PRACTICAL RECITATIONS
Selections for Literary Exercises
APPROPRIATE FOR
_RECEPTION-DAYS, HOLIDAYS, POETS’ BIRTHDAYS, ETC._,
INCLUDING
CONCERT AND MUSICAL RECITATIONS, AND DIALOGUES
FROM POPULAR AUTHORS, ESPECIALLY
ARRANGED FOR THIS WORK.
BY
CAROLINE B. LEROW,
INSTRUCTOR IN ELOCUTION, CENTRAL SCHOOL, BROOKLYN, AND FORMERLY
INSTRUCTOR IN VASSAR AND SMITH COLLEGES.
NEW YORK:
CLARK & MAYNARD, PUBLISHERS,
771 BROADWAY AND 67 & 69 NINTH STREET.
* * * * *
A PRACTICAL READER.
WITH
EXERCISES IN VOCAL CULTURE.
BY CAROLINE B. LEROW,
_Instructor in Elocution, Central School, Brooklyn, and formerly at Smith
and Vassar Colleges._
All students are expected to be able to read well ordinary prose and
poetry, and it is for the purpose of helping them to do this, as well as
to help teachers in the teaching of reading, that this book is prepared.
It is thoroughly practical. No unnecessary technical terms are used. The
subjects explained and illustrated are those only which, as the result of
many years’ experience among teachers as well as pupils, the compiler has
found most necessary.
As physical development and correct vocalization must precede all good
reading, the simplest and therefore most essential physical and vocal
exercises are given, with full directions for their use.
The selections for reading present nothing of a merely showy style of
elocution. They are adapted for the upper classes of Grammar Schools, as
well as for High and advanced schools.
We claim that the Practical Reader contains more suitable material for
elocutionary work in the school-room, in more condensed, analytical, and
available form, than any other Reader or Speaker before the public.
224 Pages, 16mo, Handsome Cloth Binding, Red Edges.
_A Specimen Copy for Examination, or Copies for Introduction, will be
Delivered at 60 Cents Each._
* * * * *
HOW TO TEACH READING.
BY CAROLINE B. LEROW.
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
Failure in the Teaching of Reading—Teaching by Imitation—Natural
and Logical Method—Variety in Teaching—Physical Exercise—Value
of Exercise—Directions for Using Exercises—Exercises for the
Body—Exercises for the Chest—Cautions in the Use of Physical
Exercises—Breathing—Breathing Exercises—Cautions in the Use of
Breathing Exercises—Whispering—Articulation—Vowel Sounds—Consonant
Sounds—Final Consonants—Physical Effort in Articulation—Impediments
of Speech—Blundering Articulation—Manner of Practicing Exercises in
Articulation—Spelling Words by Sounds—Naturalness in Reading—Place of
Emphasis—Selection of Words—Teaching without a Book—Punctuation—Sense
Independent of Punctuation—The Reading of Poetry—Concert Reading—Reading
and Singing—Vocal Accuracy in Recitations—Breathlessness in
Reading—Timidity in Reading—Work in Advanced Classes—Special
Faults—Extract from “Reading as a Fine Art.”
32 Pages. Price Postpaid, 12 Cents per Copy.
CLARK & MAYNARD, Publishers,
771 BROADWAY, NEW YORK.
Copyright, 1886, by CLARK & MAYNARD.
PREFACE.
Recitations form one of the most attractive features of school
entertainments, and give a pleasant variety to every-day work; yet few
teachers have the time, even if they have the ability, to drill pupils
in the long and difficult pieces which form the bulk of the countless
Recitations offered to the public.
The selections included in this volume are _in harmony with the spirit
of class-room work_, which demands brevity, simplicity, good sense, and
sound morality. This is the only compilation of the kind in which these
matters are considered as of equal importance with elocutionary effect.
Very few of the pieces are to be found in any other book, and each one
has been practically tested in the school-room. The style of rendering,
wherever specified, can be changed, of course, to suit the taste of the
teacher.
As it is desirable that the largest possible number of students should
share in such exercises, many short selections, excellent for practice in
correct emphasis and distinct articulation, are provided for the purpose.
The observance of our poets’ birthdays is becoming a pleasant and
profitable custom in most schools, and provision has been made for these
anniversaries as well as for all other holidays.
As it is not possible to make liberal provision for each poet, it is
hoped that the Alphabets will be suggestive of their best poems, and the
prose extracts concerning the writers will inspire in students a desire
to become better acquainted with them and their works.
CONTENTS.
Miscellaneous Recitations.
TITLE. AUTHOR. PAGE
A Bird’s Ministry, Margaret J. Preston, 40
A Discourse of Buddha, Edwin Arnold, 30
After Vacation, _The Kingdom of Home_, 11
An Illumined Text, _Christian at Work_, 55
Are the Heroes Dead? Helen Lee Sargent, 26
A Song for the Conquered, William W. Story, 66
A Strange Experience, Josephine Pollard, 14
A Swedish Poem, Anon., 47
A True Story, _Baldwin’s Monthly_, 80
A Turkish tradition, _Interior_, 43
Beside the Railway Track, Anon., 65
Concerning Beginnings and Ends, Rev. A. K. H. Boyd, 13
Eyes that See Not, Ella Jewett, 44
Extract from a Letter, Wm. Wirt, 41
Failed, Phillips Thompson, 27
Forefathers’ Day, Helen Hunt Jackson, 79
Forward, Susan Coolidge, 24
Growth, Horace Mann, 39
Happiness, Maggie B. Peeke, 55
Her Angel, Anna F. Burnham, 25
Home Lights, _Sunday-school Times_, 13
Humility, Ernest W. Shurtleff, 35
Labor, Rev. Orville Dewey, 28
Lamentation of the Lungs, _Phrenological Journal_, 44
Little Christel, Mary E. Bradley, 82
Luther, Joaquin Miller, 74
Moral Courage, Rev. Sydney Smith, 17
My Portion, Carlotta Perry, 50
Noblesse Oblige, Carlotta Perry, 59
No Work the Hardest Work, C. F. Orne, 18
Only a Little, Dora Goodale, 49
Only a Little Thing, Mrs. M. P. Handy, 68
Original Maxims, James A. Garfield, 74
Original Maxims, George Washington, 71
Questions, Kate Lawrence, 77
Saxon Grit, Rev. Robert Collyer, 51
Sparrows, Adeline D. T. Whitney, 32
Some Old School-books, _Harper’s Weekly_, 19
The Amen of the Rocks, Christian Gellert, 67
The Angel of Dawn, J. S. Cutler, 76
The Barbarous Chief, Ella Wheeler Wilcox, 38
The Blessing of the Poets, James T. Fields, 115
The Burial of the Old Flag, Mary A. Barr, 62
The Coast-guard, Emily H. Miller, 42
Their Cost, Ellen M. H. Gates, 21
The Daily Task, Marianne Farningham, 15
The Demon on the Roof, Josephine Pollard, 48
The Holy Place, Mary Frances Butts, 29
The King’s Bell, Eben E. Rexford, 57
The Landing of the Pilgrims, Felicia Hemans, 78
The Light-house, _Good Words_, 46
The Little Light, Anon., 53
The Little Messenger of Love, _Harper’s Young People_, 69
The Old Folks in the New School-house, Anon., 37
The Old Reading Class, Will Carleton, 22
The Old Stone Basin, Susan Coolidge, 64
The People’s Holidays, Marianne Farningham, 12
The Silver Bird’s Nest, Anon., 73
The Storming of Stony Point, Elaine Goodale, 34
The Twenty-first of February, Wm. Cullen Bryant, 78
The Value of Literature, Hamilton W. Mabie, 60
The Work of a Sunbeam, Nathan G. Shepherd, 72
True Heroism, Anon., 61
Uses of Adversity, _Watchman_, 60
“What’s the Lesson for To-day?” Anon., 16
What of That? Anon., 36
Wind and Sea, Bayard Taylor, 54
Concert Recitations.
Cavalry Song, Edmund C. Stedman, 107
Songs of the Seasons, Meta E. B. Thorne, 85
Song of the Steamer Engine, C. B. LeRow, 92
Summer Storm, James Russell Lowell, 91
The Cataract of Lodore, Robert Southey, 105
The Charge at Waterloo, Walter Scott, 90
The Child on the Judgment Seat, E. Charles, 95
The Coming of Spring, Wilhelm Müller, 87
The Death of Our Almanac, Henry Ward Beecher, 100
The Good Time Coming, Charles Mackay, 88
The Sorrow of the Sea, Anon., 98
The Two Glasses, Anon., 97
Two Epitaphs, From the German, 104
Selections for Musical Accompaniment.
A Winter Song, _St. Nicholas_, 110
Hope’s Song, Helen M. Winslow, 109
Rock of Ages, Ella Maud Moore, 113
The Angelus, Frances L. Mace, 108
The Concert Rehearsal, Wolstan Dixey, 111
The Sunrise Never Failed Us Yet, Celia Thaxter, 110
POETS’ BIRTHDAYS.
William Cullen Bryant.
A Bryant Alphabet, Compiler, 117
Extract concerning Bryant, Rev. Henry W. Bellows, 116
” ” ” John Bigelow, 115
” ” ” George William Curtis, 116
” ” ” Edwin P. Whipple, 116
Green River, William Cullen Bryant, 123
The Hurricane, ” ” ” 122
The Night Journey of a River, ” ” ” 121
The Third of November, ” ” ” 121
The Violet, ” ” ” 123
To William Cullen Bryant, Fitz-Greene Halleck, 115
Ralph Waldo Emerson.
Art, Ralph Waldo Emerson, 131
An Emerson Alphabet, Compiler, 126
Emerson, Elizabeth C. Kinney, 124
Extract concerning Emerson, Rev. C. A. Bartol, 125
” ” ” George Willis Cooke, 125
” ” ” Oliver Wendell Holmes, 125
” ” ” Protap Chunder Mozoomdar, 126
” ” ” Horace E. Scudder, 124
” from “Compensation,” Ralph Waldo Emerson, 129
” ” “Works and Days,” ” ” ” 130
The Concord Fight, ” ” ” 130
The Rhodora, ” ” ” 131
Oliver Wendell Holmes.
A Holmes Alphabet, Compiler 135
Extract concerning Holmes, George William Curtis, 134
” ” ” Charles W. Eliot, 133
” ” ” Wm. Sloane Kennedy, 134
” ” ” Rev. Ray Palmer, 133
” ” ” Frances H. Underwood, 133
International Ode, Oliver Wendell Holmes, 140
James Russell Lowell’s Birthday Festival, ” ” ” 141
Our Autocrat, John G. Whittier, 132
The Two Streams, Oliver Wendell Holmes, 140
Under the Washington Elm, ” ” ” 139
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
A Longfellow Alphabet, Compiler, 144
Charles Sumner, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 150
Extract concerning Longfellow, George William Curtis, 143
” ” ” Rev. O. B. Frothingham, 143
” ” ” Rev. M. J. Savage, 144
” ” ” Richard H. Stoddard, 143
” ” ” John G. Whittier, 142
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, William W. Story, 142
Loss and Gain, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 149
Musings, ” ” ” 148
The City and the Sea, ” ” ” 149
James Russell Lowell.
Abraham Lincoln, James Russell Lowell, 159
A Lowell Alphabet, Compiler, 154
Extract concerning Lowell, David W. Bartlett, 153
” ” ” Rev. H. R. Haweis, 153
” ” ” _North British Review_, 152
” ” ” W. C. Wilkinson, 153
” ” ” Frances H. Underwood, 152
Freedom, James Russell Lowell, 160
The First Snow-fall, ” ” ” 157
To James Russell Lowell, Oliver Wendell Holmes, 151
Wendell Phillips, James Russell Lowell, 159
John Greenleaf Whittier.
A Whittier Alphabet, Compiler, 163
Extract concerning Whittier, John Bright, 163
” ” ” Horace E. Scudder, 162
” ” ” Richard H. Stoddard, 162
” ” ” Frances H. Underwood, 161
” ” ” Rev. David A. Wasson, 162
My Country, John Greenleaf Whittier, 168
The Light that is Felt, ” ” ” 170
The Moral Warfare, ” ” ” 167
To Children of Girard, Pa., ” ” ” 167
1827-1885, ” ” ” 168
John G. Whittier, James Russell Lowell, 161
Decoration Day.
Between the Graves, Harriet Prescott Spofford, 172
Decoration Day, Henry W. Longfellow, 171
Decoration Hymn, William H. Randall, 175
Flowers for the Brave, Celia Thaxter, 175
Memorial Day, Margaret Sidney, 176
Red, White, and Blue, Harriet McEwen Kimball, 173
The Heroes’ Day, _Harper’s Weekly_, 174
Thanksgiving.
Elsie’s Thanksgiving, Margaret E. Sangster, 186
How the Pilgrims Gave Thanks, Anon., 180
Thanksgiving, William D. Howells, 185
Thanksgiving Day, _The Advance_, 178
Thanksgiving among the Greeks, Anon., 178
Thanksgiving for His House, Robert Herrick, 184
Thanksgiving among the Jews, Anon., 179
Thanksgiving Ode, John G. Whittier, 185
Thanksgivings of Old, E. A. Smuller, 187
The First Boston Thanksgiving, Hezekiah Butterworth, 182
The First English Thanksgiving, Anon, 179
The First National Thanksgiving, Anon, 181
Washington’s Proclamation, 181
Christmas.
A Christmas Question, Rev. Minot J. Savage, 197
A Christmas Thought about Dickens, Bertha S. Scranton, 190
Christmas Bells, Henry W. Longfellow, 201
Christmas in Olden Time, Walter Scott, 189
Christmas Roses, May Riley Smith, 202
The Day of Days, Anon., 188
The Little Mud Sparrows, Eliz. Stuart Phelps, 195
The Nativity, Louisa Parsons Hopkins, 200
The Star in the West, Hezekiah Butterworth, 192
Wings, Dinah Mulock Craik, 199
New-Year’s.
Address to the New Year, Dinah Mulock Craik, 203
A New Year, Margaret E. Sangster, 203
Another Year, Nathaniel P. Willis, 205
A Wish, Margaret Veley, 205
The Child and the Year, Celia Thaxter, 206
The Seasons.
A Song of Waking, Katharine Lee Bates, 207
December, Louisa Parsons Hopkins, 215
Early Spring, Alfred Tennyson, 208
Faded Leaves, Alice Cary, 213
Frost Work, Mary E. Bradley, 217
Golden Rod, Lucy Larcom, 210
Indian Summer, John G. Whittier, 211
January, Rosaline E. Jones, 216
June, Travelers’ Record, 210
May, _Good Cheer_, 209
November, Hartley Coleridge, 214
October, William Cullen Bryant, 212
September, 1815, William Wordsworth, 212
Winter, Robert Southey, 214
Flowers.
A Bunch of Cowslips, Anon., 221
Chrysanthemums, Mary E. Dodge, 223
Daffodils, Robert Herrick, 222
Ferns, Anon., 219
No Flowers, Anon., 218
Ragged Sailors, Anon., 224
Roses, Anon., 223
Sweet Peas, _St. Nicholas_, 220
The Message of the Snowdrop, Anon., 224
The Trailing Arbutus, John G. Whittier, 221
Dialogues.
Alton Locke, Tailor and Poet, Charles Kingsley, 247
Diogenes and Plato on Pride, T. A. Bland, 238
Lorna Doone, R. D. Blackmore, 240
Metaphysics, Anon., 249
Mistress and Maid, Dinah Mulock Craik, 233
Ninety-Three, Victor Hugo, 254
Pilgrim’s Progress, John Bunyan, 245
Put Yourself in His Place, Charles Reade, 243
Queen Isabella’s Resolve, Epes Sargent, 227
Ruth Hall, Fanny Fern, 237
The Hills of the Shatemuc, Elizabeth Wetherell, 231
The Mill on the Floss, George Eliot, 229
The Last Days of Pompeii, Edward Bulwer Lytton, 235
The Queen’s Necklace, Alexander Dumas, 225
The Musical Instrument, Anon., 242
Work: A Story of Experience, Louisa M. Alcott, 251
LIST OF AUTHORS.
ALCOTT, LOUISA M., 251
ARNOLD, EDWIN, 30
BARR, MARY A., 62
BARTLETT, DAVID W., 153
BARTOL, REV. C. A., 125
BATES, KATHARINE LEE, 207
BEECHER, REV. HENRY WARD, 100
BELLOWS, REV. HENRY W., 116
BIGELOW, JOHN, 115
BLACKMORE, R. D., 240
BLAND, T. A., 238
BOYD, REV. A. K. H., 13
BRADLEY, MARY E., 82, 217
BRIGHT, JOHN, 163
BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN, 78, 121, 122, 123, 212
BUNYAN, JOHN, 245
BURNHAM, ANNA F., 25
BUTTERWORTH, HEZEKIAH, 182, 192
BUTTS, MARY FRANCES, 29
CARLETON, WILL, 22
CARY, ALICE, 213
CHARLES, E., 95
COLERIDGE, HARTLEY, 214
COLLYER, REV. ROBERT, 51
COOKE, GEORGE WILLIS, 125
COOLIDGE, SUSAN, 24, 64
CRAIK, DINAH MULOCK, 199, 203, 233
CURTIS, GEORGE WM., 116, 134, 143
CUTLER, J. S., 76
DEWEY, REV. ORVILLE, 28
DIXEY, WOLSTAN, 111
DODGE, MARY E., 223
DUMAS, ALEXANDER, 225
ELIOT, CHARLES W., 133
ELIOT, GEORGE, 229
EMERSON, RALPH WALDO, 129, 130, 131
FARNINGHAM, MARIANNE, 12, 15
FERN, FANNY, 237
FIELDS, JAMES T., 155
FROTHINGHAM, REV. O. B., 143
GARFIELD, JAMES A., 74
GATES, ELLEN M. H., 21
GELLERT, CHRISTIAN, 67
GOODALE, DORA, 49
GOODALE, ELAINE, 34
HALLECK, FITZ-GREENE, 115
HANDY, M. P., 68
HAWEIS, REV. H. R., 153
HEMANS, FELICIA, 78
HERRICK, ROBERT, 184, 222
HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL, 125, 139, 140, 141, 151
HOPKINS, LOUISA PARSONS, 200, 215
HOWELLS, WILLIAM D., 185
HUGO, VICTOR, 254
JACKSON, HELEN HUNT, 79
JEWETT, ELLA, 44
JONES, ROSALINE E., 216
KENNEDY, WM. SLOANE, 134
KIMBALL, HARRIET MCEWEN, 173
KINGSLEY, CHARLES, 247
KINNEY, ELIZABETH C., 124
LARCOM, LUCY, 210
LAWRENCE, KATE, 77
LEROW, C. B., 92
LONGFELLOW, HENRY WADSWORTH, 148, 149, 150, 171, 201
LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL, 91, 157, 159, 160, 161
LYTTON, E. BULWER, 235
MABIE, HAMILTON W., 60
MACE, FRANCES L., 108
MACKAY, CHARLES, 188
MANN, HORACE, 39
MILLER, EMILY H., 42
MILLER, JOAQUIN, 74
MOORE, ELLA MAUD, 113
MOZOOMDAR, PROTAP CHUNDER, 126
MÜLLER, WILHELM, 87
ORNE, C. F., 18
PALMER, REV. RAY, 133
PEEKE, MAGGIE B., 55, 59
PERRY, CARLOTTA, 50
PHELPS, ELIZ. STUART, 195
POLLARD, JOSEPHINE, 14, 48
PRESTON, MARGARET J., 40
RANDALL, WM. H., 175
READE, CHARLES, 243
REXFORD, EBEN E., 57
SANGSTER, MARGARET E., 186, 203
SARGENT, EPES, 227
SARGENT, HELEN LEE, 26
SAVAGE, REV. MINOT J., 144, 197
SCOTT, WALTER, 90, 189
SCRANTON, BERTHA S., 190
SCUDDER, HORACE E., 124, 162
SHEPHERD, NATHAN G., 72
SHURTLEFF, ERNEST W., 35
SIDNEY, MARGARET, 176
SMITH, MAY RILEY, 202
SMITH, REV. SYDNEY, 17
SMULLER, E. A., 187
SOUTHEY, ROBERT, 105, 214
SPOFFORD, HARRIET PRESCOTT, 172
STEDMAN, EDMUND C., 107
STODDARD, RICHARD H., 143, 162
STORY, WILLIAM W., 66, 142
TAYLOR, BAYARD, 54
TENNYSON, ALFRED, 208
THAXTER, CELIA, 110, 175, 206
THOMPSON, PHILLIPS, 27
THORNE, META E. B., 85
UNDERWOOD, FRANCES H., 133, 152, 161
VELEY, MARGARET, 205
WASHINGTON, GEORGE, 71, 181
WASSON, REV. DAVID A., 162
WETHERELL, ELIZABETH, 231
WHIPPLE, EDWIN P., 116
WHITTIER, JOHN GREENLEAF, 132, 142, 167, 168, 170, 185, 221
WHITNEY, ADELINE D. T., 32
WILCOX, ELLA WHEELER, 35
WILLIS, NATHANIEL P., 208
WINSLOW, HELEN M., 109
WORDSWORTH, WM., 41, 212
PRACTICAL RECITATIONS.
MISCELLANEOUS SELECTIONS.
AFTER VACATION.
Again they muster from the far-off hillside,
From country farm-house and from sea-girt shore;
Their tramping feet resound along the highways,
Their gleeful shouts ring on the air once more.
A merry band, so full of youth’s elixir,
How can their restless spirits e’er essay
The tasks that wait their patient, steady labor
After the long, bright, summer holiday?
Not now, O children, in the sunny meadows
Ye cull the flowers or by the brooklets stray,
But in the fields of knowledge, thick with blossoms,
To gather sweets for a far future day.
Here, too, you roam a land of fairest promise,
Watered by many a stream of limpid hue,
Where weary travelers find a sweet refreshment
And garner richest stores of old and new.
We bid thee welcome to the homes that missed thee,
To the deserted school-room’s open door.
The nation’s hope is in thee, keep thy birthright;
Thine heritage is more than golden store.
_The Kingdom of Home._
THE PEOPLE’S HOLIDAYS.
MARIANNE FARNINGHAM.
Not alone for the rich and great
Are the beautiful works of God;
The mountain’s slopes and the ocean’s beach
By the people’s feet are trod,
And the poor man’s children sing and dance
On the green flower-covered sod.
Not alone for the cultured eyes
Do the sweet flowers spring and grow;
There is scarcely living a man so poor
But he may their sweetness know;
And out of the town to the fresh fair fields
The toilers all can go.
Away from the factory shop and desk,
Where the diligent work in throngs,
They go sometimes to the well-earned rest
That to faithful zeal belongs;
And the shore and the forest welcome them,
And the larks pour down their songs.
“Man does not live by bread alone,”
And well it needs must be
That we all should look on our Father’s works
By the river and lake and sea,
And spend our souls in adoring praise,
For He careth for you and me.
And well may all with a stronger hand,
And a braver, truer heart,
Go back to the task that God has given,
And faithfully do our part;
And bear in our souls the peace of the fields,
To the counter, the desk, and the mart.
HOME LIGHTS.
The light of June that shines on tremulous leaves
Of softest green, how fair a thing to see!
When shafts of dawn touch birch and maple tree,
Or sunset’s hour a mesh of magic weaves;
The diamond light that flashes on the sea
In August noons,—a dazzle of pure rays.
With lovely ground of blue, whereon we gaze
From cliff or sandy shore in ecstasy;
The light that blazes on the mountain way,
Or, strained to pallor, steals to lonely dells;
None are forgotten on this autumn day,
As with sweet memories the glad heart swells;
But as the October sun drops down the west,
We say with smiling lips, Home lights are best.
CONCERNING BEGINNINGS AND ENDS.
REV. A. K. H. BOYD.
We cannot bear a very long, uniform look-out. It is an unspeakable
blessing that we can stop and start again in everything. The journey that
crushes us down when we contemplate it as one long weary thing can be
borne when we divide it into stages. And one great lesson of practical
wisdom is to train ourselves to mentally divide everything into stages.
It would crush down any man’s resolution if he saw in one glance the
whole enormous bulk of labor which he will get through in a lifetime. And
yet you know, and the little child knows just as well, that after he has
conquered that tremendous alphabet, he must begin again with something
else, he must mount from his first little book onwards and upwards into
the fields of knowledge and learning. Let us, if we are wise men, hold by
the grand principle of step by step.
A STRANGE EXPERIENCE.
JOSEPHINE POLLARD.
They took the little London girl from out the city street
To where the grass was growing green, the birds were singing sweet;
And everything along the road so filled her with surprise,
The look of wonder fixed itself within her violet eyes.
The breezes ran to welcome her; they kissed her on each cheek,
And tried in every way they could their ecstasy to speak,
Inviting her to romp with them, and tumbling up her curls,
Expecting she would laugh or scold, like other little girls.
But she did not; no, she could not; for this crippled little child
Had lived within a dingy court where sunshine never smiled,
And for weary, weary days and months the little one had lain
Confined within a narrow room, and on a couch of pain.
The out-door world was strange to her—the broad expanse of sky,
The soft, green grass, the pretty flowers, the stream that trickled by;
But all at once she saw a sight that made her hold her breath,
And shake and tremble as if she were frightened near to death.
Oh, like some horrid monster of which the child had dreamed,
With nodding head and waving arms, the angry creature seemed;
It threatened her, it mocked at her, with gestures and grimace
That made her shrink with terror from its serpent-like embrace.
They kissed the trembling little one, they held her in their arms,
And tried in every way they could to quiet her alarms,
And said, “Oh, what a foolish little goose you are to be
So nervous and so terrified at nothing but a tree!”
They made her go up close to it, and put her arms around
The trunk and see how firmly it was fastened in the ground;
They told her all about the roots that clung down deeper yet,
And spoke of other curious things she never would forget.
Oh, I have heard of many, very many girls and boys
Who have to do without the sight of pretty books and toys,
Who have never seen the ocean; but the saddest thought to me
Is that anywhere there lives a child who never saw a tree.
THE DAILY TASK.
MARIANNE FARNINGHAM.
The morning light falls gently on the eyes
And wakes the sleeping men;
And bids them rise and haste to meet the day,
And find their work again.
No one is asked to choose what he will do,
Or take the task loved best,
For God allots the places, and each one
Obeys His high behest.
One, loving silence, passes to the street
And mingles with the crowd,
And finds his daily work awaiting him,
Where noise is long and loud.
And one who hungers for the voice and touch
Of others in the gloom
Is ordered to withdraw from all, and work
Alone within one room.
Another, loving beauty, air, and light,
Passes in sordid ways,
And uncongenial sights, and jarring sounds,
The hours of his best days.
And yet another who could love all work,
And do it thankfully,
Has naught to do but suffer and be still
In patience, perfectly.
Are, then, the workers at their daily tasks
Unhappy and unblest?
Nay; He who chooses for them gives the wage
Of happiness and rest.
The feet pass swiftly to the place of toil,
The lips break into song,
And ready hands receive the allotted task,
Nor find the hours too long.
Because the loyal heart is true to God,
And the deft hand obeys
The Master, who decides what each shall do,
Joy fills the working days.
And so, if but the soul be leal, the task
Itself becomes more dear,
And every worker finds that work well done
Is work that brings good cheer.
“WHAT’S THE LESSON FOR TO-DAY?”
Little Bess, with laughing eyes,
Brightly blue as summer skies,
Came to me one morn in May,
Asking in her eager way,
“What’s the lesson for to-day?”
And I told her, then and there,
What I wished her to prepare.
But new meaning (strange to say),
In the childish query lay,
“What’s the lesson for to-day?”
And I pondered o’er and o’er
What I scarce had thought before,—
As I went my wonted way,
Towards my duty, sad or gay,
“What’s _my_ lesson for the day?”
Students in the school of life,
’Mid its struggles and its strife,
Let _us_ ask, in childlike way,
Of the Teacher we obey,
“What’s the lesson for to-day?”
And the answer God will give,
He will show us how to live,
Teach us of His perfect way,
Grant us wisdom that we may
Learn the lesson of the day.
MORAL COURAGE.
REV. SYDNEY SMITH.
A great deal of talent is lost in the world for the want of a little
courage. The fact is, that to do anything in this world worth doing, we
must not stand back shivering, and thinking of the cold and the danger,
but jump in and scramble through as well as we can. It will not do to be
perpetually calculating tasks, and adjusting nice chances; it did very
well before the flood, where a man could consult his friends upon an
intended publication for an hundred and fifty years, and then live to
see its success afterwards: but at present, a man waits and doubts and
hesitates, and consults his brother and his uncle and particular friends,
till one fine day he finds that he is sixty years of age; that he has
lost so much time in consulting his first cousin and particular friends,
that he has no more time to follow their advice.
NO WORK THE HARDEST WORK.
CHARLES F. ORNE.
Ho! ye who at the anvil toil,
And strike the sounding blow,
Where from the burning iron’s breast
The sparks fly to and fro,
While answering to the hammer’s ring,
And fire’s intenser glow—
Oh, while ye feel ’tis hard to toil
And sweat the long day through,
Remember it is harder still
To have no work to do.
Ho! ye who till the stubborn soil,
Whose hard hands guide the plow;
Who bend beneath the summer sun
With burning cheek and brow—
Ye deem the curse still clings to earth
From olden time till now;
But while ye feel ’tis hard to toil
And labor all day through,
Remember it is harder still
To have no work to do.
Ho! ye who plow the sea’s blue field,
Who ride the restless wave;
Beneath whose gallant vessel’s keel
There lies a yawning grave;
Around whose bark the wintry winds
Like fiends of fury rave—
Oh, while ye feel ’tis hard to toil
And labor long hours through,
Remember it is harder still
To have no work to do.
Ho! all who labor, all who strive,
Ye wield a mighty power;
Do with your might, do with your strength,
Fill every golden hour;
The glorious privilege to do
Is man’s most noble dower.
Oh, to your birthright and yourselves,
To your own souls be true!
A weary, wretched life is theirs
Who have no work to do.
SOME OLD SCHOOL-BOOKS.
I have been back to my home again,
To the place where I was born;
I have heard the wind from the stormy main
Go rustling through the corn;
I have seen the purple hills once more;
I have stood on the rocky coast
Where the waves storm inland to the shore;
But the thing that touched me most
Was a little leather strap that kept
Some school-books, tattered and torn!
I sighed, I smiled, I could have wept
When I came on them one morn;
For I thought of the merry little lad,
In the mornings sweet and cool,
If weather was good, or weather bad,
Going whistling off to school.
My fingers undid the strap again,
And I thought how my hand had changed,
And half in longing, and half in pain,
Backward my memory ranged.
There was the grammar I knew so well,—
I didn’t remember a rule;
And the old blue speller,—I used to spell
Better than any in school;
And the wonderful geography
I’ve read on the green hill-side,
When I’ve told myself I’d surely see
All lands in the world so wide,
From the Indian homes in the far, far West,
To the mystical Cathay.
I have seen them all. But Home is best
When the evening shades fall gray.
And there was the old arithmetic,
All tattered and stained with tears;
I and Jamie and little Dick
Were together in by-gone years.
Jamie has gone to the better land;
And I get now and again,
A letter in Dick’s bold, ready hand,
From some great Western plain.
There wasn’t a book, and scarce a page,
That hadn’t some memory
Of days that seemed like a golden age,
Of friends I shall no more see.
And so I picked up the books again
And buckled the strap once more,
And brought them over the tossing main;
Come, children, and look them o’er.
And there they lie on a little stand
Not far from the Holy Book;
And his boys and girls with loving care
O’er grammar and speller look.
He said, “They speak to me, children dear,
Of a past without alloy;
And the look of Books, in promise clear,
Of a future full of joy.”
_Harper’s Weekly._
THEIR COST.
ELLEN M. H. GATES.
How cheap are the things which are bought and sold,
The beautiful things which the hands can hold,
Whatever is purchased with silver and gold.
The merchants are calling and filling their rooms
With jewels and laces and rarest perfumes,
And wonderful webs from the Indian looms.
The price of the treasures is small, as they say;
For dollars and cents, are exchanged every day
The furs of the North-land, the silks of Cathay.
But, oh! the rare things which can never be brought
From the far-away countries, but still must be sought
Through working and waiting and anguish of thought!
The patience that comes to the heart, as it tries
To hear, through all discord and turbulent cries,
The songs of the armies that march to the skies;
The courage that fails not, nor loses its breath
In stress of the battle, but smilingly saith,
“I’ll measure my strength with disaster and death;”
The love that through doubting and pain will increase;
The longing and restlessness, calmed into peace
That is perfect and satisfied, never to cease—
These, these are the dear things. No king on his throne
Can buy them away from the poor and unknown
Who make them, through labor or anguish, their own.
* * * * *
A TRUE life must be simple in all its elements.—HORACE GREELEY.
THE OLD READING CLASS.
WILL CARLETON.
I.
I cannot tell you, Genevieve, how oft it comes to me—
That rather young old reading class in District Number Three,
That row of elocutionists who stood so straight in line,
And charged at standard literature with amiable design.
We did not spare the energy in which our words were clad!
We gave the meaning of the text by all the light we had;
But still I fear the ones who wrote the lines we read so free
Would scarce have recognized their work in District Number Three.
II.
Outside, the snow was smooth and clean—the winter’s thick-laid dust;
The storm, it made the windows speak at every sudden gust;
Bright sleigh-bells threw us pleasant words when travelers would pass;
The maple-trees along the road stood shivering in their class;
Beyond, the white-browed cottages were nestling cold and dumb,
And far away the mighty world seemed beckoning us to come—
The wondrous world, of which we conned what had been and might be,
In that old-fashioned reading class of District Number Three.
III.
We took a hand at History—its altars, spires and flames—
And uniformly mispronounced the most important names;
We wandered through Biography, and gave our fancy play,
And with some subjects fell in love—“good only for one day;”
In Romance and Philosophy we settled many a point,
And made what poems we assailed to creak at every joint;
And many authors that we love, you with me will agree,
Were first time introduced to us in District Number Three.
IV.
You recollect Susannah Smith, the teacher’s sore distress,
Who never stopped at any pause—a sort of day express?
And timid young Sylvester Jones, of inconsistent sight,
Who stumbled on the easy words and read the hard ones right?
And Jennie Green, whose doleful voice was always clothed in black?
And Samuel Hicks, whose tones induced the plastering all to crack?
And Andrew Tubbs, whose various mouths were quite a show to see?
Alas! we cannot find them now in District Number Three.
V.
And Jasper Jenckes, whose tears would flow at each pathetic word
(He’s in the prize-fight business now, and hits them hard, I’ve heard);
And Benny Bayne, whose every tone he murmured as in fear
(His tongue is not so timid now: he is an auctioneer);
And Lanty Wood, whose voice was just endeavoring hard to change,
And leaped from hoarse to fiercely shrill with most surprising range;
Also his sister Mary Jane, so full of prudish glee.
Alas! they’re both in higher schools than District Number Three.
VI.
So back these various voices come, though long the years have grown,
And sound uncommonly distinct through Memory’s telephone;
And some are full of melody, and bring a sense of cheer,
And some can smite the rock of time, and summon forth a tear;
But one sweet voice comes back to me, whenever sad I grieve!
And sings a song, and that is yours, O peerless Genevieve!
It brightens up the olden times, and throws a smile at me—
A silver star amid the clouds of District Number Three.
FORWARD.
SUSAN COOLIDGE.
Let me stand still upon the height of life;
Much has been won, though much there is to win;
I am a little weary of the strife.
Let me stand still awhile, nor count it sin
To cool my hot brow, ease the travel-pain,
And then address me to the road again.
Long was the way, and steep and hard the climb;
Sore are my limbs, and fain I am to rest;
Behind me lie long sandy tracks of time;
Before me rises the steep mountain crest.
Let me stand still; the journey is half done,
And when less weary I will travel on.
There is no standing still! Even as I pause
The steep path shifts and I slip back apace;
Movement was safety; by the journey laws
No help is given, no safe abiding-place,
No idling in the pathway hard and slow;
I must go forward, or must backward go!
I will go up then, though the limbs may tire,
And though the path be doubtful and unseen;
Better with the last effort to expire
Than lose the toil and struggle that have been,
And have the morning strength, the upward strain,
The distance conquered, in the end made vain.
Ah, blessed law! for rest is tempting sweet,
And we would all lie down if so we might;
And few would struggle on with bleeding feet;
And few would ever gain the higher height
Except for the stern law which bids us know
We must go forward, or must backward go.
HER ANGEL.
ANNA F. BURNHAM.
Margery cowered and crouched in the door of the beautiful porch.
There were beautiful people in there, and they all belonged to the
church.
But Margery waited without; she did not belong anywhere
Except in the dear Lord’s bosom, who taketh the children there.
And through the open doorway came floating a lovely sound;
She shut her eyes and imagined how the angels stood around
With their harps like St. Cecilia’s in the picture on the wall—
Ah, Margery did not doubt that so looked the singers all.
“Suffer the little children!” sang a heavenly voice somewhere,
Or the soul of a voice that was winging away in the upper air;
“Let the children come to me!” sang the angel in her place,
And Margery, listening, stood, with upturned eyes and face.
“Let them come! let them come to me!” And up the aisle she sped
With eyes that sought for the Voice, to follow where it led.
She did not say to herself: “I’m coming! Wait for me!”
But it shone in her face, and it leaped in her eyes, dear Margery!
Up the stair to the singer she ran, she touched the hem of her dress.
But the choir were bending their heads, the preacher had risen to bless
The reverent throng, and alas! bewildered Margery,
The Voice has ceased, and the singers have turned their eyes on thee.
They look with surprise at her feet, and again at her ragged gown,
And one by one they pass with a careless smile or a frown;
But the sweetest face bent near, and—“I came,” said Margery,
“For I thought ’twas an angel sang, ‘Let the children come to me!’”
With a tender sigh the singer took the child upon her knee;
“I sang the words for the dear Lord Christ, my Margery,
And so, for the dear Lord Christ, I take thee home with me!”
—“It was an angel sang!” sobs little Margery.
ARE THE HEROES DEAD?
HELEN LEE SARGENT.
“We are low,—we are base!” sigh the singers,
“The heroes have long been dead!
The times have fallen,—the state is sick,
And the glory of earth has fled!
Sordid and selfish on every side
Walk the men and the women we know.
Downward we tend continually,
And faster and faster go!”
Shame to ye, shame to ye, singers!
And have ye never known
That the soul of man has been ever the same
Since the sun of heaven shone?
If ye listen and look for the heroes,
Ye will find them everywhere;
But if ye look for the knaves and scamps—
It is true they are not rare.
But whenever a ship is lost at sea,
Or a building burns on land,
Amid the terror and death and loss
A hero is found at hand.
And if ever a war should come again
(From it long may we be freed!)
Ye will find the heroes, as ever before,
Responding to the need.
FAILED!
A POEM OF HARD TIMES.
PHILLIPS THOMPSON.
Failed! Jim Miserton failed! You don’t mean to say it’s so?
Had it from Smith at the Bank? Well, he’s a man that should know.
Forty-two cents on the dollar? I cannot believe my ears.
There’s no such thing as judging a man by the way he appears.
Yes, you may well say “failed;” there’s more than the term implies,
When all there is of a man in a hopeless ruin lies.
To come after twenty years of a stubborn up-hill strife,
It isn’t a business smash so much as a failure in life.
Gold was always his god—he’d nothing else in his soul;
Money, for money’s sake, was ever his ultimate goal.
A “self-made man” they styled him, for low and poor he began;
But now his money has vanished, and what is left of the man?
He had no eye for beauty, for literature no taste;
Buying pictures or books he counted a shameful waste.
Nothing he cared for art or the poet’s elaborate rhymes;
His soul was only attuned to the musical jingle of dimes.
Selfish, exacting, and stern, a hand he would treat like a slave;
Long were his hours of toil, and scanty the pay that he gave;
Made of cast-iron himself, his zeal in the struggle for gold
Left him no pity to spare for those of a different mold.
Never a cent for the poor, for the naked never a stitch;
’Twas all their fault, he would say; they should save like him, and
grow rich.
Now and then to a church he’d forward a liberal amount,
Duly set down in his books to the advertising account.
So he succeeded, of course, and piled his coffers with wealth,
Missing pleasure and culture, losing vigor and health;
Now he’s down at the bottom, exactly where he began;
Even his gold has vanished, and what is left of the man?
A self-made man, indeed! then we owe no honor to such;
The genuine self-made man you cannot honor too much;
But be sure what you make _is_ a man—with a heart, and a soul, and a
mind,
Not merely a pile of dollars, that goes, leaving nothing behind.
LABOR.
REV. ORVILLE DEWEY.
To _some_ field of labor, mental or manual, every idler should fasten, as
a chosen and coveted theater of improvement. But so he is not impelled to
do, under the teachings of our imperfect civilization. On the contrary,
he sits down, folds his hands, and blesses himself in his idleness. This
way of thinking is the heritage of the absurd and unjust feudal system
under which serfs labored, and gentlemen spent their lives in fighting
and feasting. It is time that this opprobrium of toil were done away.
Ashamed to toil, art thou? Ashamed of thy dingy work-shop and dusty
labor-field; of thy hard hand scarred with service more honorable than
that of war; of thy soiled and weather-stained garments, on which Mother
Nature has embroidered, midst sun and rain, midst fire and steam, her own
heraldic honors? Ashamed of these tokens and titles, and envious of the
flaunting robes of imbecile idleness and vanity? It is treason to nature;
it is impiety to Heaven; it is breaking Heaven’s great ordinance. TOIL, I
repeat—_toil_, either of the brain, of the heart, or of the hand, is the
only true manhood, the only true nobility.
THE HOLY PLACE.
MARY FRANCES BUTTS.
The people came to the priest,
“Good father,” said they,
“We love the holy altar
Where we kneel to pray;
We would ’broider a cloth
Of fine silk and wool
To cover the altar,
For our hearts are full.”
“My children,” said the priest,
“When the heart is full,
Spend not its treasure
In fine silk and wool.
Listen, my children,
Do you hear a moan?
’Tis the poor man waiting,
Sick and alone.
“His darlings ask in vain
For a piece of bread;
And what thinks the Lord?”
The good priest said.
“The tender-hearted Christ
Would be very wroth
Should you leave his poor
For an altar-cloth.
“He blesses the holy altar
Where we kneel to pray;
But in the silence
I hear him say:
“Seek me, my children,
In works of grace;
Where you comfort a heart
Is the holy place.”
A DISCOURSE OF BUDDHA.
EDWIN ARNOLD.
Herewith a broken beam of Buddha’s lore,
One raylet of his glorious gift of light,
Rose-gleam which lingers when the sun is down
Such space that men may find a path thereby.
A priest questioned him:
“‘Which is Life’s chief good, Master?’ And he spake:
“‘Shadows are good, when the high sun is flaming,
From whereso’er they fall;
Some take their rest beneath the holy temple,
Some by the prison wall.
“‘The king’s gilt palace roof shuts off the sunlight,
So doth the dyer’s shed!
Which is the chiefest shade of all the shadows?’
‘They are alike!’ one said.
“‘So is it,’ quoth he, ‘with all shows or living;
As shadows fall, they fall!
Rest under, if ye must, but question not
Which is the best of all.
“‘Yet in the forest some trees wave with fragrance
Of fruit and bloom o’erhead;
And some are evil, bearing fruitless branches
Whence poisonous air is spread.
“‘Therefore, though all be shows, seek, if ye must,
Right shelter from life’s heat;
Lo! these do well who toil for wife and child
Threading the burning street.
“‘Good is it helping kindred! good to dwell
Blameless and just to all;
Good to give alms, with good-will in the heart,
Albeit the store be small!
“‘Good to speak sweet and gentle words, to be
Merciful, patient, and mild;
To hear the law and keep it, leading days
Innocent, undefiled.
“‘These the chief goods—for evil by its like
Ends not, nor hate by hate;
By love hate ceaseth, by well-doing ill,
By knowledge life’s dark state.
“‘Look! yonder soars an eagle! mark those wings
Which cleave the blue, cool skies!
What shadow needeth that proud Lord of Air
To shield his fearless eyes?
“‘Rise from this life! lift upon new-spread pinions
Heart free and great as his!
The eagle seeks no shadow, nor the wise
Greater or lesser bliss!’”
* * * * *
We are unwilling walkers. We are not innocent and simple-hearted enough
to enjoy a walk. We have fallen from that state of grace which capacity
to enjoy a walk implies. It cannot be said that as a people we are so
positively sad or morose as that we are vacant of that sportiveness
of animal spirits that characterized our ancestors, and that springs
from full and harmonious life,—a sound heart in accord with a sound
body. A man must invest himself near at hand, and in common things,
and be content with a steady and moderate return, if he would know the
blessedness of a cheerful heart, and the sweetness of a walk over the
round earth. This is a lesson the American has yet to learn,—capability
of amusement on a low key.—JOHN BURROUGHS.
* * * * *
To fill the youthful mind with lofty and noble ideas, to stock the memory
with the richest vocabulary, and to acquire a wide command of our grand
English language, we have nothing better, except the Bible, than the
plays of Shakespeare.
Extracts from Shakespeare once thoroughly committed to memory are
never forgotten. Many of the world’s great orators and statesmen were
wont to commit and recite passages from Shakespeare. Edmund Burke made
Shakespeare his daily study, while Erskine, it is said, could have held
conversation on every subject in the phrases of the great dramatist.
Rufus Choate was familiar with every line of Shakespeare. Daniel Webster
never tired of repeating passages from the same author. The genial Dr.
Holmes tells us that Wendell Phillips, Motley the historian, and himself,
when boys, used to declaim Antony’s oration on holiday afternoons over
the prostrate form of some younger playmate.
SPARROWS.
ADELINE D. T. WHITNEY.
Little birds sit on the telegraph wires,
And chitter and flitter and fold their wings.
Maybe they think that for them and their sires
Stretched always on purpose, those wonderful strings;
And perhaps the thought that the world inspires
_Did_ plan for the birds among other things.
Little birds sit on the slender lines,
And the news of the world runs under their feet:
How value rises and now declines,
How kings with their armies in battle meet;
And all the while, ’mid the soundless signs,
They chirp their small gossipings, foolish and sweet.
Little things light on the lines of our lives—
Hopes and joys and acts of to-day;
And we think that for these the Lord contrives,
Nor catch what the hidden lightnings say;
Yet from end to end his meaning arrives,
And his word runs underneath all the way.
Is life only wires and lightning, then,
Apart from that which about it clings?
Are the thoughts and the works and the prayers of men
Only sparrows that light on God’s telegraph strings—
Holding a moment and gone again?
Nay: he planned for the birds with the larger things!
* * * * *
But, above all, where thou findest ignorance, stupidity,
brute-mindedness—attack it, I say; smite it wisely, unweariedly, and rest
not while thou livest and it lives; but smite, smite in the name of God!
The highest God, as I understand it, does audibly so command thee: still
audibly, if thou have ears to hear. He, even He, with his unspoken voice,
is fuller than any Sinai thunders, or syllabled speech of whirlwinds; for
the SILENCE of deep eternities, of worlds beyond the morning stars, does
it not speak to thee? The unborn ages; the old graves, with their long
moldering dust, the very tears that wetted it, now all dry—do not these
speak to thee what ear hath not heard? The deep death-kingdoms, the stars
in their never-resting courses, all space and all time, proclaim it to
thee in continual silent admonition. Thou, too, if ever man should, shalt
work while it is called to-day; for the night cometh, wherein no man can
work.—THOMAS CARLYLE.
THE STORMING OF STONY POINT.
(July 16, 1779.)
ELAINE GOODALE.
The wonder of midnight, now pregnant with wars,
Skies mellow and fruitful, all trembling with stars,
The ripe, yellow planet, poised low in the west,
The smooth-flowing river, with stars on its breast;
These murmur of Wayne,
Mad Anthony Wayne,—
He has life-blood to lose, he has glory to gain!
The low-lying marshes, where, silent and stern,
Twelve hundred are creeping through bog-grass and fern,
With fireflies for lanterns; while, black-throated still,
The cannon are cold in the fort on the hill,—
These whisper of Wayne,
Mad Anthony Wayne,
Every sense up in arms, every nerve on the strain.
The noiseless approach, and the desperate close;
The flash of the steel, and the blood as it flows;
The hero, once wounded, who cries,—“I shall win!
Let me die in the fort! Men, carry me in!”
These tell us of Wayne,
Mad Anthony Wayne,
With nerves hard as iron, despising the pain!
The red flag of morning, displayed in the skies,
Brings a stern look of joy to the conqueror’s eyes,—
Those eyes that flashed full on his chief (so they tell),—
“What! storm Stony Point? You may bid me storm hell!”
We’ll believe it of Wayne,
Mad Anthony Wayne,
The bravest of foes, and the peer of his slain!
HUMILITY.
ERNEST W. SHURTLEFF.
Sweet are the roses in the pasture lane,
Like flakes of sunset dropped from some rich cloud—
Oh, sweet, indeed, but not with sweetness vain;
Nor is the pasture of their presence proud.
Not for themselves they blossom, bud and nod—
They spring to breathe to man the peace of God.
I never heard a songster’s lay that told
Of aught but simple joy and grateful praise.
The oriole, with throat aflame with gold,
Dreams not he is a charm to mortal gaze;
No bird to laud himself hath ever sung—
His song is for the flowers he chirps among.
The sun that fills the skies with summer calms,
The stars that light unmeasured depths of space
Like distant suns that flash reflected charms,
When on the night Jehovah turns his face—
All these in humbleness their glory wear,
Grateful, not proud, because Heaven made them fair.
O vaunting man, go ponder on these things!
Think—what is glory in thy Makers view?
Who wins the passing praise the cold world sings
Not always earns the praise of Heaven too.
Thou mayst through life thy name with gods enroll,
Yet bear rebuke of angels in thy soul.