Poems Teachers Ask For, Book Two

Casabianca

 
The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but him had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck
Shone round him o'er the dead.
 
 
Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud, though childlike form.
 
 
The flames roll'd on—he would not go
Without his father's word;
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.
 
 
He called aloud: "Say, father, say
If yet my task is done?"
He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.
 
 
"Speak, father!" once again he cried,
"If I may yet be gone!"
And but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames roll'd on.
 
 
Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair;
And looked from that lone post of death
In still, yet brave despair.
 
 
And shouted but once more aloud,
"My father! must I stay?"
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,
The wreathing fires made way.
 
 
They wrapt the ship in splendor wild,
They caught the flag on high,
And streamed above the gallant child,
Like banners in the sky.
 
 
There came a burst of thunder sound—
The boy—oh! where was he?
Ask of the winds that far around
With fragments strewed the sea!
 
 
With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part—
But the noblest thing that perished there
Was that young, faithful heart.
 

Felicia Hemans.

Monterey

 
We were not many,—we who stood
Before the iron sleet that day;
Yet many a gallant spirit would
Give half his years if he but could
Have been with us at Monterey.
 
 
Now here, now there, the shot it hailed
In deadly drifts of fiery spray,
Yet not a single soldier quailed
When wounded comrades round them wailed
Their dying shout at Monterey.
 
 
And on, still on our column kept,
Through walls of flame, its withering way;
Where fell the dead, the living stept,
Still charging on the guns which swept
The slippery streets of Monterey.
 
 
The foe himself recoiled aghast,
When, striking where he strongest lay,
We swooped his flanking batteries past,
And braving full their murderous blast,
Stormed home the towers of Monterey.
 
 
Our banners on those turrets wave,
And there our evening bugles play;
Where orange boughs above their grave
Keep green the memory of the brave
Who fought and fell at Monterey.
 
 
We are not many, we who pressed
Beside the brave who fell that day;
But who of us has not confessed
He'd rather share their warrior rest,
Than not have been at Monterey?
 

Charles Fenno Hoffman.

The Teacher's "If"

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

R.J. Gale.

The Good Shepherd

 
There were ninety and nine
Of a flock, sleek and fine
In a sheltering cote in the vale;
But a lamb was away,
On the mountain astray,
Unprotected within the safe pale.
 
 
Then the sleet and the rain
On the mountain and plain,
And the wind fiercely blowing a gale,
And the night's growing dark,
And the wolf's hungry bark
Stir the soul of the shepherd so hale.
 
 
And he says, "Hireling, go;
For a lamb's in the snow
And exposed to the wild hungry beast;
'Tis no time to keep seat,
Nor to rest weary feet,
Nor to sit at a bounteous feast."
 
 
Then the hireling replied,
"Here you have at your side
All your flock save this one little sheep.
Are the ninety and nine,
All so safe and so fine,
Not enough for the shepherd to keep?"
 
 
Then the shepherd replied,
"Ah! this lamb from my side
Presses near, very near, to my heart.
Not its value in pay
Makes me urge in this way,
But the longings and achings of heart."
 
 
"Let me wait till the day,
O good shepherd, I pray;
For I shudder to go in the dark
On the mountain so high
And its precipice nigh
'Mong the wolves with their frightening bark."
 
 
Then the shepherd said, "No;
Surely some one must go
Who can rescue my lamb from the cold,
From the wolf's hungry maw
And the lion's fierce paw
And restore it again to the fold."
 
 
Then the shepherd goes out
With his cloak girt about
And his rod and his staff in his hand.
What cares he for the cold
If his sheep to the fold
He can bring from the dark mountain land?
 
 
You can hear his clear voice
As the mountains rejoice,
"Sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep!"
Up the hillside so steep,
Into caverns so deep,
"Sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep!"
 
 
Now he hears its weak "baa,"
And he answers it, "Ah!
Sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep!"
Then its answering bleat
Hurries on his glad feet,
And his arms gather up his lost sheep.
 
 
Wet and cold on his breast
The lost lamb found its rest
As he bore it adown to the fold.
And the ninety and nine
Bleat for joy down the line,
That it's safe from the wolf and the cold.
 
 
Then he said to his friends,
"Now let joy make amends
For the steeps and the deeps I have crossed—
For the pelting of sleet
And my sore, weary feet,
For I've found the dear lamb that was lost."
 
 
Let the hirelings upbraid
For the nights that He stayed
On the mountains so rugged and high.
Surely never a jeer
From my lips shall one hear,
For—that poor lonely lambkin—was—I.
 
 
While the eons shall roll
O'er my glad ransomed soul
I will praise the Good Shepherd above,
For a place on His breast,
For its comfort and rest,
For His wonderful, wonderful love.
 

D. N. Howe.

A Sermon in Rhyme

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

The Fortunate Isles

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

Joaquin Miller.

What the Choir Sang About the New Bonnet

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

M. T. Morrison.

Work Thou for Pleasure

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

Kenyon Cox.

The Tin Gee Gee

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

Fred Cape.

"Tommy"

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

Rudyard Kipling.

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

The Mystic Weaver

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

The Mortgage on the Farm

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