Graded Poetry: Seventh Year Part 1

Graded Poetry: Second Year.

by Various.

Editor: Katherine D. Blake Georgia Alexander

INTRODUCTION

Poetry is the chosen language of childhood and youth. The baby repeats words again and again for the mere joy of their sound: the melody of nursery rhymes gives a delight which is quite independent of the meaning of the words. Not until youth approaches maturity is there an equal pleasure in the rounded periods of elegant prose. It is in childhood therefore that the young mind should be stored with poems whose rhythm will be a present delight and whose beautiful thoughts will not lose their charm in later years.

The selections for the lowest grades are addressed primarily to the feeling for verbal beauty, the recognition of which in the mind of the child is fundamental to the plan of this work. The editors have felt that the inclusion of critical notes in these little books intended for elementary school children would be not only superfluous, but, in the degree in which critical comment drew the child's attention from the text, subversive of the desired result. Nor are there any notes on methods. The best way to teach children to love a poem is to read it inspiringly to them.

The French say: "The ear is the pathway to the heart." A poem should be so read that it will sing itself in the hearts of the listening children.

In the brief biographies appended to the later books the human element has been brought out. An effort has been made to call attention to the education of the poet and his equipment for his life work rather than to the literary qualities of his style.

SEVENTH YEAR--FIRST HALF

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE ENGLAND, 1564-1616

Good name in man and woman, dear my lord, Is the immediate jewel of their souls: Who steals my purse steals trash; 'tis something, nothing; 'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands; But he that filches from me my good name Robs me of that which not enriches him And makes me poor indeed.

--"OTh.e.l.lO," Act II, Sc. 3.

When daisies pied and violets blue, And lady-smocks all silver-white, And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue Do paint the meadows with delight.

--"LOVE'S LABOR'S LOST," Act V, Sc. 2.

This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle, This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-paradise; This fortress built by Nature for herself Against infection and the hand of war; This happy breed of men, this little world, This precious stone set in the silver sea, Which serves it in the office of a wall, Or as a moat defensive to a house, Against the envy of less happier lands; This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.

--"RICHARD II," Act II, Sc. 1.

Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way, And merrily hent the stile-a: A merry heart goes all the day, Your sad tires in a mile-a.

--From "WINTER'S TALE."

The Downfall of Wolsey

Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness!

This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hopes; to-morrow blossoms And bears his blushing honors thick upon him; The third day comes a frost, a killing frost; And, when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a ripening, nips his root, And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, This many summers in a sea of glory, But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride At length broke under me; and now has left me, Weary and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me.

Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye: I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors!

There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, More pangs and fears than wars or women have: And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again.

--From "HENRY VIII."

BEN JONSON ENGLAND, 1574-1637

THE n.o.bLE NATURE

It is not growing like a tree In bulk doth make man better be; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere; A lily of a day Is fairer far in May, Although it fall and die that night,-- It was the plant and flower of Light.

In small proportions we just beauties see, And in short measures life may perfect be.

JOHN MILTON ENGLAND, 1608-1674

SONG ON A MAY MORNING

Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger, Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her The flowery May, who from her green lap throws The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose.

Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire Mirth and youth and warm desire!

Woods and groves are of thy dressing, Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.

Thus we salute thee with our early song, And welcome thee, and wish thee long.

ISAAC WATTS ENGLAND, 1674-1748

O G.o.d, our help in ages past, Our hope for years to come, Our shelter from the stormy blast, And our eternal home:

Before the hills in order stood, Or earth received her frame, From everlasting Thou art G.o.d, To endless years the same.

A thousand ages in Thy sight Are like an evening gone; Short as the watch that ends the night Before the rising sun.

Time, like an ever-rolling stream, Bears all its sons away; They fly forgotten, as a dream Dies at the opening day.

O G.o.d, our help in ages past, Our hope for years to come, Be Thou our guard while troubles last, And our eternal home.

WILLIAM COWPER ENGLAND, 1731-1800

THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN

John Gilpin was a citizen, Of credit and renown, A trainband captain eke was he Of famous London town.

John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear, 'Though wedded we have been These twice ten tedious years, yet we No holiday have seen.