books are Lewis Carroll's _Alice in Wonderland_
and _Through the Looking Glass_. They are in
prose with poems interspersed. "The Walrus and
the Carpenter," is from _Through the Looking
Glass_, while "A Strange Wild Song," is from
_Sylvie and Bruno_. This latter book never
achieved the success of its forerunners, though
it has some delightful passages, as in the case
of the poem given. Lewis Carroll was the
pseudonym of Charles Lutwidge Dodgson
(1832-1898), an English mathematician at Oxford
University.
THE WALRUS AND THE CARPENTER
"LEWIS CARROLL"
The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright--
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.
The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done--
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!"
The sea was wet as wet could be.
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky;
No birds were flying overhead--
There were no birds to fly.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
"If this were only cleared away,"
They said, "it would be grand!"
"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year,
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.
"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."
The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head--
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.
But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat--
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.
Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more--
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.
"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing wax
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."
"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.
"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed--
Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."
"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
"After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said.
"Do you admire the view?
"It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"Cut me another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf--
I've had to ask you twice!"
"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick,
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"The butter's spread too thick!"
"I weep for you," the Walrus said:
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.
"O Oysters," cried the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?"
But answer came there none--
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.
338
A STRANGE WILD SONG
"LEWIS CARROLL"
He thought he saw a Buffalo
Upon the chimney-piece:
He looked again, and found it was
His Sister's Husband's Niece.
"Unless you leave this house," he said,
"I'll send for the Police."
He thought he saw a Rattlesnake
That questioned him in Greek:
He looked again, and found it was
The Middle of Next Week.
"The one thing I regret," he said,
"Is that it cannot speak!"
He thought he saw a Banker's Clerk
Descending from the 'bus:
He looked again, and found it was
A Hippopotamus.
"If this should stay to dine," he said,
"There won't be much for us!"
He thought he saw a Kangaroo
That worked a coffee-mill;
He looked again, and found it was
A Vegetable-Pill.
"Were I to swallow this," he said,
"I should be very ill."
He thought he saw a Coach and Four
That stood beside his bed:
He looked again, and found it was
A Bear without a Head.
"Poor thing," he said, "poor silly thing!
It's waiting to be fed!"
He thought he saw an Albatross
That fluttered round the Lamp:
He looked again, and found it was
A Penny Postage-Stamp.
"You'd best be getting home," he said:
"The nights are very damp!"
He thought he saw a Garden Door
That opened with a key:
He looked again, and found it was
A Double-Rule-of-Three:
"And all its mystery," he said,
"Is clear as day to me!"
He thought he saw an Argument
That proved he was the Pope:
He looked again, and found it was
A Bar of Mottled Soap.
"A fact so dread," he faintly said,
"Extinguishes all hope!"
339
Isaac Watts (1674-1748) was an English minister
and the writer of many hymns still included in
our hymn books. He had a notion that verse
might be used as a means of religious and
ethical instruction for children, and wrote
some poems as illustrations of his theory so
that they might suggest to better poets how to
carry out the idea. But Watts did this work so
well that two or three of his poems and several
of his stanzas have become common possessions.
They are dominated, of course, by the heavy
didactic moralizing, but are all so genuine and
true that young readers feel their force and
enjoy them.
AGAINST IDLENESS AND MISCHIEF
ISAAC WATTS
How doth the little busy bee
Improve each shining hour,
And gather honey all the day
From every opening flower!
How skilfully she builds her cell,
How neat she spreads the wax!
And labors hard to store it well
With the sweet food she makes.
In works of labor or of skill,
I would be busy too;
For Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do.
In books, or work, or healthful play,
Let my first years be past,
That I may give for every day
Some good account at last.
340
FAMOUS PASSAGES FROM DOCTOR WATTS
O 'tis a lovely thing for youth
To walk betimes in wisdom's way;
To fear a lie, to speak the truth,
That we may trust to all they say.
But liars we can never trust,
Though they should speak the thing that's true;
And he that does one fault at first,
And lies to hide it, makes it two.
(From "Against Lying")
Whatever brawls disturb the street,
There should be peace at home;
Where sisters dwell and brothers meet,
Quarrels should never come.
Birds in their little nests agree:
And 'tis a shameful sight,
When children of one family
Fall out, and chide, and fight.
(From "Love between Brothers and Sisters")
How proud we are! how fond to show
Our clothes, and call them rich and new!
When the poor sheep and silk-worm wore
That very clothing long before.
The tulip and the butterfly
Appear in gayer coats than I;
Let me be dressed fine as I will,
Flies, worms, and flowers exceed me still.
Then will I set my heart to find
Inward adornings of the mind;
Knowledge and virtue, truth and grace,
These are the robes of richest dress.
(From "Against Pride in Clothes")
Let dogs delight to bark and bite,
For God hath made them so;
Let bears and lions growl and fight,
For 'tis their nature to.
But, children, you should never let
Such angry passions rise;
Your little hands were never made
To tear each other's eyes.
(From "Against Quarreling and Fighting")
Most of the work of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
(1807-1882) is within the range of children's
interests and comprehension. Three poems are
given here, "The Skeleton in Armor," as
representative of Longfellow's large group of
narrative poems, "The Day Is Done," as an
expression of the value of poetry in everyday
life, and "The Psalm of Life," as the finest
and most popular example of his hortatory
poems.
341
"The Skeleton in Armor" is one of Longfellow's
first and best American art ballads. In
Newport, Rhode Island, is an old stone tower
known as the "Round Tower," which some people
think was built by the Northmen, though it
probably was not. In 1836 workmen unearthed a
strange skeleton at Fall River, Massachusetts.
It was wrapped in bark and coarse cloth. On the
breast was a plate of brass, and around the
waist was a belt of brass tubes. Apparently it
was not the skeleton of an Indian, and people
supposed it might have been that of one of the
old Norsemen. Longfellow used these two
historic facts as a basis for the plot of his
poem, which he wrote in 1840.
THE SKELETON IN ARMOR
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
"Speak! speak! thou fearful guest!
Who, with thy hollow breast
Still in rude armor drest,
Comest to daunt me!
Wrapt not in Eastern balms,
But with thy fleshless palms
Stretched, as if asking alms,
Why dost thou haunt me?"
Then, from those cavernous eyes
Pale flashes seemed to rise,
As when the Northern skies
Gleam in December;
And, like the water's flow
Under December's snow,
Came a dull voice of woe
From the heart's chamber.
"I was a Viking old!
My deeds, though manifold,
No Skald in song has told,
No Saga taught thee!
Take heed, that in thy verse
Thou dost the tale rehearse,
Else dread a dead man's curse!
For this I sought thee.
"Far in the Northern Land,
By the wild Baltic's strand,
I, with my childish hand,
Tamed the ger-falcon;
And, with my skates fast-bound.
Skimmed the half-frozen Sound,
That the poor whimpering hound
Trembled to walk on.
"Oft to his frozen lair
Tracked I the grisly bear,
While from my path the hare
Fled like a shadow;
Oft through the forest dark
Followed the were-wolf's bark,
Until the soaring lark
Sang from the meadow.
"But when I older grew,
Joining a corsair's crew,
O'er the dark sea I flew
With the marauders.
Wild was the life we led;
Many the souls that sped,
Many the hearts that bled,
By our stern orders.
"Many a wassail-bout
Wore the long Winter out;
Often our midnight shout
Set the cocks crowing,
As we the Berserk's tale
Measured in cups of ale,
Draining the oaken pail,
Filled to o'erflowing.
"Once, as I told in glee
Tales of the stormy sea,
Soft eyes did gaze on me,
Burning, yet tender;
And as the white stars shine
On the dark Norway pine,
On that dark heart of mine
Fell their soft splendor.
"I wooed the blue-eyed maid,
Yielding, yet half afraid,
And in the forest's shade
Our vows were plighted.
Under its loosened vest
Fluttered her little breast,
Like birds within their nest
By the hawk frighted.
"Bright in her father's hall
Shields gleamed upon the wall,
Loud sang the minstrels all,
Chanting his glory:
When of old Hildebrand
I asked his daughter's hand,
Mute did the minstrel stand
To hear my story.
"While the brown ale he quaffed,
Loud then the champion laughed,
And as the wind-gusts waft
The sea-foam brightly,
So the loud laugh of scorn,
Out of those lips unshorn,
From the deep drinking-horn
Blew the foam lightly.
"She was a Prince's child,
I but a Viking wild,
And though she blushed and smiled,
I was discarded!
Should not the dove so white
Follow the sea-new's flight,
Why did they leave that night
Her nest unguarded?
"Scarce had I put to sea,
Bearing the maid with me,--
Fairest of all was she
Among the Norsemen!--
When on the white-sea strand,
Waving his armed hand,
Saw we old Hildebrand,
With twenty horsemen.
"Then launched they to the blast,
Bent like a reed each mast,
Yet we were gaining fast,
When the wind failed us;
And with a sudden flaw
Came round the gusty Skaw,
So that our foe we saw
Laugh as he hailed us.
"And as to catch the gale
Round veered the flapping sail,
'Death!' was the helmsman's hail,
Death without quarter!
Mid-ships with iron-keel
Struck we her ribs of steel;
Down her black hulk did reel
Through the black water.
"As with his wings aslant,
Sails the fierce cormorant,
Seeking some rocky haunt,
With his prey laden;
So toward the open main,
Beating the sea again,
Through the wild hurricane,
Bore I the maiden.
"Three weeks we westward bore,
And when the storm was o'er,
Cloud-like we saw the shore
Stretching to leeward;
There for my lady's bower
Built I the lofty tower,
Which, to this very hour,
Stands looking seaward.
"There lived we many years;
Time dried the maiden's tears;
She had forgot her fears,
She was a mother;
Death closed her mild blue eyes,
Under that tower she lies;
Ne'er shall the sun arise
On such another!
"Still grew my bosom then,
Still as a stagnant fen!
Hateful to me were men,
The sunlight hateful!
In the vast forest here,
Clad in my warlike gear,
Fell I upon my spear,
Oh, death was grateful!
"Thus, seamed with many scars,
Bursting these prison bars,
Up to its native stars
My soul ascended!
There from the flowing bowl
Deep drinks the warrior's soul,
_Skoal!_ to the Northland! _Skoal!_"
--Thus the tale ended.
342
THE DAY IS DONE
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night.
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in its flight.
I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
That my soul cannot resist:
A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.
Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.
Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.
For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.
Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;
Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.
Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.
Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.
And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.
343
A PSALM OF LIFE
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!--
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each tomorrow
Find us farther than today.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife.
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,--act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
344
Historians usually mention Charles Kingsley
(1819-1875) only as an English novelist, but it
seems probable that eventually he will be
remembered chiefly for his work in juvenile
literature. His _Water Babies_ is popular with
children of the fourth and fifth grade, while
his book of Greek myths entitled _The Heroes_
is a classic for older children. The next two
poems are popular with both adults and
children. Kingsley was a minister and his
church was located in Devon so that the
tragedies of the sea among the fisher folk were
often brought to his attention. Both these
poems deal with such tragedies.
THE THREE FISHERS
CHARLES KINGSLEY
Three fishers went sailing out into the west,--
Out into the west as the sun went down;
Each thought of the woman who loved him the best,
And the children stood watching them out of the town;
For men must work, and women must weep;
And there's little to earn, and many to keep,
Though the harbor bar be moaning.
Three wives sat up in the light-house tower,
And trimmed the lamps as the sun went down;
And they looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower,
And the rack it came rolling up, ragged and brown;
But men must work, and women must weep,
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,
And the harbor bar be moaning.
Three corpses lay out on the shining sands
In the morning gleam as the tide went down,
And the women are watching and wringing their hands,
For those who will never come back to the town;
For men must work, and women must weep,--
And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep,--
And good-by to the bar and its moaning.
345
THE SANDS OF DEE
CHARLES KINGSLEY
"O Mary, go and call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home
Across the sands of Dee!"
The western wind was wild and dank with foam,
And all alone went she.
The western tide crept up along the sand,
And o'er and o'er the sand,
And round and round the sand,
As far as eye could see.
The rolling mist came down and hid the land:
And never home came she.
"Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair--
A tress of golden hair,
A drowned maiden's hair
Above the nets at sea?
Was never salmon yet that shone so fair
Among the stakes on Dee."
They rowed her in across the sailing foam,
The cruel crawling foam,
The cruel hungry foam,
To her grave beside the sea:
But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home
Across the sands of Dee!
The next two poems, by Alfred Tennyson
(1809-1892), are very well-known songs. "What
Does Little Birdie Say" is the mother's song in
"Sea Dreams." "Sweet and Low" is one of the
best of the lyrics in "The Princess," and a
favorite among the greatest lullabies.
346
"WHAT DOES LITTLE BIRDIE SAY?"
ALFRED TENNYSON
What does little birdie say,
In her nest at peep of day?
"Let me fly," says little birdie,
"Mother, let me fly away."
"Birdie, rest a little longer,
Till the little wings are stronger."
So she rests a little longer,
Then she flies away.
What does little baby say,
In her bed at peep of day?
Baby says, like little birdie,
"Let me rise and fly away."
"Baby, sleep a little longer,
Till the little limbs are stronger."
If she sleeps a little longer,
Baby too shall fly away.
347
SWEET AND LOW
ALFRED TENNYSON
Sweet and low, sweet and low,
Wind of the western sea,
Low, low, breathe and blow,
Wind of the western sea!
Over the rolling waters go,
Come from the dying moon, and blow,
Blow him again to me;
While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.
Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,
Father will come to thee soon;
Rest, rest on mother's breast,
Father will come to thee soon;
Father will come to his babe in the nest,
Silver sails all out of the west
Under the silver moon:
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.
348
This poem is a great poet's expression of what
a poet's ideal of his mission should be. It is
summed up in the last two lines. An interesting
comparison could be made of the purpose of
poetry as reflected here with that suggested by
Longfellow in No. 342.
THE POET'S SONG
ALFRED TENNYSON
The rain had fallen, the Poet arose,
He pass'd by the town and out of the street,
A light wind blew from the gates of the sun,
And waves of shadow went over the wheat,
And he sat him down in a lonely place,
And chanted a melody loud and sweet,
That made the wild-swan pause in her cloud,
And the lark drop down at his feet.
The swallow stopt as he hunted the bee,
The snake slipt under a spray,
The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak,
And stared, with his foot on the prey,
And the nightingale thought, "I have sung many songs,
But never a one so gay,
For he sings of what the world will be
When the years have died away."
349
Those who live near the sea know that outside a
harbor a bar is formed of earth washed down
from the land. At low tide this may be so near
the surface as to be dangerous to ships passing
in and out, and the waves may beat against it
with a moaning sound. In his eighty-first year
Tennyson wrote "Crossing the Bar" to express
his thought about death. He represents the soul
as having come from the boundless deep of
eternity into this world-harbor of Time and
Place, and he represents death as the departure
from the harbor. He would have no lingering
illness to bar the departure. He would have the
end of life's day to be peaceful and without
sadness of farewell, for he trusts that his
journey into the sea of eternity will be guided
by "my Pilot." This poem may be somewhat beyond
the comprehension of eighth-grade pupils, but
they can perceive the beauty of the imagery and
music, and later in life it will be a source of
hope and comfort.
CROSSING THE BAR
ALFRED TENNYSON
Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar
When I put out to sea,
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;
For though from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crossed the bar.
350
Leigh Hunt (1784-1859) was an English essayist,
journalist, and poet. His one universally known
poem is "Abou Ben Adhem." The secret of its
appeal is no doubt the emphasis placed on the
idea that a person's attitude toward his
fellows is more important than mere
professions. The line "Write me as one that
loves his fellow men" is on Hunt's tomb in
Kensal Green Cemetery, London.
ABOU BEN ADHEM
LEIGH HUNT
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,
"What writest thou?"--the vision rais'd its head,
And with a look made all of sweet accord,
Answer'd, "The names of those that love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow men."
The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And show'd the names whom love of God had blest,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.
351
Cincinnatus Heine Miller, generally known as
Joaquin Miller (1841-1912), revealed in his
verse much of the restless energy of Western
America, where most of his life was passed.
"Columbus" is probably his best known poem.
"For Those Who Fail" suggests the important
truth that he who wins popular applause is not
usually the one who most deserves to be
honored.
FOR THOSE WHO FAIL
JOAQUIN MILLER
"All honor to him who shall win the prize,"
The world has cried for a thousand years;
But to him who tries and who fails and dies,
I give great honor and glory and tears.
O great is the hero who wins a name,
But greater many and many a time,
Some pale-faced fellow who dies in shame,
And lets God finish the thought sublime.
And great is the man with a sword undrawn,
And good is the man who refrains from wine;
But the man who fails and yet fights on,
'Lo! he is the twin-born brother of mine!
352
Numerous poems have been written about the
futility of searching on earth for a place of
perfect happiness. The next poem, by Edgar
Allan Poe (1809-1849), seems to deal with this
subject. Some lines from Longfellow are good to
suggest its special message:
"No endeavor is in vain,
Its reward is in the doing,
And the rapture of pursuing
Is the prize the vanquished gain."
ELDORADO
EDGAR ALLAN POE
Gaily bedight,
A gallant knight,
In sunshine and in shadow
Had journeyed long,
Singing a song,
In search of Eldorado.
But he grew old--
This knight so bold--
And o'er his heart a shadow
Fell as he found
No spot of ground
That looked like Eldorado.
And, as his strength
Failed him at length,
He met a pilgrim shadow--
"Shadow," said he,
"Where can it be--
This land of Eldorado?"
"Over the mountains
Of the Moon,
Down the Valley of the Shadow
Ride, boldly ride,"
The Shade replied,
"If you seek for Eldorado!"
353
Lord Byron (1788-1824) was the most popular
of English poets in his day. His fame
has since declined, although his fiery,
impetuous nature, expressing itself in
rapid verse of great rhetorical and satiric
power, still reaches kindred spirits. His
"Prisoner of Chillon" is often studied in
the upper grades. It is full of the passion
for freedom which was the dominating
idea in Byron's work as it was in his life.
He gave his life for this idea, striving to
help the Greeks gain their independence.
The poem which follows is from an early
work called _Hebrew Melodies_. We learn
from II Chronicles 32:21 that Sennacherib,
King of Assyria, having invaded
Judah, Hezekiah cried unto heaven, "And
the Lord sent an angel, which cut off the
mighty men of valor, and the leaders and
captains in the camp of the King of Assyria.
So he returned with shame of face to his
own land." Byron's title seems to indicate
that Sennacherib was himself destroyed.
The fine swinging measure of the lines, and
the vivid picture of the destroyed hosts in
contrast to the brilliant glory of their
triumphant invasion, are two of the chief
elements in its appeal.
THE DESTRUCTION OF
SENNACHERIB
LORD BYRON
The Assyrian came down like a 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,
The 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 passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled 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.
354
The next two poems may represent the youth and
the maturity of America's first great nature
poet, William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878),
although neither is in the style that
characterizes his nature verse. He wrote "To a
Waterfowl" in 1815. When he had completed his
study of law, he set out on foot to find a
village where he might begin work as a lawyer.
He was poor and without friends. At the end of
a day's journey, when he began to feel
discouraged, he saw a wild duck flying alone
high in the sky. Then the thought came to him
that he would be guided aright, just as the
bird was, and he wrote "To a Waterfowl," the
most artistic of all his poems. The poem is
suitable for the seventh or eighth grade.
TO A WATERFOWL
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT
Whither, midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way?
Vainly the fowler's eye
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,
Thy figure floats along.
Seek'st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chafed ocean-side?
There is a Power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast--
The desert and illimitable air--
Lone wandering, but not lost.
All day thy wings have fanned
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere,
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land
Though the dark night is near.
And soon that toil shall end;
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,
Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.
Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart.
He who, from zone to zone,
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone,
Will lead my steps aright.
355
Bryant wrote this poem in 1849 after he had
been planting fruit trees on his country place
on Long Island.
THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE-TREE
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT
Come, let us plant the apple-tree.
Cleave the tough greensward with the spade:
Wide let its hollow bed be made;
There gently lay the roots, and there
Sift the dark mould with kindly care,
And press it o'er them tenderly,
As, round the sleeping infant's feet,
We softly fold the cradle-sheet;
So plant we the apple-tree.
What plant we in this apple-tree?
Buds, which the breath of summer days
Shall lengthen into leafy sprays;
Boughs where the thrush, with crimson breast,
Shall haunt, and sing, and hide her nest;
We plant, upon the sunny lea,
A shadow for the noontide hour,
A shelter from the summer shower,
When we plant the apple-tree.
What plant we in this apple-tree?
Sweets for a hundred flowery springs
To load the May-wind's restless wings,
When, from the orchard row, he pours
Its fragrance through our open doors;
A world of blossoms for the bee,
Flowers for the sick girl's silent room,
For the glad infant sprigs of bloom,
We plant with the apple-tree.
What plant we in this apple-tree?
Fruits that shall swell in sunny June,
And redden in the August noon,
And drop, when gentle airs come by,
That fan the blue September sky,
While children come, with cries of glee,
And seek them where the fragrant grass
Betrays their bed to those who pass,
At the foot of the apple-tree.
And when, above this apple-tree,
The winter stars are quivering bright,
And winds go howling through the night,
Girls, whose young eyes o'erflow with mirth,
Shall peel its fruit by cottage-hearth,
And guests in prouder homes shall see,
Heaped with the grape of Cintra's vine
And golden orange of the line,
The fruit of the apple-tree.
The fruitage of this apple-tree
Winds and our flag of stripe and star
Shall bear to coasts that lie afar,
Where men shall wonder at the view,
And ask in what fair groves they grew;
And sojourners beyond the sea
Shall think of childhood's careless day,
And long, long hours of summer play,
In the shade of the apple-tree.
Each year shall give this apple-tree
A broader flush of roseate bloom,
A deeper maze of verdurous gloom,
And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower,
The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower.
The years shall come and pass, but we
Shall hear no longer, where we lie,
The summer's songs, the autumn's sigh,
In the boughs of the apple-tree.
And time shall waste this apple-tree.
Oh, when its aged branches throw
Thin shadows on the ground below,
Shall fraud and force and iron will
Oppress the weak and helpless still?
What shall the tasks of mercy be,
Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears
Of those who live when length of years
Is wasting this apple-tree?
"Who planted this old apple-tree?"
The children of that distant day
Thus to some aged man shall say;
And, gazing on its mossy stem,
The gray-haired man shall answer them:
"A poet of the land was he,
Born in the rude but good old times;
'T is said he made some quaint old rhymes,
On planting the apple-tree."
356
The next poem, by the English poet Thomas
Edward Brown (1830-1897), deserves to be
classed with the most beautiful and artistic
verse in our language. Students will notice the
allusion to the biblical tradition that God
walked in the Garden of Eden in the cool of the
evening.
MY GARDEN
THOMAS EDWARD BROWN
A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot!
Rose plot,
Fringed pool,
Ferned grot--
The veriest school
Of peace; and yet the fool
Contends that God is not--
Not God! in gardens! when the eve is cool?
Nay, but I have a sign;
'T is very sure God walks in mine.
357
William Wordsworth (1770-1850) ranks very high
among English poets. He endeavored to bring
poetry close to actual life and to get rid of
the stilted language of conventional verse. The
struggle was long and difficult, but Wordsworth
lived long enough to know that the world had
realized his greatness. Many of his poems are
suitable for use with children. Their
simplicity, their directness, and their utter
sincerity made many of them, while not written
especially for the young, seem as if directly
addressed to the childlike mind. "We are
Seven," "Lucy Gray," and "Michael" belong to
this number, as do the two masterpieces among
short poems which are quoted here. "How many
people," exclaims Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes,
"have been waked to a quicker consciousness of
life by Wordsworth's simple lines about the
daffodils, and what he says of the thoughts
suggested to him by 'the meanest flower that
blows'!" In both poems the imagery is of the
utmost importance. Through it the reader is
able to put himself with the poet and see
things as the poet saw them. In "The Daffodils"
the flowers, jocund in the breeze, drive away
the melancholy mood with which the poet had
approached them and enable him to carry away a
picture in his memory that can be drawn upon
for help on future occasions of gloom. In "The
Solitary Reaper" the weird and haunting notes
of the song coming to his ear in an unknown
tongue suggest possible ideas back of the
strong feeling which he recognizes in the
singer. Here also, the poet's memory carries
something away,
"The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more."
One of the purposes in teaching poetry should
be to store the mind, not with words only, but
with impressions that may later be recalled to
beautify and strengthen life.
DAFFODILS
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
I wander'd lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretch'd in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
358
THE SOLITARY REAPER
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary highland lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
Oh, listen! for the vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
No nightingale did ever chant
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travelers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago!
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?
Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending:
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;--
I listen'd, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.
359
Lady Norton (1808-1877) does not belong among
the great poets, but she wrote several poems
that were immense favorites with a generation
now passing away. Among them are "Bingen on the
Rhine," "The King of Denmark's Ride" and the
one given below. It will no doubt show that her
work still has power to stir readers of the
present day, although we are likely to think of
her poems as being too emotional or
sentimental. She wrote the words of the very
popular song "Juanita."
THE ARAB TO HIS FAVORITE STEED
CAROLINE E. NORTON
My beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by,
With thy proudly arched and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye,
Fret not to roam the desert now, with all thy winged speed;
I may not mount on thee again,--thou'rt sold, my Arab steed!
Fret not with that impatient hoof,--snuff not the breezy wind,--
The farther that thou fliest now, so far am I behind;
The stranger hath thy bridle-rein,--thy master hath his gold,--
Fleet-limbed and beautiful, farewell; thou'rt sold, my steed, thou'rt
sold.
Farewell! those free untired limbs full many a mile must roam,
To reach the chill and wintry sky which clouds the stranger's home;
Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bed prepare,
Thy silky mane, I braided once, must be another's care!
The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more with thee
Shall I gallop through the desert paths, where we were wont to be;
Evening shall darken on the earth, and o'er the sandy plain
Some other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home again.
Yes, thou must go! the wild, free breeze, the brilliant sun and sky,
Thy master's house,--from all of these my exiled one must fly;
Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become less fleet,
And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck, thy master's hand to meet.
Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye, glancing bright;--
Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light;
And when I raise my dreaming arm to check or cheer thy speed,
Then must I, starting, wake to feel,--thou'rt sold, my Arab steed.
Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide,
Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting side:
And the rich blood that's in thee swells, in thy indignant pain,
Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each starting vein.
Will they ill-use thee? If I thought--but no, it cannot be,--
Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed; so gentle, yet so free:
And yet, if haply, when thou'rt gone, my lonely heart should yearn,
Can the hand which casts thee from it now command thee to return?
Return! alas! my Arab steed! what shall thy master do,
When thou, who wast his all of joy, hast vanished from his view?
When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and through the gathering tears
Thy bright form, for a moment, like the false mirage appears;
Slow and unmounted shall I roam, with weary step alone,
Where, with fleet step and joyous bound, thou oft hast borne me on;
And sitting down by that green well, I'll pause and sadly think,
"It was here he bowed his glossy neck when last I saw him drink!"
When last I saw thee drink!--Away! the fevered dream is o'er,--
I could not live a day, and know that we should meet no more!
They tempted me, my beautiful! for hunger's power is strong,--
They tempted me, my beautiful! but I have loved too long.
Who said that I had given thee up? who said that thou wast sold?
'T is false!--'t is false, my Arab steed! I fling them back their gold!
Thus, thus, I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant plains;
Away! who overtakes us now shall claim thee for his pains!
360
Robert Southey (1774-1843) was poet laureate of
England, and a most prolific writer of poetry
and miscellaneous prose. His great prominence
in his own day has been succeeded by an
obscurity so complete that only a few items of
his work are now remembered. Among these are
"The Battle of Blenheim," a very brief and
effective satire against war, "The Well of St.
Keyne," a humorous poem based on an old
superstition, and "The Inchcape Rock," a
stirring narrative of how evil deeds return
upon the evil doer. (See also No. 153.)
THE INCHCAPE ROCK
ROBERT SOUTHEY
No stir in the air, no stir in the sea,
The ship was as still as she could be;
Her sails from Heaven received no motion,
Her keel was steady in the ocean.
Without either sign or sound of their shock,
The waves flowed over the Inchcape Rock;
So little they rose, so little they fell,
They did not move the Inchcape Bell.
The holy Abbot of Aberbrothok
Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock;
On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung,
And over the waves its warning rung.
When the rock was hid by the surges' swell,
The mariners heard the warning bell;
And then they knew the perilous Rock,
And blessed the Abbot of Aberbrothok.
The Sun in heaven was shining gay,
All things were joyful on that day;
The sea-birds screamed as they wheeled around,
And there was joyance in their sound.
The buoy of the Inchcape Rock was seen,
A darker speck on the ocean green;
Sir Ralph, the Rover, walked his deck,
And he fixed his eye on the darker speck.
He felt the cheering power of spring,
It made him whistle, it made him sing;
His heart was mirthful to excess;
But the Rover's mirth was wickedness.
His eye was on the Inchcape float;
Quoth he, "My men, put out the boat;
And row me to the Inchcape Rock,
And I'll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok."
The boat is lowered, the boatmen row,
And to the Inchcape Rock they go;
Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,
And cut the Bell from the Inchcape float.
Down sank the Bell with a gurgling sound;
The bubbles rose, and burst around.
Quoth Sir Ralph, "The next who comes to the Rock
Will not bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok."
Sir Ralph, the Rover, sailed away,
He scoured the seas for many a day;
And now, grown rich with plundered store,
He steers his course for Scotland's shore.
So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky
They cannot see the Sun on high;
The wind hath blown a gale all day;
At evening it hath died away.
On the deck the Rover takes his stand;
So dark it is they see no land.
Quoth Sir Ralph, "It will be lighter soon,
For there is the dawn of the rising Moon."
"Canst hear," said one, "the breakers roar?
For yonder, methinks, should be the shore.
Now where we are I cannot tell,
But I wish we could hear the Inchcape Bell."
They hear no sound; the swell is strong;
Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along,
Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock,--
"O Christ! it is the Inchcape Rock."
Sir Ralph, the Rover, tore his hair;
He cursed himself in his despair.
The waves rush in on every side;
The ship is sinking beneath the tide.
But even in his dying fear,
One dreadful sound he seemed to hear,--
A sound as if, with the Inchcape Bell,
The Devil below was ringing his knell.
The Shakespeare passages which follow are from
the fairy play "A Midsummer Night's Dream." A
teacher well acquainted with that play would
find it possible to delight children with it.
The fairy and rustic scenes could be given
almost in their entirety, the other scenes
could be summarized.
361
OVER HILL, OVER DALE
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Over hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, thorough brier,
Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, thorough fire,
I do wander everywhere,
Swifter than the moon's sphere;
And I serve the fairy queen,
To dew her orbs upon the green.
The cowslips tall her pensioners be:
In their gold coats spots you see;
Those be rubies, fairy favours,
In those freckles live their savours:
I must go seek some dewdrops here,
And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.
362
A FAIRY SCENE IN A WOOD
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
FAIRY QUEEN TITANIA (_calls to her_ FAIRIES _following her_)
Come, now a roundel and a fairy song;
Then, for the third part of a minute, hence;
Some to kill cankers in the musk-rose buds,
Some war with rere-mice for their leathern wings,
To make my small elves coats, and some keep back
The clamorous owl that nightly hoots and wonders
At our quaint spirits. Sing me now asleep;
Then to your offices and let me rest.
_She lies down to sleep, and the_ FAIRIES _sing as follows_:
You spotted snakes with double tongue,
Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;
Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong,
Come not near our fairy queen.
Philomel, with melody
Sing in our sweet lullaby;
Lulla, lulla, lullaby, lulla, lulla, lullaby:
Never harm,
Nor spell nor charm,
Come our lovely lady nigh:
So good-night, with lullaby.
Weaving spiders, come not here;
Hence, you long-legged spinners, hence.
Beetles black, approach not near;
Worm nor snail, do no offence.
Philomel, with melody
Sing in our sweet lullaby;
Lulla, lulla, lullaby, lulla, lulla, lullaby:
Never harm,
Nor spell nor charm,
Come our lovely lady nigh;
So, good-night, with lullaby.
A FAIRY
Hence, away! now all is well:
One aloof stand sentinel.
363
Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882) is America's
greatest spiritual teacher. His essays, such as
"Self-Reliance" and "The American Scholar," are
his chief claim to fame. The two brief poems
given here are well known. "Fable" should be
studied along with No. 236, since they
emphasize the same lesson that size is after
all a purely relative matter. "Concord Hymn" is
a splendidly dignified expression of the debt
of gratitude we owe to the memory of those who
made our country possible. Of course no reader
will fail to notice the famous last two lines
of the first stanza.
FABLE
RALPH WALDO EMERSON
The mountain and the squirrel
Had a quarrel,
And the former called the latter "Little Prig";
Bun replied,
"You are doubtless very big;
But all sorts of things and weather
Must be taken in together
To make up a year
And a sphere.
And I think it no disgrace
To occupy my place.
If I'm not so large as you,
You are not so small as I,
And not half so spry.
I'll not deny you make
A very pretty squirrel track;
Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;
If I cannot carry forests on my back,
Neither can you crack a nut!"
364
CONCORD HYMN
RALPH WALDO EMERSON
By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard round the world.
The foe long since in silence slept;
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.
On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set to-day a votive stone;
That memory may their deed redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.
Spirit, that made those heroes dare
To die, and leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and thee.
365
Almost any of the works of Sir Walter Scott
(1771-1832), whether in prose or verse, is
within the range of children in the grades.
Especially the fine ballads, such as
"Lochinvar" and "Allen-a-Dale," are sure to
interest them. Children should be encouraged to
read one of the long story-poems, "The Lady of
the Lake" or "The Lay of the Last Minstrel."
The famous expression of patriotism quoted
below is from the latter poem.
BREATHES THERE THE MAN
SIR WALTER SCOTT
Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned
From wandering on a foreign strand!
If such there be, go, mark him well;
For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentered all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.
366
When Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809-1894) was
twenty-one years old, he read that the Navy
Department had decided to destroy the old,
unseaworthy frigate "Constitution," which had
become famous in the War of 1812. In one
evening he wrote the poem "Old Ironsides." This
not only made Holmes immediately famous as a
poet, but so aroused the American people that
the Navy Department changed its plans and
rebuilt the ship.
OLD IRONSIDES
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!
Long has it waved on high,
And many an eye has danced to see
That banner in the sky;
Beneath it rung the battle shout,
And burst the cannon's roar:--
The meteor of the ocean air
Shall sweep the clouds no more.
Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,
Where knelt the vanquished foe,
When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,
And waves were white below,
No more shall feel the victor's tread,
Or know the conquered knee;--
The harpies of the shore shall pluck
The eagle of the sea!
Oh, better that her shattered hulk
Should sink beneath the wave;
Her thunders shook the mighty deep,
And there should be her grave;
Nail to the mast her holy flag,
Set every threadbare sail,
And give her to the god of storms,
The lightning and the gale!
367
William Collins (1721-1759), English poet,
wrote only a few poems, but among them is this
short dirge which keeps his name alive in
popular memory. It was probably in honor of his
countrymen who fell at Fontenoy in 1745, the
year before its composition. Its austere
brevity, its well-known personifications, its
freedom from fulsome expressions, place it very
high among patriotic utterances.
HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE
WILLIAM COLLINS
How sleep the brave, who sink to rest
By all their country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallowed mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there!
368
The anonymous ballad dealing with the familiar
story of Nathan Hale, of Revolutionary times,
is the nearest approach to the old folk ballad
in our history. Its repetitions help it in
catching something of the breathless suspense
accompanying his daring effort, betrayal, and
execution. The pathos of the closing incidents
of Hale's career has attracted the tributes of
poets and dramatists. Francis Miles Finch,
author of "The Blue and the Gray," wrote a
well-known poetic account of Hale, while Clyde
Fitch's drama of _Nathan Hale_ had a great
popular success.
THE BALLAD OF NATHAN HALE
The breezes went steadily through the tall pines,
A-saying "Oh! hu-ush!" a-saying "Oh! hu-ush!"
As stilly stole by a bold legion of horse,
For Hale in the bush; for Hale in the bush.
"Keep still!" said the thrush as she nestled her young,
In a nest by the road; in a nest by the road.
"For the tyrants are near, and with them appear
What bodes us no good; what bodes us no good."
The brave captain heard it, and thought of his home
In a cot by the brook; in a cot by the brook;
With mother and sister and memories dear,
He so gayly forsook; he so gayly forsook.
Cooling shades of the night were coming apace,
The tattoo had beat; the tattoo had beat.
The noble one sprang from his dark lurking-place,
To make his retreat; to make his retreat.
He warily trod on the dry rustling leaves,
As he passed through the wood; as he passed through the wood;
And silently gained his rude launch on the shore,
As she played with the flood; as she played with the flood.
The guards of the camp, on that dark, dreary night,
Had a murderous will; had a murderous will.
They took him and bore him afar from the shore,
To a hut on the hill; to a hut on the hill.
No mother was there, nor a friend who could cheer,
In that little stone cell; in that little stone cell.
But he trusted in love, from his Father above.
In his heart, all was well; in his heart, all was well.
An ominous owl, with his solemn bass voice,
Sat moaning hard by; sat moaning hard by;
"The tyrant's proud minions most gladly rejoice,
For he must soon die; for he must soon die."
The brave fellow told them, no thing he restrained,--
The cruel general! the cruel general!--
His errand from camp, of the ends to be gained,
And said that was all; and said that was all.
They took him and bound him and bore him away,
Down the hill's grassy side; down the hill's grassy side.
'Twas there the base hirelings, in royal array,
His cause did deride; his cause did deride.
Five minutes were given, short moments, no more,
For him to repent; for him to repent.
He prayed for his mother, he asked not another,
To Heaven he went; to Heaven he went.
The faith of a martyr the tragedy showed,
As he trod the last stage; as he trod the last stage.
And Britons will shudder at gallant Hale's blood,
As his words do presage; as his words do presage:
"Thou pale King of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe,
Go frighten the slave; go frighten the slave;
Tell tyrants, to you their allegiance they owe.
No fears for the brave; no fears for the brave."
369
That men of great courage are certain to
recognize and pay tribute to courage in others,
even if those others are their enemies, is the
theme of "The Red Thread of Honor." Sir Francis
Hastings Doyle (1810-1888) wrote two other
stirring poems of action, "The Loss of the
Birkenhead" and "The Private of the Buffs."
THE RED THREAD OF HONOR
FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE
Eleven men of England
A breastwork charged in vain;
Eleven men of England
Lie stripp'd, and gash'd, and slain.
Slain; but of foes that guarded
Their rock-built fortress well,
Some twenty had been mastered,
When the last soldier fell.
The robber-chief mused deeply,
Above those daring dead;
"Bring here," at length he shouted,
"Bring quick, the battle thread.
Let Eblis blast forever
Their souls, if Allah will:
But we must keep unbroken
The old rules of the Hill.
"Before the Ghiznee tiger
Leapt forth to burn and slay;
Before the holy Prophet
Taught our grim tribes to pray;
Before Secunder's lances
Pierced through each Indian glen;
The mountain laws of honor
Were framed for fearless men.
"Still, when a chief dies bravely,
We bind with green one wrist--
Green for the brave, for heroes
One crimson thread we twist.
Say ye, oh gallant Hillmen,
For these, whose life has fled,
Which is the fitting color,
The green one, or the red?"
"Our brethren, laid in honor'd graves, may wear
Their green reward," each noble savage said;
"To these, whom hawks and hungry wolves shall tear,
Who dares deny the red?"
Thus conquering hate, and steadfast to the right,
Fresh from the heart that haughty verdict came;
Beneath a waning moon, each spectral height
Rolled back its loud acclaim.
Once more the chief gazed keenly
Down on those daring dead;
From his good sword their heart's blood
Crept to that crimson thread.
Once more he cried, "The judgment,
Good friends, is wise and true,
But though the red be given,
Have we not more to do?
"These were not stirred by anger,
Nor yet by lust made bold;
Renown they thought above them,
Nor did they look for gold.
To them their leader's signal
Was as the voice of God:
Unmoved, and uncomplaining,
The path it showed they trod.
"As, without sound or struggle,
The stars unhurrying march,
Where Allah's finger guides them,
Through yonder purple arch,
These Franks, sublimely silent,
Without a quickened breath,
Went, in the strength of duty,
Straight to their goal of death.
"If I were now to ask you,
To name our bravest man,
Ye all at once would answer,
They call'd him Mehrab Khan.
He sleeps among his fathers,
Dear to our native land,
With the bright mark he bled for
Firm round his faithful hand.
"The songs they sing of Roostum
Fill all the past with light;
If truth be in their music,
He was a noble knight.
But were those heroes living,
And strong for battle still,
Would Mehrab Khan or Roostum
Have climbed, like these, the Hill?"
And they replied, "Though Mehrab Khan was brave,
As chief, he chose himself what risks to run;
Prince Roostum lied, his forfeit life to save,
Which these had never done."
"Enough!" he shouted fiercely;
"Doomed though they be to hell,
Bind fast the crimson trophy
Round BOTH wrists--bind it well.
Who knows but that great Allah
May grudge such matchless men,
With none so decked in heaven,
To the fiend's flaming den?"
Then all those gallant robbers
Shouted a stern "Amen!"
They raised the slaughter'd sergeant,
They raised his mangled ten.
And when we found their bodies
Left bleaching in the wind,
Around BOTH wrists in glory
That crimson thread was twined.
370
In the year 1897 a great diamond jubilee was
held in England in honor of the completion of
sixty years of rule by Queen Victoria. Many
poems were written for the occasion, most of
which praised the greatness of Britain, the
extent of her dominion, the strength of her
army and navy, and the abundance of her wealth.
The "Recessional" was written for the occasion
by Rudyard Kipling (1865--). It is in the form
of a prayer, but its purpose was to tell the
British that they were forgetting the "God of
our fathers" and putting their trust in wealth
and navies and the "reeking tube and iron
shard" of the cannon. The poem rang through
England like a bugle call and stirred the
British people more deeply than any other poem
of recent times.
RECESSIONAL
RUDYARD KIPLING
God of our fathers, known of old--
Lord of our far flung battle-line--
Beneath whose awful hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine--
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget--lest we forget!
The tumult and the shouting dies--
The captains and the kings depart--
Still stands Thine ancient Sacrifice,
A humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget--lest we forget!
Far-called our navies sink away--
On dune and headland sinks the fire
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget--lest we forget!
If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe--
Such boasting as the Gentiles use
Or lesser breeds without the law--
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget--lest we forget!
For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard--
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And guarding calls not Thee to guard--
For frantic boast and foolish word,
Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!
371
William Ernest Henley (1849-1903) was an
English critic and journalist of great force
and a poet whose verse is full of manliness and
tenderness. His life was a constant and
courageous struggle against disease. The spirit
in which he faced conditions that would have
conquered a weaker man breathes through the
famous poem quoted below. Such a spirit is not
confined to any particular stage of maturity as
represented by years, and many young people
will find themselves buoyed up in the face of
difficulties by coming into touch with the
unconquered and unconquerable voice in this
poem. The last two lines in particular are
often quoted.
INVICTUS
WILLIAM E. HENLEY
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud:
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul.
372
James Russell Lowell (1819-1891) is a poet of
such high idealisms that many of his poems seem
to form the natural heritage of youth. Among
such are "The Vision of Sir Launfal," "The
Present Crisis," "The Fatherland," and
"Aladdin." "The Falcon" is not so well known as
any of these, but its fine image for the seeker
after truth should appeal to most children of
upper grades. "The Shepherd of King Admetus" is
a very attractive poetizing of an old myth (see
No. 261) and lets us see something of how the
public looks upon its poets and other artistic
folk.
THE FALCON
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
I know a falcon swift and peerless
As e'er was cradled in the pine;
No bird had ever eye so fearless,
Or wing so strong as this of mine.
The winds not better love to pilot
A cloud with molten gold o'errun,
Than him, a little burning islet,
A star above the coming sun.
For with a lark's heart he doth tower,
By a glorious upward instinct drawn;
No bee nestles deeper in the flower
Than he in the bursting rose of dawn.
No harmless dove, no bird that singeth,
Shudders to see him overhead;
The rush of his fierce swooping bringeth
To innocent hearts no thrill of dread.
Let fraud and wrong and baseness shiver,
For still between them and the sky
The falcon Truth hangs poised forever
And marks them with his vengeful eye.
373
THE SHEPHERD OF KING ADMETUS
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
There came a youth upon the earth,
Some thousand years ago,
Whose slender hands were nothing worth,
Whether to plough, or reap, or sow.
Upon an empty tortoise-shell
He stretched some chords, and drew
Music that made men's bosoms swell
Fearless, or brimmed their eyes with dew.
Then King Admetus, one who had
Pure taste by right divine,
Decreed his singing not too bad
To hear between the cups of wine:
And so, well pleased with being soothed
Into a sweet half-sleep,
Three times his kingly beard he smoothed,
And made him viceroy o'er his sheep.
His words were simple words enough,
And yet he used them so,
That what in other mouths was rough
In his seemed musical and low.
Men called him but a shiftless youth,
In whom no good they saw;
And yet, unwittingly, in truth,
They made his careless words their law.
They knew not how he learned at all,
For idly, hour by hour,
He sat and watched the dead leaves fall,
Or mused upon a common flower.
It seemed the loveliness of things
Did teach him all their use,
For, in mere weeds, and stones, and springs,
He found a healing power profuse.
Men granted that his speech was wise,
But, when a glance they caught
Of his slim grace and woman's eyes,
They laughed, and called him good-for-naught.
Yet after he was dead and gone,
And e'en his memory dim,
Earth seemed more sweet to live upon,
More full of love, because of him.
And day by day more holy grew
Each spot where he had trod,
Till after-poets only knew
Their first-born brother as a god.
374
Sir William S. Gilbert (1837-1911), an English
dramatist, is known to us as the librettist of
the popular Gilbert and Sullivan operas, _The
Mikado_, _Pinafore_, etc. In his earlier days
he wrote a book of humorous poetry called _The
Bab Ballads_. Many of these still please
readers who like a little nonsense now and then
of a supremely ridiculous type. "The Yarn of
the Nancy Bell" is a splendid take-off on
"travelers' tales," and is not likely to
deceive anyone. However, Gilbert said that when
he sent the poem to _Punch_, the editor made
objection to its extremely cannibalistic
nature!
THE YARN OF THE NANCY BELL
WILLIAM S. GILBERT
'Twas on the shores that round our coast
From Deal to Ramsgate span,
That I found alone on a piece of stone
An elderly naval man.
His hair was weedy, his beard was long,
And weedy and long was he,
And I heard this wight on the shore recite,
In a singular minor key:
"Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,
And the mate of the Nancy brig,
And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig."
And he shook his fists and he tore his hair,
Till I really felt afraid,
For I couldn't help thinking the man had been drinking,
And so I simply said:
"Oh, elderly man, it's little I know
Of the duties of men of the sea,
And I'll eat my hand if I understand
However you can be
"At once a cook, and a captain bold,
And the mate of the Nancy brig,
And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig."
Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which
Is a trick all seamen larn,
And having got rid of a thumping quid,
He spun this painful yarn:
"'Twas in the good ship Nancy Bell
That we sailed to the Indian Sea,
And there on a reef we come to grief,
Which has often occurred to me.
"And pretty nigh all the crew was drowned
(There was seventy-seven o' soul),
And only ten of the Nancy's men
Said 'Here!' to the muster-roll.
"There was me and the cook and the captain bold,
And the mate of the Nancy brig,
And the bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig.
"For a month we'd neither wittles nor drink,
Till a-hungry we did feel,
So we drawed a lot, and accordin' shot
The captain for our meal.
"The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate,
And a delicate dish he made;
Then our appetite with the midshipmite
We seven survivors stayed.
"And then we murdered the bo'sun tight,
And he much resembled pig;
Then we wittled free, did the cook and me,
On the crew of the captain's gig.
"Then only the cook and me was left,
And the delicate question, 'Which
Of us two goes to the kettle?' arose,
And we argued it out as sich.
"For I loved that cook as a brother, I did,
And the cook he worshipped me;
But we'd both be blowed if we'd either be stowed
In the other chap's hold, you see.
"'I'll be eat if you dines off me,' says Tom;
'Yes, that,' says I, 'you'll be,'--
'I'm boiled if I die, my friend,' quoth I;
And 'Exactly so,' quoth he.
"Says he, 'Dear James, to murder me
Were a foolish thing to do;
For don't you see that you can't cook me,
While I can--and will--cook _you_!'
"So he boils the water, and takes the salt
And the pepper in portions true
(Which he never forgot), and some chopped shalot,
And some sage and parsley, too.
"'Come here,' says he, with a proper pride,
Which his smiling features tell,
''T will soothing be if I let you see
How extremely nice you'll smell.'
"And he stirred it round and round and round
And he sniffed at the foaming froth;
When I ups with his heels and smothers his squeals
In the scum of the boiling broth.
"And I eat that cook in a week or less,
And--as I eating be
The last of his chops, why, I almost drops,
For a wessel in sight I see!
* * * * *
"'And I never larf, and never smile,
And I never lark nor play,
But sit and croak, and a single joke
I have--which is to say:
"'Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,
And the mate of the Nancy brig,
And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig!'"
375
John T. Trowbridge (1827-1916) is one of the
important figures in modern literature for
young folks. He wrote a popular series of books
for them beginning with _Cudjo's Cave_, and
many poems, the most famous of which are "The
Vagabonds" and the one given below.
Trowbridge's autobiography will interest
children with its story of a literary life
devoted to the problems of their entertainment.
"Darius Green and His Flying Machine" first
appeared in _Our Young Folks_ in 1867. It is to
be read for its fun--fun of dialect, fun of
character, and fun of incident. If it has any
lesson, it must be that dreamers may come to
grief unless they have some plain practical
common sense to balance their enthusiasm!
DARIUS GREEN AND HIS FLYING MACHINE
JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE
If ever there lived a Yankee lad,
Wise or otherwise, good or bad,
Who, seeing the birds fly, didn't jump
With flapping arms from stake or stump,
Or, spreading the tail of his coat for a sail,
Take a soaring leap from post or rail,
And wonder why he couldn't fly,
And flap and flutter and wish and try,--
If ever you knew a country dunce
Who didn't try that as often as once,
All I can say is, that's a sign
He never would do for a hero of mine.
An aspiring genius was D. Green;
The son of a farmer,--age fourteen;
His body was long and lank and lean,--
Just right for flying, as will be seen;
He had two eyes as bright as a bean,
And a freckled nose that grew between,
A little awry;--for I must mention
That he had riveted his attention
Upon his wonderful invention,
Twisting his tongue as he twisted the strings,
And working his face as he worked the wings,
And with every turn of gimlet and screw
Turning and screwing his mouth round too,
Till his nose seemed bent to catch the scent,
Around some corner, of new-baked pies,
And his wrinkled cheek and his squinting eyes
Grew puckered into a queer grimace,
That made him look very droll in the face,
And also very wise.
And wise he must have been, to do more
Than ever a genius did before,
Excepting Daedalus of yore
And his son Icarus, who wore
Upon their backs those wings of wax
He had read of in the old almanacs.
Darius was clearly of the opinion,
That the air was also man's dominion,
And that with paddle or fin or pinion,
We soon or late should navigate
The azure as now we sail the sea.
The thing looks simple enough to me;
And, if you doubt it,
Hear how Darius reasoned about it:
"The birds can fly, an' why can't I?
Must we give in," says he with a grin,
"'T the bluebird an' phoebe are smarter'n we be?
Jest fold our hands, an' see the swaller
An' blackbird an' catbird beat us holler?
Does the leetle chatterin', sassy wren,
No bigger'n my thumb, know more than men?
Jest show me that! er prove 't bat
Hez got more brains than's in my hat,
An' I'll back down, an' not till then!"
He argued further: "Ner I can't see
What's the use o' wings to a bumble-bee,
Fer to git a livin' with, more'n to me;--
Ain't my business importanter'n his'n is?
That Icarus was a silly cuss,--
Him an' his daddy Daedalus;
They might 'a' knowed wings made o' wax
Wouldn't stan' sun-heat an' hard whacks:
I'll make mine o' luther, er suthin' er other."
And he said to himself, as he tinkered and planned:
"But I ain't goin' to show my hand
To nummies that never can understand
The fust idee that's big an' grand.
They'd 'a' laft an' made fun
O' Creation itself afore it was done!"
So he kept his secret from all the rest,
Safely buttoned within his vest;
And in the loft above the shed
Himself he locks, with thimble and thread
And wax and hammer and buckles and screws,
And all such things as geniuses use;--
Two bats for patterns, curious fellows!
A charcoal-pot and a pair of bellows;
An old hoop-skirt or two, as well as
Some wire, and several old umbrellas;
A carriage-cover, for tail and wings;
A piece of harness; and straps and strings;
And a big strong box, in which he locks
These and a hundred other things.
His grinning brothers, Reuben and Burke
And Nathan and Jotham and Solomon, lurk
Around the corner to see him work,--
Sitting cross-legged, like a Turk,
Drawing the waxed-end through with a jerk,
And boring the holes with a comical quirk
Of his wise old head, and a knowing smirk.
But vainly they mounted each other's backs,
And poked through knot-holes and pried through cracks;
With wood from the pile and straw from the stacks
He plugged the knot-holes and calked the cracks;
And a bucket of water, which one would think
He had brought up into the loft to drink
When he chanced to be dry,
Stood always nigh, for Darius was sly!
And, whenever at work he happened to spy,
At chink or crevice a blinking eye,
He let a dipper of water fly:
"Take that! an', ef ever ye git a peep,
Guess ye'll ketch a weasel asleep!"
And he sings as he locks his big strong box;
"The weasel's head is small an' trim,
An' he is leetle an' long an' slim,
An' quick of motion an' nimble of limb,
An', ef yeou'll be advised by me,
Keep wide awake when ye're ketching him!"
So day after day
He stitched and tinkered and hammered away,
Till at last 'twas done,--
The greatest invention under the sun.
"An' now," says Darius, "hooray fer some fun!"
'Twas the Fourth of July, and the weather was dry,
And not a cloud was on all the sky,
Save a few light fleeces, which here and there,
Half mist, half air,
Like foam on the ocean went floating by,
Just as lovely a morning as ever was seen
For a nice little trip in a flying-machine.
Thought cunning Darius, "Now I shan't go
Along 'ith the fellers to see the show:
I'll say I've got sich a terrible cough!
An' then, when the folks have all gone off,
I'll hev full swing fer to try the thing,
An' practyse a little on the wing."
"Ain't goin' to see the celebration?"
Says brother Nate. "No; botheration!
I've got sich a cold--a toothache--I--
My gracious! feel's though I should fly!"
Said Jotham, "Sho! guess ye better go."
But Darius said, "No!
Shouldn't wonder 'f yeou might see me, though,
'Long 'bout noon, ef I git red
O' this jumpin', thumpin' pain in my head."
For all the while to himself he said,--
"I tell ye what!
I'll fly a few times around the lot,
To see how 't seems; then soon's I've got
The hang o' the thing, ez likely's not,
I'll astonish the nation, an' all creation,
By flying over the celebration!
Over their heads I'll sail like an eagle;
I'll balance myself on my wings like a sea-gull;
I'll dance on the chimbleys; I'll stan' on the steeple;
I'll flop up to winders an' scare the people!
I'll light on the libbe'ty-pole, an' crow;
An' I'll say to the gawpin' fools below,
'What world's this here that I've come near?'
Fer I'll make 'em b'lieve I'm a chap f'm the moon;
An' I'll try a race 'ith their ol' balloon!"
He crept from his bed;
And, seeing the others were gone, he said,
"I'm a-gittin' over the cold 'n my head."
And away he sped,
To open the wonderful box in the shed.
His brothers had walked but a little way,
When Jotham to Nathan chanced to say,
"What on airth is he up to, hey?"
"Don'o',--the's suthin' er other to pay,
Er he wouldn't 'a' stayed to hum to-day."
Says Burke, "His toothache's all'n his eye!
He never'd miss a Fo'th-o'-July,
Ef he hadn't got some machine to try."
Then Sol, the little one, spoke: "By darn!
Le's hurry back, an' hide'n the barn,
An' pay him fer tellin' us that yarn!"
"Agreed!" Through the orchard they creep back,
Along by the fences, behind the stack,
And one by one, through a hole in the wall,
In under the dusty barn they crawl,
Dressed in their Sunday garments all;
And a very astonishing sight was that,
When each in his cobwebbed coat and hat
Came up through the floor like an ancient rat.
And there they hid; and Reuben slid
The fastenings back, and the door undid.
"Keep dark," said he,
"While I squint an' see what the' is to see."
As knights of old put on their mail,--
From head to foot in an iron suit,
Iron jacket and iron boot,
Iron breeches, and on the head
No hat, but an iron pot instead,
And under the chin the bail,--
(I believe they call the thing a helm,--)
And, thus accoutred, they took the field,
Sallying forth to overwhelm
The dragons and pagans that plagued the realm;
So this modern knight prepared for flight,
Put on his wings and strapped them tight--
Jointed and jaunty, strong and light,--
Buckled them fast to shoulder and hip,--
Ten feet they measured from tip to tip!
And a helm he had, but that he wore,
Not on his head, like those of yore,
But more like the helm of a ship.
"Hush!" Reuben said, "he's up in the shed!
He's opened the winder,--I see his head!
He stretches it out, an' pokes it about
Lookin' to see 'f the coast is clear,
An' nobody near;--
Guess he don'o' who's hid in here!
He's riggin' a spring-board over the sill!
Stop laffin', Solomon! Burke, keep still!
He's climbin' out now--Of all the things!
What's he got on? I vum, it's wings!
An' that t'other thing? I vum, it's a tail!
And there he sets like a hawk on a rail!
Steppin' careful, he travels the length
Of his spring-board, and teeters to try its strength,
Now he stretches his wings, like a monstrous bat;
Peeks over his shoulder, this way an' that,
Fer to see 'f the's anyone passin' by;
But the's o'ny a ca'f an' a goslin' nigh.
They turn up at him a wonderin' eye,
To see--The dragon! he's goin' to fly!
Away he goes! Jimminy! what a jump!
Flop--flop--an' plump to the ground with a thump!
Flutt'rin' an' flound'rin', all'n a lump!"
As a demon is hurled by an angel's spear,
Heels over head, to his proper sphere,--
Heels over head, and head over heels,
Dizzily down the abyss he wheels,--
So fell Darius. Upon his crown,
In the midst of the barnyard, he came down,
In a wonderful whirl of tangled strings,
Broken braces and broken springs,
Broken tail and broken wings,
Shooting stars, and various things,--
Barnyard litter of straw and chaff,
And much that wasn't so sweet by half.
Away with a bellow flew the calf,
And what was that? Did the gosling laugh?
'Tis a merry roar from the old barn-door,
And he hears the voice of Jotham crying;
"Say, D'rius! how de yeou like flyin'?"
Slowly, ruefully, where he lay,
Darius just turned and looked that way,
As he stanched his sorrowful nose with his cuff,
"Wal, I like flyin' well enough,"
He said, "but the' ain't sich a thunderin' sight
O' fun in't when ye come to light."
I just have room for the MORAL here:
And this is the moral,--Stick to your sphere;
Or, if you insist, as you have the right,
On spreading your wings for a loftier flight,
The moral is,--Take care how you light.
376
The poem of "Beth Gelert" (Grave of Gelert) is
really a verse version of an old folk story
that has localized itself in many places over
the world. In Wales they can show you where
Gelert is buried, which illustrates how such a
favorite story takes hold of the popular mind.
The poem by William Robert Spencer (1769-1834)
has so much of the spirit of the old ballads
which it imitates that it was believed at first
to be a genuine example of one.
BETH GELERT
WILLIAM ROBERT SPENCER
The spearmen heard the bugle sound,
And cheerly smiled the morn;
And many a brach, and many a hound,
Obeyed Llewellyn's horn.
And still he blew a louder blast,
And gave a lustier cheer,
"Come, Gelert, come, wert never last
Llewellyn's horn to hear.
"Oh, where does faithful Gelert roam.
The flow'r of all his race,
So true, so brave,--a lamb at home,
A lion in the chase?"
'Twas only at Llewellyn's board
The faithful Gelert fed;
He watched, he served, he cheered his lord,
And sentineled his bed.
In sooth he was a peerless hound,
The gift of royal John;
But now no Gelert could be found,
And all the chase rode on.
And now, as o'er the rocks and dells
The gallant chidings rise,
All Snowdon's craggy chaos yells
The many-mingled cries!
That day Llewellyn little loved
The chase of hart and hare;
And scant and small the booty proved,
For Gelert was not there.
Unpleased Llewellyn homeward hied,
When, near the portal seat,
His truant Gelert he espied,
Bounding his lord to greet.
But, when he gained his castle door,
Aghast the chieftain stood;
The hound all o'er was smeared with gore;
His lips, his fangs, ran blood.
Llewellyn gazed with fierce surprise;
Unused such looks to meet,
His favorite checked his joyful guise,
And crouched, and licked his feet.
Onward, in haste, Llewellyn passed,
And on went Gelert too;
And still, where'er his eyes he cast,
Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view.
O'erturned his infant's bed he found,
The blood-stained covert rent;
And all around the walls and ground
With recent blood besprent.
He called his child,--no voice replied--
He searched with terror wild;
Blood, blood he found on every side,
But nowhere found his child.
"Hell-hound! my child's by thee devoured,"
The frantic father cried;
And to the hilt his vengeful sword
He plunged in Gelert's side.
His suppliant looks, as prone he fell,
No pity could impart;
But still his Gelert's dying yell
Passed heavy o'er his heart.
Aroused by Gelert's dying yell,
Some slumberer wakened nigh:
What words the parent's joy could tell,
To hear his infant's cry!
Concealed beneath a tumbled heap
His hurried search had missed,
All glowing from his rosy sleep,
His cherub boy he kissed.
Nor scathe had he, nor harm, nor dread,
But, the same couch beneath,
Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn and dead,
Tremendous still in death.
Ah! what was then Llewellyn's pain!
For now the truth was clear;
His gallant hound the wolf had slain
To save Llewellyn's heir:
Vain, vain was all Llewellyn's woe;
"Best of thy kind, adieu!
The frantic blow which laid thee low
This heart shall ever rue."
And now a gallant tomb they raise,
With costly sculpture decked;
And marbles storied with his praise
Poor Gelert's bones protect.
There, never could the spearman pass,
Or forester, unmoved;
There, oft the tear-besprinkled grass
Llewellyn's sorrow proved.
And there he hung his horn and spear,
And there, as evening fell,
In fancy's ear he oft would hear
Poor Gelert's dying yell.
And, till great Snowdon's rocks grow old,
And cease the storm to brave,
The consecrated spot shall hold
The name of "Gelert's Grave."
377