Poems Teachers Ask For, Book Two

Encouragement

Who dat knockin' at de do'?

Why, Ike Johnson—yes, fu' sho'!

Come in, Ike. I's mighty glad

You come down. I t'ought you's mad

At me 'bout de othah night,

An' was stayin' 'way fu' spite.

Say, now, was you mad fu' true

W'en I kin' o' laughed at you?

Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f.

'Tain't no use a-lookin' sad,

An' a-mekin' out you's mad;

Ef you's gwine to be so glum,

Wondah why you evah come.

I don't lak nobidy 'roun'

Dat jes' shet dey mouf an' frown—

Oh, now, man, don't act a dunce!

Cain't you talk? I tol' you once,

Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f.

Wha'd you come hyeah fu' to-night?

Body'd t'ink yo' haid ain't right.

I's done all dat I kin do—

Dressed perticler, jes' fu' you;

Reckon I'd a' bettah wo'

My ol' ragged calico.

Aftah all de pains I's took,

Cain't you tell me how I look?

Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f.

Bless my soul! I 'mos' fu'got

Tellin' you 'bout Tildy Scott.

Don't you know, come Thu'sday night,

She gwine ma'y Lucius White?

Miss Lize say I allus wuh

Heap sight laklier 'n huh;

An' she'll git me somep'n new,

Ef I wants to ma'y too.

Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f.

I could ma'y in a week,

If de man I wants 'ud speak.

Tildy's presents 'll be fine,

But dey wouldn't ekal mine.

Him whut gits me fu' a wife

'll be proud, you bet yo' life.

I's had offers, some ain't quit;

But I hasn't ma'ied yit!

Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f.

Ike, I loves you—yes, I does;

You's my choice, and allus was.

Laffin' at you ain't no harm—

Go 'way, dahky, whah's yo' arm?

Hug me closer—dah, da's right!

Wasn't you a awful sight,

Havin' me to baig you so?

Now ax whut you want to know—

Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f.

Paul Laurence Dunbar.

The Harp That Once Through Tara's Halls

The harp that once through Tara's halls

The soul of music shed,

Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls

As if that soul were fled.

So sleeps the pride of former days,

So glory's thrill is o'er,

And hearts, that once beat high for praise,

Now feel that pulse no more.

No more to chiefs and ladies bright

The harp of Tara swells:

The chord alone, that breaks at night,

Its tale of ruin tells.

Thus freedom now so seldom wakes,

The only throb she gives

Is when some heart indignant breaks,

To show that still she lives.

Thomas Moore.

Aux Italiens

At Paris it was, at the opera there;—

And she looked like a queen in a book that night,

With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair,

And the brooch on her breast so bright.

Of all the operas that Verdi wrote,

The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore;

And Mario can soothe, with a tenor note,

The souls in purgatory.

The moon on the tower slept soft as snow;

And who was not thrilled in the strangest way,

As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low,

Non ti scordar di me?

1

1

A line in the opera "II Trovatore" meaning "Do not forget me."

The emperor there, in his box of state,

Looked grave, as if he had just then seen

The red flag wave from the city gate,

Where his eagles in bronze had been.

The empress, too, had a tear in her eye,

You'd have said that her fancy had gone back again,

For one moment, under the old blue sky,

To the old glad life in Spain.

Well, there in our front-row box we sat

Together, my bride betrothed and I;

My gaze was fixed on my opera hat,

And hers on the stage hard by.

And both were silent, and both were sad.

Like a queen she leaned on her full white arm,

With that regal, indolent air she had;

So confident of her charm!

I have not a doubt she was thinking then

Of her former lord, good soul that he was!

Who died the richest and roundest of men.

The Marquis of Carabas.

I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven,

Through a needle's eye he had not to pass;

I wish him well, for the jointure given

To my Lady of Carabas.

Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love,

As I had not been thinking of aught for years,

Till over my eyes there began to move

Something that felt like tears.

I thought of the dress that she wore last time,

When we stood 'neath the cypress trees together,

In that lost land, in that soft clime,

In the crimson evening weather:

Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot);

And her warm white neck in its golden chain;

And her full soft hair, just tied in a knot,

And falling loose again;

And the jasmine flower in her fair young breast;

(Oh, the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine flower!)

And the one bird singing alone to his nest;

And the one star over the tower.

I thought of our little quarrels and strife,

And the letter that brought me back my ring;

And it all seemed then, in the waste of life,

Such a very little thing!

For I thought of her grave below the hill,

Which the sentinel cypress tree stands over;

And I thought, "Were she only living still,

How I could forgive her and love her!"

And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in that hour,

And of how, after all, old things are best,

That I smelt the smell of that jasmine flower

Which she used to wear in her breast.

It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet,

It made me creep, and it made me cold;

Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet

Where a mummy is half unrolled.

And I turned and looked: she was sitting there,

In a dim box over the stage, and drest

In that muslin dress, with that full, soft hair,

And that jasmine in her breast!

I was here, and she was there;

And the glittering horse-shoe curved between:—

From my bride betrothed, with her raven hair,

And her sumptuous, scornful mien,

To my early love, with her eyes downcast,

And over her primrose face the shade,

(In short, from the future back to the past,)

There was but a step to be made.

To my early love from my future bride

One moment I looked. Then I stole to the door,

I traversed the passage; and down at her side

I was sitting, a moment more.

My thinking of her or the music's strain,

Or something which never will be exprest,

Had brought her back from the grave again,

With the jasmine in her breast.

She is not dead, and she is not wed!

But she loves me now, and she loved me then!

And the very first word that her sweet lips said,

My heart grew youthful again.

The marchioness there, of Carabas,

She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still;

And but for her—well, we'll let that pass;

She may marry whomever she will.

But I will marry my own first love,

With her primrose face, for old things are best;

And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above

The brooch in my lady's breast.

The world is filled with folly and sin,

And love must cling where it can, I say:

For beauty is easy enough to win;

But one isn't loved every day,

And I think in the lives of most women and men,

There's a moment when all would go smooth and even,

If only the dead could find out when

To come back, and be forgiven.

But oh the smell of that jasmine flower!

And oh, that music! and oh, the way

That voice rang out from the donjon tower,

Non ti scordar di me

,

Non ti scordar di me!

Robert Bulwer Lytton.

My Prairies

I love my prairies, they are mine

From zenith to horizon line,

Clipping a world of sky and sod

Like the bended arm and wrist of God.

I love their grasses. The skies

Are larger, and my restless eyes

Fasten on more of earth and air

Than seashore furnishes anywhere.

I love the hazel thickets; and the breeze,

The never resting prairie winds. The trees

That stand like spear points high

Against the dark blue sky

Are wonderful to me. I love the gold

Of newly shaven stubble, rolled

A royal carpet toward the sun, fit to be

The pathway of a deity.

I love the life of pasture lands; the songs of birds

Are not more thrilling to me than the herd's

Mad bellowing or the shadow stride

Of mounted herdsmen at my side.

I love my prairies, they are mine

From high sun to horizon line.

The mountains and the cold gray sea

Are not for me, are not for me.

Hamlin Garland.

Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead

(From "The Princess")

Home they brought her warrior dead:

She nor swoon'd, nor utter'd cry:

All her maidens, watching, said,

"She must weep or she will die."

Then they praised him, soft and low,

Call'd him worthy to be loved,

Truest friend and noblest foe;

Yet she neither spoke nor moved.

Stole a maiden from her place,

Lightly to the warrior stept,

Took the face-cloth from the face;

Yet she neither moved nor wept.

Rose a nurse of ninety years,

Set his child upon her knee—

Like summer tempest came her tears—

"Sweet my child, I live for thee."

Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

September

Sweet is the voice that calls

From babbling waterfalls

In meadows where the downy seeds are flying;

And soft the breezes blow,

And eddying come and go

In faded gardens where the rose is dying.

Among the stubbled corn

The blithe quail pipes at morn,

The merry partridge drums in hidden places,

And glittering insects gleam

Above the reedy stream,

Where busy spiders spin their filmy laces.

At eve, cool shadows fall

Across the garden wall,

And on the clustered grapes to purple turning;

And pearly vapors lie

Along the eastern sky,

Where the broad harvest-moon is redly burning.

Ah, soon on field and hill

The wind shall whistle chill,

And patriarch swallows call their flocks together,

To fly from frost and snow,

And seek for lands where blow

The fairer blossoms of a balmier weather.

The cricket chirps all day,

"O fairest summer, stay!"

The squirrel eyes askance the chestnuts browning;

The wild fowl fly afar

Above the foamy bar,

And hasten southward ere the skies are frowning.

Now comes a fragrant breeze

Through the dark cedar-trees

And round about my temples fondly lingers,

In gentle playfulness,

Like to the soft caress

Bestowed in happier days by loving fingers.

Yet, though a sense of grief

Comes with the falling leaf,

And memory makes the summer doubly pleasant,

In all my autumn dreams

A future summer gleams,

Passing the fairest glories of the present!

George Arnold.

The Old Kitchen Floor

Far back, in my musings, my thoughts have been cast

To the cot where the hours of my childhood were passed.

I loved all its rooms from the pantry to hall,

But the blessed old kitchen was dearer than all.

Its chairs and its tables no brighter could be

And all its surroundings were sacred to me,

From the nail in the ceiling to the latch on the door,

And I loved every crack in that old kitchen floor.

I remember the fireplace with mouth high and wide

And the old-fashioned oven that stood by its side

Out of which each Thanksgiving came puddings and pies

And they fairly bewildered and dazzled our eyes.

And then old St. Nicholas slyly and still

Came down every Christmas our stockings to fill.

But the dearest of memories laid up in store

Is my mother a-sweeping that old kitchen floor.

To-night those old musings come back at their will

But the wheel and its music forever are still.

The band is moth-eaten, the wheel laid away,

And the fingers that turned it are mold'ring in clay.

The hearthstone so sacred is just as 'twas then

And the voices of children ring out there again.

The sun at the window looks in as of yore,

But it sees other feet on that old kitchen floor.

Rustic Courtship

The night was dark when Sam set out

To court old Jones's daughter;

He kinder felt as if he must,

And kinder hadn't oughter.

His heart against his waistcoat throbbed,

His feelings had a tussle,

Which nearly conquered him despite

Six feet of bone and muscle.

The candle in the window shone

With a most doleful glimmer,

And Sam he felt his courage ooze,

And through his fingers simmer.

Says he: "Now, Sam, don't be a fool,

Take courage, shaking doubter,

Go on, and pop the question right,

For you can't live without her."

But still, as he drew near the house,

His knees got in a tremble,

The beating of his heart ne'er beat

His efforts to dissemble.

Says he: "Now, Sam, don't be a goose,

And let the female wimmin

Knock all your thoughts a-skelter so,

And set your heart a-swimmin'."

So Sam, he kinder raised the latch,

His courage also raising,

And in a moment he sat inside,

Cid Jones's crops a-praising.

He tried awhile to talk the farm

In words half dull, half witty,

Not knowing that old Jones well knew

His only thought was—Kitty.

At last the old folks went to bed—

The Joneses were but human;

Old Jones was something of a man,

And Mrs. Jones—a woman.

And Kitty she the pitcher took,

And started for the cellar;

It wasn't often that she had

So promising a feller.

And somehow when she came upstairs,

And Sam had drank his cider,

There seemed a difference in the chairs,

And Sam was close beside her;

His stalwart arm dropped round her waist,

Her head dropped on his shoulder,

And Sam—well, he had changed his tune

And grown a trifle bolder.

But this, if you live long enough,

You surely will discover,

There's nothing in this world of ours

Except the loved and lover.

The morning sky was growing gray

As Sam the farm was leaving,

His face was surely not the face

Of one half grieved, or grieving.

And Kitty she walked smiling back,

With blushing face, and slowly;

There's something in the humblest love

That makes it pure and holy.

And did he marry her, you ask?

She stands there with the ladle

A-skimming of the morning's milk—

That's Sam who rocks the cradle.

The Red Jacket

'Tis a cold, bleak night! with angry roar

The north winds beat and clamor at the door;

The drifted snow lies heaped along the street,

Swept by a blinding storm of hail and sleet;

The clouded heavens no guiding starlight lend

But o'er the earth in gloom and darkness bend;

Gigantic shadows, by the night lamps thrown,

Dance their weird revels fitfully alone.

In lofty halls, where fortune takes its ease,

Sunk in the treasures of all lands and seas;

In happy homes, where warmth and comfort meet

The weary traveler with their smiles to greet;

In lowly dwellings, where the needy swarm

Round starving embers, chilling limbs to warm,

Rises the prayer that makes the sad heart light—

"Thank God for home, this bitter, bitter night!"

But hark! above the beating of the storm

Peals on the startled ear the fire alarm.

Yon gloomy heaven's aflame with sudden light,

And heart-beats quicken with a strange affright;

From tranquil slumbers springs, at duty's call,

The ready friend no danger can appall;

Fierce for the conflict, sturdy, true, and brave,

He hurries forth to battle and to save.

From yonder dwelling, fiercely shooting out,

Devouring all they coil themselves about,

The flaming furies, mounting high and higher,

Wrap the frail structure in a cloak of fire.

Strong arms are battling with the stubborn foe

In vain attempts their power to overthrow;

With mocking glee they revel with their prey,

Defying human skill to check their way.

And see! far up above the flame's hot breath,

Something that's human waits a horrid death;

A little child, with waving golden hair,

Stands, like a phantom, 'mid the horrid glare,—

Her pale, sweet face against the window pressed,

While sobs of terror shake her tender breast.

And from the crowd beneath, in accents wild,

A mother screams, "O God! my child! my child!"

Up goes a ladder. Through the startled throng

A hardy fireman swiftly moves along;

Mounts sure and fast along the slender way,

Fearing no danger, dreading but delay.

The stifling smoke-clouds lower in his path,

Sharp tongues of flame assail him in their wrath;

But up, still up he goes! the goal is won!

His strong arm beats the sash, and he is gone!

Gone to his death. The wily flames surround

And burn and beat his ladder to the ground,

In flaming columns move with quickened beat

To rear a massive wall 'gainst his retreat.

Courageous heart, thy mission was so pure,

Suffering humanity must thy loss deplore;

Henceforth with martyred heroes thou shalt live,

Crowned with all honors nobleness can give.

Nay, not so fast; subdue these gloomy fears;

Behold! he quickly on the roof appears,

Bearing the tender child, his jacket warm

Flung round her shrinking form to guard from harm,

Up with your ladders! Quick! 'tis but a chance!

Behold, how fast the roaring flames advance!

Quick! quick! brave spirits, to his rescue fly;

Up! up! by heavens, this hero must not die!

Silence! he comes along the burning road,

Bearing, with tender care, his living load;

Aha! he totters! Heaven in mercy save

The good, true heart that can so nobly brave!

He's up again! and now he's coming fast—

One moment, and the fiery ordeal's passed—

And now he's safe! Bold flames, ye fought in vain.

A happy mother clasps her child again.

George M. Baker.

John Maynard

'Twas on Lake Erie's broad expanse

One bright midsummer day,

The gallant steamer Ocean Queen

Swept proudly on her way.

Bright faces clustered on the deck,

Or, leaning o'er the side,

Watched carelessly the feathery foam

That flecked the rippling tide.

Ah, who beneath that cloudless sky,

That smiling bends serene,

Could dream that danger, awful, vast,

Impended o'er the scene;

Could dream that ere an hour had sped

That frame of sturdy oak

Would sink beneath the lake's blue waves,

Blackened with fire and smoke?

A seaman sought the captain's side,

A moment whispered low;

The captain's swarthy face grew pale;

He hurried down below.

Alas, too late! Though quick, and sharp,

And clear his orders came,

No human efforts could avail

To quench th' insidious flame.

The bad news quickly reached the deck,

It sped from lip to lip,

And ghastly faces everywhere

Looked from the doomed ship.

"Is there no hope, no chance of life?"

A hundred lips implore;

"But one," the captain made reply,

"To run the ship on shore."

A sailor, whose heroic soul

That hour should yet reveal,

By name John Maynard, eastern-born,

Stood calmly at the wheel.

"Head her southeast!" the captain shouts,

Above the smothered roar,

"Head her southeast without delay!

Make for the nearest shore!"

No terror pales the helmsman's cheek,

Or clouds his dauntless eye,

As, in a sailor's measured tone,

His voice responds, "Ay! ay!"

Three hundred souls, the steamer's freight,

Crowd forward wild with fear,

While at the stern the dreaded flames

Above the deck appear.

John Maynard watched the nearing flames,

But still with steady hand

He grasped the wheel, and steadfastly

He steered the ship to land.

"John Maynard, can you still hold out?"

He heard the captain cry;

A voice from out the stifling smoke

Faintly responds, "Ay! ay!"

But half a mile! a hundred hands

Stretch eagerly to shore.

But half a mile! That distance sped

Peril shall all be o'er.

But half a mile! Yet stay, the flames

No longer slowly creep,

But gather round that helmsman bold,

With fierce, impetuous sweep.

"John Maynard!" with an anxious voice

The captain cries once more,

"Stand by the wheel five minutes yet,

And we shall reach the shore."

Through flame and smoke that dauntless heart

Responded firmly still,

Unawed, though face to face with death,

"With God's good help I will!"

The flames approach with giant strides,

They scorch his hand and brow;

One arm, disabled, seeks his side,

Ah! he is conquered now.

But no, his teeth are firmly set,

He crushes down his pain,

His knee upon the stanchion pressed,

He guides the ship again.

One moment yet! one moment yet!

Brave heart, thy task is o'er,

The pebbles grate beneath the keel,

The steamer touches shore.

Three hundred grateful voices rise

In praise to God that He

Hath saved them from the fearful fire,

And from the engulfing sea.

But where is he, th