146
TENNYSON, LORD
Break, Break, Break 24
Bugle Song 108
Crossing the Bar 193
Moral from “The Day Dream” 66
From “In Memoriam” 121
Tears, Idle Tears 151
THACKERAY, WILLIAM MAKEPEACE
At the Church Gate 92
The Garret 198
TOMPKINS, JULIET WILBOR
For All These 45
VILLON, FRANÇOIS
Ballad—Dead Ladies 128
WALLER, EDMUND
Go, Lovely Rose 82
On a Girdle 199
WHITE, JOSEPH BLANCO
Night 79
WHITMAN, WALT
O Captain, My Captain 38
Warble for Lilac Time 206
WHITTIER, JOHN G.
Indian Summer 181
The Waiting 136
WILLARD, EMMA
Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep 105
WITHER, GEORGE
The Shepherd’s Resolution 80
WOODWORTH, SAMUEL
The Old Oaken Bucket 86
WORDSWORTH, WILLIAM
The Daffodils 162
The World Is Too Much with Us 102
To Sleep 17
TO SLEEP.
BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
William Wordsworth was born in 1770 and died at Rydal Mount in 1850. He
was educated in Cambridge, where he graduated in 1791. He traveled on
the continent before that, but he settled down for several years in
Dorset. A visit from Coleridge determined his career in 1796. He was
again abroad in 1798, but returned the following year and went to live at
Grasmere in the Lake District. He held severai government positions and
was poet laureate from 1843 to his death. His chief works are, “The
Evening Walk,” “Descriptive Sketches,” “The Excursion,” “White Doe of
Rylston,” “Thanksgiving Ode,” “Peter Bell,” “Waggoner,” “River Duddon,” A
Series of Sonnets, “The Borderers,” “Yarrow Revisited,” and “The
Prelude.”
A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by
One after one; the sound of rain, and bees
Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky;
I’ve thought of all by turns, and still I lie
Sleepless; and soon the small birds’ melodies
Must hear, first utter’d from my orchard trees,
And the first cuckoo’s melancholy cry.
Even thus last night and two nights more I lay,
And could not win thee, Sleep, by any stealth;
So do not let me wear tonight away;
Without thee what is all the morning’s wealth?
Come, blessed barrier between day and day,
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES.
BY CHARLES LAMB.
Charles Lamb was born at London in 1775. His most successful writings
are the “Tales from Shakespeare” (written in collaboration with his
sister), and his “Essays of Ella.” Lamb died in 1834.
I have had playmates, I have had companions,
In my days of childhood, in my joyful school days—
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I have been laughing, I have been carousing,
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies—
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I loved a love once, fairest among women;
Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her—
All, all are gone the old familiar faces.
I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man;
Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;
Left him to muse on the old familiar faces.
Ghost-like I pace round the haunts of my childhood,
Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse,
Seeking to find the old familiar faces.
Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,
Why wert not thou born in my father’s dwelling?
So might we talk of the old familiar faces—
How some they have died, and some they have left me,
And some are taken from me; all are departed—
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
WHEN IN DISGRACE.
BY WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.
When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featur’d like him, like him with friends possess’d,
Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee and then my state,
(Like to the lark at break of day arising,
From sullen earth), sings hymns at heaven’s gate;
For thy sweet love remember’d such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
“THOUGH LOST TO SIGHT, TO MEMORY DEAR.”
THOMAS MOORE.
Sweetheart, good-by! The fluttering sail
Is spread to waft me far from thee;
And soon before the favoring gale
My ship shall bound across the sea.
Perchance, all desolate and forlorn,
These eyes shall miss thee many a year;
But unforgotten every charm—
Though lost to sight, to memory clear.
Sweetheart, good-by! One last embrace!
Oh, cruel fate, two souls to sever!
Yet in this heart’s most sacred place
Thou, thou alone, shall dwell forever.
And still shall recollection trace
In fancy’s mirror, ever near,
Each smile, each tear, upon that face—
Though lost to sight, to memory dear.
INTRA MUROS.
BY MARY C. GELLINGTON.
At last ’tis gone, the fever of the day—
Thank God, there comes an end to everything;
Under the night cloud’s deepened shadowing,
The noises of the city drift away
Thro’ sultry streets and alleys, and the gray
Fogs ’round the great cathedral rise and cling.
I long and long, but no desire will bring
Against my face the keen wind salt with spray.
O, far away, green waves, your voices call;
Your cool lips kiss the wild and weedy shore;
And out upon the sea line sails are brown—
White sea birds, crying, hover—soft shades fall—
Deep waters dimple ’round the dripping oar,
And last rays light the little fishing town.
FATE.
BY SUSAN MARR SPALDING.
Susan Marr Spalding was born in Bath, Me., and educated in a seminary
there. From early girlhood she wrote verse, her sonnets being graceful
and tender. At the death of her parents she lived with her uncle, a
clergyman, in New York. She married Mr. Spalding, a literary man, and
made her home in Philadelphia.
Two shall be born, the whole wide world apart,
And speak in different tongues, and have no thought
Each of the other’s being; and have no heed;
And these, o’er unknown seas to unknown lands
Shall cross, escaping wreck; defying death;
And, all unconsciously, shape every act to this one end
That, one day, out of darkness, they shall meet
And read life’s meaning in each other’s eyes.
And two shall walk some narrow way of life
So nearly side by side that, should one turn
Ever so little space to right or left,
They needs must stand acknowledged face to face.
And yet, with wistful eyes that never meet.
With groping hands that never clasp; and lips
Calling in vain to ears that never hear;
They seek each other all their weary days
And die unsatisfied—and that is fate.
A HOLY NATION.
BY RICHARD REALF.
Richard Realf was born in England in 1834 of poor parents and began
writing poetry at an early age. His early work attracted the attention
of Tennyson, Miss Mitford, Miss Jameson, Miss Martineau, and others, and
they secured the publication of his volume, “Guesses at the Beautiful.”
He dabbled some in sculpture, and even studied agricultural science. In
1854 he came to New York, where he wrote stories of slum life and
assisted in establishing some institutions for the relief of the poor.
He joined the first free soil parties moving to Kansas and was arrested.
He did newspaper work until he joined John Brown’s party. He was Brown’s
secretary of state. He was arrested in connection with the Harper’s
Ferry affair, enlisted in 1862, was wounded, taught a black school in
South Carolina in 1867, and for years led a hand to mouth existence, all
that time writing poetry, some of it of the most exquisite beauty.
Family troubles resulted in his suicide in San Francisco about 1875.
Let Liberty run onward with the years,
And circle with the seasons; let her break
The tyrant’s harshness, the oppressor’s spears;
Bring ripened recompenses that shall make
Supreme amends for sorrow’s long arrears;
Drop holy benison on hearts that ache;
Put clearer radiance into human eyes,
And set the glad earth singing to the skies.
Clean natures coin pure statutes. Let us cleanse
The hearts that beat within us; let us mow
Clear to the roots our falseness and pretense,
Tread down our rank ambitions, overthrow
Our braggart moods of puffed self-consequence,
Plow up our hideous thistles which do grow
Faster than maize in May time, and strike dead
The base infections our low greeds have bred.
BREAK, BREAK, BREAK.
BY ALFRED TENNYSON.
Alfred Tennyson was born at Lincolnshire in 1809. In 1828 he wrote, with
his brother, the “Poems by Two Brothers.” He went to Trinity College,
Cambridge, where he met his friend, Arthur Hallam, upon whose death he
wrote “In Memoriam.” When Wordsworth died in 1850, the laureateship was
given to Tennyson; later he was made a Baron. He died at Aldworth, on
the Isle of Wight, in 1892, and has been given a place in Westminster
Abbey near the grave of Chaucer. Other of his longer poems beside the
one mentioned above are: “The Princess,” “Maud,” “Enoch Arden,” and the
“Idyls of the King.”
Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O, sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.
O, well for the fisherman’s boy
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O, well for the sailor lad
That he sings in his boat on the bay!
And the stately ships go on,
To the haven under the hill;
But O, for the touch of a vanished hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!
Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O, sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.
THERE IS NO DEATH.
BY J. L. McCREERY.
This beautifully touching poem is the creation of Mr. J. L. McCreery, a
native of Iowa, and at one time editor of the Delaware County Journal, of
that state. The poem was written in 1863 and was first published in
Arthur’s Home Magazine in July of that year. The authorship of the poem
was for many years erroneously attributed to Lord Lytton, the English
poet. A thorough investigation carried on by Lippincott’s a few years
ago fully established the authorship. The poem has been printed in every
state of the Union, in England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, Canada, and
even in Australia. It has gone into dozens of school books and been
incorporated in scores of miscellaneous collections of poetry. It has
been quoted in full or in part at least five times on the floor of
Congress. Mr. McCreery has for the past few years been a resident of the
national capital and his best poems have been collected into a volume
entitled “Songs of Toil and Triumph.”
There is no death, the stars go down
To rise upon some other shore,
And bright in heaven’s jeweled crown
They shine forever more.
There is no death! the forest leaves
Convert to life the viewless air;
The rocks disorganize to feed
The hungry moss they bear.
There is no death! the dust we tread
Shall change, beneath the summer showers,
To golden grain, or mellow fruit,
Or rainbow-tinted flowers.
There is no death! the leaves may fall,
The flowers may fade and pass away.—
They only wait, through wintry hours,
The warm, sweet breath of May.
There is no death! the choicest gifts
That heaven hath kindly lent to earth
Are ever first to seek again
The country of their birth.
And all things that for growth of joy
Are worthy of our love or care,
Whose loss has left us desolate,
Are safely garnered there.
Though life become a dreary waste,
We know its fairest, sweetest flowers,
Transplanted into paradise,
Adorn immortal bowers.
The voice of bird-like melody
That we have missed and mourned so long
Now mingles with the angel choir
In everlasting song.
There is no death! although we grieve
When beautiful, familiar forms
That we have learned to love are torn
From our embracing arms.
Although with bowed and breaking heart,
With sable garb and silent tread,
We bear their senseless dust to rest,
And say that they are “dead.”
They are not dead! they have but passed
Beyond the mists that blind us here
Into the new and larger life
Of that serener sphere.
They have but dropped their robe of clay
To put their shining raiment on;
They have not wandered far away—
They are not “lost” or “gone.”
Though disenthralled and glorified,
They still are here and love us yet;
The dear ones they have left behind
They never can forget.
And sometimes, when our hearts grow faint
Amid temptations fierce and deep,
Or when the wildly raging waves
Of grief or passion sweep,
We feel upon our fevered brow
Their gentle touch, their breath of balm;
Their arms enfold us, and our hearts
Grow comforted and calm.
And ever near us, though unseen,
The dear, immortal spirits tread;
For all the boundless universe
Is life—there are no dead.
THE FOOL’S PRAYER.
BY E. R. SILL.
Edward Rowland Sill was born at Windsor, Conn., April 29, 1841; died in
Cleveland, O., Feb. 27, 1887. He was graduated from Yale in 1861;
studied biology at Harvard, did literary work in New York City, taught
school in California and Ohio, and was for eight years professor of
English language and literature in the University of California. His
poems were privately printed under the title “The Hermitage and Other
Poems.”
The royal feast was done; the king
Sought some new sport to banish care,
And to his jester cried: “Sir Fool,
Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!”
The jester doffed his cap and bells,
And stood the mocking court before;
They could not see the bitter smile
Behind the painted grin he wore,
He bowed his head, and bent his knee
Upon the monarch’s silken stool;
His pleading voice arose: “O Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!
“No pity, Lord, could change the heart
From red with wrong to white as wool;
The rod must heal the sin; but, Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!
“’Tis not by guilt the onward sweep
Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay;
’Tis by our follies that so long
We hold the earth from heaven away.
“These clumsy feet, still in the mire,
Go crushing blossoms without end;
These hard, well meaning hands we thrust
Among the heart-strings of a friend.
“The ill-timed truth we might have kept—
Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung!
The word we had not sense to say—
Who knows how grandly it had rung!
“Our faults no tenderness should ask,
The chastening stripes must cleanse them all;
But for our blunders—O, in shame
Before the eyes of heaven we fall.
“Earth bears no balsam for mistakes;
Men crown the knave and scourge the tool
That did his will; but thou, O Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!”
The room was hushed; in silence rose
The king, and sought his gardens cool,
And walked apart, and murmured low,
“Be merciful to me, a fool!”
ROCK ME TO SLEEP.
BY ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.
This is one of the songs which, as Longfellow said, gush from the heart
of “some humbler poet.” In this country, at least, it has been extremely
popular, having been set to music and sung in innumerable households.
Elizabeth Akers Allen was born in 1832, and still lives at Tuckahoe, N.Y.
She wrote poetry from the age of 15, and has published many volumes. The
poem here published first appeared in 1859. A new volume of her verse is
just announced in Boston.
Backward, turn backward, O Time in your flight,
Make me a child again just for tonight;
Mother, come back from the echoless shore,
Take me again to your heart as of yore;
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair;
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;
Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.
Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years,
I am so weary of toil and of tears—
Toil without recompense, tears all in vain—
Take them, and give me my childhood again!
I have grown weary of dust and decay—
Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away;
Weary of sowing for others to reap;
Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.
Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue,
Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you!
Many a summer the grass has grown green,
Blossomed, and faded our faces between!
Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain
Long I tonight for your presence again.
Come from the silence so long and so deep—
Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.
Over my heart in the days that are flown
No love like mother love ever has shone;
No other worship abides and endures—
Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours;
None like a mother can charm away pain
From the sick soul and world weary brain.
Slumber’s soft calms o’er the heavy lids creep—
Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.
Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold,
Fall on your shoulders again as of old;
Let it drop over my forehead tonight,
Shading my faint eyes away from the light;
For with its sunny edged shadows once more
Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore;
Lovingly, softly its bright billows sweep;
Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.
Mother, dear mother, the years have been long
Since I last hushed to your lullaby song;
Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem
Womanhood’s years have been only a dream.
Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace,
With your light lashes just sweeping my face,
Never hereafter to wake or to weep—
Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.
THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.
BY LORD BYRON.
Lord Byron was born in London in 1788. His first volume of verses,
entitled “Hours of Idleness,” was printed in 1807. “Manfred” and “The
Lament of Tasso” were written in 1817. From 1818 to his death Byron was
occupied on “Don Juan.” In 1823 he went to Greece, and with advice and
money aided in the Greek struggle for independence. He died in Greece in
1824.
“_And it came to pass_, _that night_, _that the angel of the Lord
went out and smote in the camp of the Assyrians an hundred four score
and five thousand_: _and when they arose early in the morning_,
_behold_, _they were all dead corpses_.”—II. Kings, xix., 35.
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen;
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay wither’d and strown.
For the angel of death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass’d;
And the eyes of the sleepers wax’d deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved—and forever grew still.
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there roll’d not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock beating surf.
And there lay the rider, distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
THE DEATH BED.
BY THOMAS HOOD.
Thomas Hood was born in London in 1799, and early in life turned his
attention to literary pursuits. At the age of 22 he became sub-editor of
the London Magazine, which gave him acquaintance with all the literary
men of the age, and an intimacy with Charles Lamb, which continued until
his death. He was a voluminous writer, both in poetry and prose,
contributing to various magazines. In 1844 Hood’s Magazine was started,
for which he furnished most of the material until near his death. His
best work was done during his last sickness, when, on a bed of suffering,
he contributed to Punch those touching verses which have rendered his
name immortal: “The Song of the Shirt” and “The Bridge of Sighs.” He
died May 3, 1845.
We watched her sleeping through the night,
Her breathing soft and low,
As in her breast the wave of life
Kept surging to and fro.
So silently we seemed to speak,
So slowly moved about,
As we had lent her half our powers
To eke her being out.
Our very hopes belied our fears,
Our fears our hopes belied,
We thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.
For when the morn came dim and sad,
And chill with early showers,
Her quiet eyelids closed, she had
Another morn than ours.
VIRTUE IMMORTAL.
BY GEORGE HERBERT.
George Herbert was born at Montgomery Castle in Wales in 1593. He
graduated from Trinity College, Cambridge, and in 1619 he was made a
public orator. Charles I., with whom he was in great favor, gave him the
rectory of Bemerton, which has the reputation of being the smallest
church in England. It was here that Herbert wrote his religious poems,
“The Temple: Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations.” He died at Bemerton
in 1633.
Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright;
The bridal of the earth and sky;
The dew shall weep thy fall tonight,
For thou must die.
Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,
Thy root is ever in its grave,
And thou must die.
Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie,
Thy music shows ye have your closes,
And all must die.
Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Like seasoned timber never gives,
But, though the whole world turn to coal,
Then chiefly lives.
TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS.
BY RICHARD LOVELACE.
Richard Lovelace was an English cavalier, born in 1618, a period which
produced many poets. He was educated both at the Charterhouse and at
Oxford. He was twice imprisoned on account of the active part he took in
the affairs of the times. After the execution of Charles, he was set
free from prison only to find that his estates had been confiscated. He
died in great poverty in London, in 1658. After his death his poems were
collected under the name of “Lucasta, Posthume Poems.” The name of the
lady to whom the poems were written was Lucy Sacheverell, whom he called
his “Lux Castra.”
Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind,
That from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind,
To war and arms I fly.
True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such
As you, too, shall adore;
I could not love thee, Dear, so much,
Loved I not Honor more.
CHERRY RIPE.
BY THOMAS CAMPION.
There is a garden in her face
Where roses and white lilies blow,
A heavenly paradise is that place,
Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow;
There cherries grow that none may buy,
Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.
Those cherries fairly do enclose.
Of orient pearl a double row,
Which, when her lovely laughter shows,
They look like rose-buds fill’d with snow;
Yet them no peer nor prince may buy,
Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.
Her eyes like angels watch them still;
Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threat’ning with piercing frowns to kill
All that approach with eye or hand
These sacred cherries to come nigh,
Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.
TO THINE OWN SELF BE TRUE.
BY PAKENHAM BEATTY.
Pakenham Beatty was born in 1855. He has written several volumes—“To My
Lady,” 1878; “Three Women of the People,” 1881; and “Marcia, a Tragedy,”
1884.
By thine own soul’s law learn to live,
And if men thwart thee take no heed,
And if men hate thee have no care;
Sing thou thy song and do thy deed.
Hope thou thy hope and pray thy prayer,
And claim no crown they will not give,
Nor bays they grudge thee for thy hair.
Keep thou thy soul-worn steadfast oath,
And to thy heart be true thy heart;
What thy soul teaches learn to know,
And play out thine appointed part,
And thou shalt reap as thou shalt sow,
Nor helped nor hindered in thy growth,
To thy full stature thou shalt grow.
Fix on the future’s goal thy face,
And let thy feet be lured to stray
Nowhither, but be swift to run,
And nowhere tarry by the way,
Until at last the end is won
And thou mayst look back from thy place
And see thy long day’s journey done.
O, CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!
BY WALT WHITMAN.
Walt Whitman was born on Long Island, N. Y., in 1819. His father was a
carpenter. After the family removed to Brooklyn Walt became apprenticed
to a newspaper, and at 12 began to write bits of verse, some of which
were published in the New York Mirror. He made a series of long tramping
tours through the country, returning finally to newspaper work in
Brooklyn. He became known to the public as a poet through his “Leaves of
Grass,” published in 1885. The volume was declared immoral by some, and
the author severely criticised. “Leaves of Grass” has been republished a
number of times in the United States, England, and Scotland, and among
Whitman’s other works are “Drum Taps,” “As Strong as a Bird on Pinions
Free,” “Two Rivulets,” “Specimen Days and Collect,” “November Boughs,”
and “Sands at Seventy.” He died in 1892.
O, Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But, O, heart! heart! heart!
O, the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O, Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here, Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
His ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
BABYHOOD.
BY JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND.
Josiah Gilbert Holland was born in Belchertown, Mass., July 24, 1819;
died in New York City Oct. 12, 1881. He was the son of a mechanic and
inventor. He attended a district school, taught district schools,
studied medicine, and in 1844 was graduated from the Berkshire medical
college, which exists no longer, at Pittsfield. He practiced medicine
for three years, ran a weekly paper six months, became superintendent of
schools in Vicksburg, Miss., formed a literary, reportorial, and
editorial connection with the Springfield Republican in 1850, which
lasted until 1866, he having in the meantime acquired a financial
interest in the paper. Some of his best works appeared first in the
Republican. In 1870, with Roswell Smith, he founded Scribner’s Magazine.
He wrote histories, stories, essays, letters, lectures, and poems.
What is the little one thinking about?
Very wonderful things, no doubt!
Unwritten history!
Unfathomed mystery!
Yet chuckles and crows and nods and winks,
As if his head were as full of kinks
And curious riddles as any sphinx!
Warped by colic and wet by tears,
Punctured by pins and tortured by fears
Our little nephew will lose two years;
And he’ll never know
Where the summers go—
He need not laugh, for he’ll find it so.
Who can tell what a baby thinks?
Who can follow the gossamer links
By which the manikin feels his way
Out from the shore of the great unknown,
Blind and wailing, and alone,
Into the light of day?
Out from the shore of the unknown sea,
Tossing in pitiful agony—
Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls,
Specked with the barks of little souls—
Barks that were launched on the other side,
And slipped from heaven on an ebbing tide!
What does he think of his mother’s eyes?
What does he think of his mother’s hair?
What of the cradle roof that flies
Forward and backward through the air?
What does he think of his mother’s breast,
Bare and beautiful, smooth and white,
Seeking it ever with fresh delight—
Cup of his life and couch of his rest?
What does he think when her quick embrace
Presses his hand and buries his face
Deep where the heart throbs sink and swell
With a tenderness she can never tell,
Though she murmur the words
Of all the birds—
Words she has learned to murmur well?
Now he thinks he’ll go to sleep!
I can see the shadow creep
Over his eyes in soft eclipse,
Over his brow and over his lips,
Out to his little finger tips!
Softly sinking, down he goes!
Down he goes! down he goes!
See! he is hushed in sweet repose!
REMEMBRANCE.
BY EMILY BRONTË.
This poem, as well as all of Emily Bronte’s verses, is tinged with the
deepest melancholy—the sorrow which both Charlotte and Emily Bronte
experienced, and which has set them apart in the world of letters from
those who do not feel so deeply the emotions of which they write.
Cold in the earth—and the deep snow piled above thee,
Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!
Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,
Sever’d at last by Time’s all severing wave?
Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover
Over the mountains, on that northern shore,
Resting their wings where heath and fern leaves cover
Thy noble heart for ever, ever more?
Sweet love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,
While the world’s tide is bearing me along;
Other desires and other hopes beset me,
Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!
No later light has lighten’d up my heaven,
No second morn has ever shown for me;
All my life’s bliss from thy dear life was given,
All my life’s bliss is in the grave with thee.
But when the days of golden dreams had perish’d,
And even despair was powerless to destroy;
Then did I learn how existence could be cherish’d
Strengthen’d, and fed without the aid of joy.
Then did I check the tears of useless passion—
Wean’d my young soul from yearning after thine;
Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten
Down to that tomb already more than mine.
And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,
Dare not indulge in memory’s rapturous pain;
Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,
How could I seek the empty world again?
PSALM XLVI.
God is our refuge and strength,
A very present help in trouble,
Therefore will not we fear, though the earth be removed,
And though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea;
Though the waters thereof roar and be troubled,
Though the mountains shake with the swelling thereof,
There is a river, the streams whereof shall make glad the city of God,
The holy place of the tabernacles of the most High.
God is in the midst of her; she shall not be moved;
God shall help her, and that right early.
The heathen raged, the kingdoms were moved;
He uttered his voice, the earth melted.
The Lord of Hosts is with us;
The God of Jacob is our refuge.
Come, behold the works of the Lord,
What desolations he hath made in the earth,
He maketh wars to cease unto the end of the earth;
He breaketh the bow, and cutteth the spear in sunder;
He burneth the chariot in the fire.
Be still and know that I am God;
I will be exalted among the heathen,
I will be exalted in the earth.
The Lord of Hosts is with us;
The God of Jacob is our refuge.
FOR ALL THESE.
BY JULIET WILBOR TOMPKINS.
I thank thee, Lord, that I am straight and strong,
With wit to work and hope to keep me brave;
That two score years, unfathomed, still belong
To the allotted life thy bounty gave.
I thank thee that the sight of sunlit lands
And dipping hills, the breath of evening grass—
That wet, dark rocks and flowers in my hands
Can give me daily gladness as I pass.
I thank thee that I love the things of earth—
Ripe fruits and laughter lying down to sleep,
The shine of lighted towns, the graver worth
Of beating human hearts that laugh and weep.
I thank thee that as yet I need not know,
Yet need not fear, the mystery of the end;
But more than all, and though all these should go—
Dear Lord, this on my knees!—I thank thee for my friend.
RUTHLESS TIME.
BY WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.
(From “Troilus and Cressida.”)
Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back,
Wherein he puts alms for oblivion,
A great sized monster of ingratitudes;
Those scraps are good deeds past; which are devour’d
As fast as they are made, forgot as soon
As done: perseverance, dear my lord,
Keeps honor bright; to have done is to hang
Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail
In monumental mockery. Take th’ instant way;
For honor travels in a straight so narrow,
Where one but goes abreast; keep, then, the path;
For emulation hath a thousand sons,
That one by one pursue: if you give way,
Or hedge aside from the direct forthright,
Like to an enter’d tide, they all rush by
And leave you hindmost;
Or like a gallant horse fallen in first rank,
Lie there for pavement to the abject rear,
O’errun and trampled on.
A DEED AND A WORD.
BY CHARLES MACKAY.
Charles Mackay was born at Perth In 1814. He was, from 1844 to 1847, the
editor of the Glasgow Argus, and later of the Illustrated London News.
During the civil war he was the New York correspondent for the London
Times. He died at London in 1889. Several of his writings are “The
Salamandrine, or Love and Immortality,” “Voices from the Crowd,” “Voices
from the Mountains,” and “History of the Mormons.”
A little stream had lost its way
Amid the grass and fern;
A passing stranger scooped a well,
Where weary men might turn;
He walled it in, and hung with care
A ladle at the brink;
He thought not of the deed he did,
But judged that all might drink.
He passed again, and lo! the well,
By summer never dried,
Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues,
And saved a life beside.
A nameless man, amid a crowd
That thronged the daily mart,
Let fall a word of hope and love,
Unstudied, from the heart;
A whisper on the tumult thrown,
A transitory breath—
It raised a brother from the dust,
It saved a soul from death.
O germ! O fount! O word of love!
O thought at random cast!
Ye were but little at the first,
But mighty at the last.
TWO LOVERS.
BY GEORGE ELIOT.
Mary Ann Evans was born at Warwickshire, in 1819. She received her
education at Nuneaton, and also at Coventry. In 1851 she was given the
position of assistant editor on the “Westminster Review,” which she held
until 1853. In the following year she entered into a domestic and
philosophical partnership with George Henry Lewes. Two years after his
death she married John Walter Cross, a man much younger than herself.
After her death her husband published her memoirs. She died at Chelsea,
London, in 1880. Though shunned by the women of her acquaintance, Eliot
was courted by the greatest philosophers of her time.
Two lovers by a moss-grown spring:
They leaned soft cheeks together there,
Mingled the dark and sunny hair,
And heard the wooing thrushes sing.
O budding time!
O, love’s blest prime!
Two wedded from the portal stept:
The bells made happy carolings,
The air was soft as fanning wings,
White petals on the pathway slept.
O pure-eyed bride!
O tender pride!
Two faces o’er a cradle bent:
Two hands above the head were locked;
These pressed each other while they rocked,
Those watched a life that love had sent.
O solemn hour!
O hidden power!
Two parents by the evening fire:
The red light fell about their knees
On heads that rose by slow degrees
Like buds upon the lily spire.
O patient life!
O tender strife!
The two still sat together there,
The red light shone about their knees;
But all the heads by slow degrees
Had gone and left that lonely pair.
O voyage fast!
O vanished past!
The red light shone upon the floor
And made the space between them wide;
They drew their chairs up side by side,
Their pale cheeks joined, and said,
“Once more!”
O memories!
O past that is!
DRIFTING.
BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.
Thomas Buchanan Read, artist and poet, was born in 1822 and died in 1872.
His youth was spent in poverty and he earned a miserable existence at
tailoring and cigar-making. He played on the stage and took to painting
in oils. His work attracted interest and he opened a studio. About the
same time he began writing, alternating the brush with the pen. His
best-known poems are “Sheridan’s Ride” and “Drifting.” He published a
volume of poetry and two of prose. His pictures include portraits of
Longfellow, Dallas, Ex-Queen of Naples, Mrs. Browning and “The Lost
Pleiad,” “The Star of Bethlehem,” “Spirit of the Waterfall,” and
“Sheridan’s Ride.”
My soul today
Is far away,
Sailing the Vesuvian Bay;
My winged boat,
A bird afloat,
Swims round the purple peaks remote:—
Round purple peaks
It sails, and seeks
Blue inlets and their crystal creeks,
Where high rocks throw,
Through deeps below,
A duplicated golden glow.
Far, vague, and dim,
The mountains swim;
While on Vesuvius’ misty brim
With outstretched hands
The gray smoke stands
O’erlooking the volcanic lands.
Here Ischia smiles
O’er liquid miles;
And yonder, bluest of the isles,
Calm Capri waits,
Her sapphire gates
Beguiling to her bright estates.
I heed not, if
My rippling skiff
Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff;—
With dreamful eyes
My spirit lies
Under the walls of Paradise.
Under the walls
Where swells and falls
The bay’s deep breast at intervals,
At peace I lie,
Blown softly by,
A cloud upon this liquid sky.
The day so mild,
Is Heaven’s own child,
With earth and ocean reconciled;—
The airs I feel
Around me steal
Are murmuring to the murmuring keel.
Over the rail
My hand I trail
Within the shadow of the sail.
A joy intense,
The cooling sense
Glides down my drowsy indolence.
With dreamful eyes
My spirit lies
Where summer sings and never dies,—
O’erveiled with vines.
She glows and shines
Among her future oil and wines.
Her children hid,
The cliffs amid,
Are gamboling with the gamboling kid;
Or down the walls,
With tipsy calls,
Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls.
The fisher’s child
With tresses wild,
Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled,
With glowing lips,
Sings as she skips,
Or gazes at the far-off ships.
Yon deep bark goes
Where Traffic blows,
From lands of sun to lands of snows;
This happier one
Its course has run
From lands of snow to lands of sun.
O happy ship,
To rise and dip,
With the blue crystal at your lip!
O happy crew,
My heart with you
Sails, and sails, and sings anew!
No more, no more
The worldy shore
Upbraids me with its loud uproar!
With dreamful eyes
My spirit lies
Under the walls of Paradise!
DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER.
BY GEORGE H. BOKER.
George Henry Boker, the American poet, was born in Philadelphia in 1823,
and died there in 1890. He was educated at Princeton, and studied law,
but never practiced. In 1871 he was made Minister Resident to Turkey,
and from 1875 to 1879 he was Minister to Russia. He wrote several
volumes of verse and the tragedies “Francesca da Rimini,” “Anne Boleyn,”
and “Leonore de Guzman.”
Close his eyes; his work is done!
What to him is friend or foeman,
Rise of moon or set of sun,
Hand of man or kiss of woman?
Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow!
What cares he? He cannot know;
Lay him low!
As man may, he fought his fight,
Proved his truth by his endeavor;
Let him sleep in solemn might,
Sleep for ever and forever.
Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow
What cares he? He cannot know;
Lay him low!
Fold him in his country’s stars,
Roll the drum and fire the volley!
What to him are all our wars,
What but death bemocking folly?
Lay him low, lay him low
In the clover or the snow!
What cares he? He cannot know;
Lay him low!
Leave him to God’s watching eye;
Trust him to the hand that made him.
Mortal love weeps idly by;
God alone has power to aid him.
Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow!
What cares he? He cannot know;
Lay him low!
EVENING SONG.
BY SIDNEY LANIER.
Sidney Lanier was born at Macon, Ga., in 1842. On account of ill health
he went to Baltimore, where for a while he played the flute in the famous
Peabody concerts—he was passionately fond of music and brought marvelous
harmonies out of his flute. In 1879 he became lecturer in English
literature at the Johns Hopkins university, Baltimore. He died at Lynn,
N. C., in 1881. He wrote a novel, “Tiger Lilies,” “Centennial Ode,”
“Science of English Verse,” “The English Novel and Its Development,” and
a volume of poems.
Look off, dear love, across the sallow sands,
And mark yon meeting of the sun and sea,
How long they kiss in sight of all the lands,
Ah! longer, longer, we.
Now in the sea’s red vintage melts the sun,
As Egypt’s pearl dissolved in rosy wine,
And Cleopatra night drinks all. ’Tis done,
Love, lay thy hand in mine.
Come forth, sweet stars, and comfort heaven’s heart;
Glimmer, ye waves, round else unlighted sands.
O, night! divorce our sun and sky apart,
Never our lips our hands.
THE BRIDGE.
BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
The poems of this well-loved poet are the stepping stones by which every
American child ascends to the realm of poetry.
I stood on the bridge at midnight,
As the clocks were striking the hour,
And the moon rose o’er the city
Behind the dark church tower.
I saw her bright reflection
In the waters under me,
Like a golden goblet falling
And sinking into the sea.
And far in the hazy distance
Of that lovely night in June
The blaze of the flaming furnace
Gleamed redder than the moon.
Among the long, black rafters
The wavering shadows lay,
And the current that came from the ocean
Seemed to lift and bear them away;
As, sweeping and eddying through them,
Rose the belated tide,
And, streaming into the moonlight,
The seaweed floated wide.