Graded Poetry: Seventh Year Part 7

Aye, and still, and forever her friend! Test Pan, trust me!

Go, bid Athens take heart, laugh Persia to scorn, have faith In the temples and tombs! Go, say to Athens, 'The Goat-G.o.d saith: When Persia--so much as strews not the soil--is cast in the sea, Then praise Pan who fought in the ranks with your most and least, Goat-thigh to greaved-thigh, made one cause with the free and the bold!'

"Say Pan saith: 'Let this, foreshowing the place, be the pledge!'"

(Gay, the liberal hand held out this herbage I bear --Fennel,--I grasped it a-tremble with Dew--whatever it bode), "While, as for thee ..." But enough! He was gone. If I ran hitherto-- Be sure that the rest of my journey, I ran no longer, but flew.

Parnes to Athens--earth no more, the air was my road; Here am I back. Praise Pan, we stand no more on the razor's edge!

Pan for Athens, Pan for me! I too have a guerdon rare!

Then spoke Miltiades. "And then, best runner of Greece, Whose limbs did duty indeed,--what gift is promised thyself?

Tell it us straightway,--Athens the mother demands of her son!"

Rosily blushed the youth: he paused: but, lifting at length His eyes from the ground, it seemed as he gathered the rest of his strength Into the utterance--"Pan spoke thus: 'For what thou hast done Count on a worthy reward! Henceforth be allowed thee release From the racer's toil, no vulgar reward in praise or in pelf!'

"I am bold to believe, Pan means reward the most to my mind!

Fight I shall, with our foremost, wherever this fennel may grow,-- Pound--Pan helping us--Persia to dust, and, under the deep, Whelm her away forever; and then,--no Athens to save,-- Marry a certain maid, I know keeps faith to the brave,-- Hie to my house and home: and, when my children shall creep Close to my knees,--recount how the G.o.d was awful yet kind, Promised their sire reward to the full--rewarding him--so!"

Unforeseeing one! Yes, he fought on the Marathon day: So, when Persia was dust, all cried "To Akropolis!

Run, Pheidippides, one race more! the meed is thy due!

'Athens is saved, thank Pan,' go shout!" He flung down his shield, Ran like fire once more: and the s.p.a.ce 'twixt the Fennel-field And Athens was stubble again, a field which a fire runs through, Till in he broke: "Rejoice, we conquer!" Like wine thro' clay, Joy in his blood bursting his heart, he died--the bliss!

So, to this day, when friend meets friend, the word of salute Is still "Rejoice!"--his word which brought rejoicing indeed.

So is Pheidippides happy forever,--then n.o.ble strong man Who could race like a G.o.d, bear the face of a G.o.d, whom a G.o.d loved so well, He saw the land saved he had helped to save, and was suffered to tell Such tidings, yet never decline, but, gloriously as he began, So to end gloriously--once to shout, thereafter be mute: "Athens is saved!"--Pheidippides dies in the shout for his meed.

HELEN HUNT JACKSON AMERICA, 1831-1885

A SONG OF CLOVER

I wonder what the Clover thinks, Intimate friend of Bob-o'-links, Lover of Daisies slim and white, Waltzer with b.u.t.tercups at night; Keeper of Inn for traveling Bees, Serving to them wine-dregs and lees, Left by the Royal Humming Birds, Who sip and pay with fine-spun words; Fellow with all the lowliest, Peer of the gayest and the best; Comrade of winds, beloved of sun, Kissed by the Dew-drops, one by one; Prophet of Good-Luck mystery By sign of four which few may see; Symbol of Nature's magic zone, One out of three, and three in one; Emblem of comfort in the speech Which poor men's babies early reach; Sweet by the roadsides, sweet by rills, Sweet in the meadows, sweet on hills, Sweet in its white, sweet in its red,-- Oh, half its sweetness cannot be said;-- Sweet in its every living breath, Sweetest, perhaps, at last, in death!

Oh! who knows what the Clover thinks?

No one! unless the Bob-o'-links!

--"SAXE HOLM."

LEWIS CARROLL ENGLAND, 1832-1898

A SONG OF LOVE

Say, what is the spell, when her fledglings are cheeping, That lures the bird home to her nest?

Or wakes the tired mother, whose infant is weeping, To cuddle and croon it to rest?

What the magic that charms the glad babe in her arms, Till it cooes with the voice of the dove?

'Tis a secret, and so let us whisper it low-- And the name of the secret is Love!

For I think it is Love, For I feel it is Love, For I'm sure it is nothing but Love!

Say, whence is the voice that when anger is burning, Bids the whirl of the tempest to cease?

That stirs the vexed soul with an aching--a yearning For the brotherly hand-grip of peace?

Whence the music that fills all our being--that thrills Around us, beneath, and above?

'Tis a secret: none knows how it comes, or it goes-- But the name of the secret is Love!

For I think it is Love, For I feel it is Love, For I'm sure it is nothing but Love!

Say, whose is the skill that paints valley and hill, Like a picture so fair to the sight?

That flecks the green meadow with sunshine and shadow, Till the little lambs leap with delight?

'Tis a secret untold to hearts cruel and cold, Though 'tis sung, by the angels above, In notes that ring clear for the ears that can hear-- And the name of the secret is Love!

For I think it is Love, For I feel it is Love, For I'm sure it is nothing but Love!

ANDREW LANG ENGLAND, 1844-

SCYTHE SONG

Mowers, weary and brown, and blithe, What is the word methinks you know, Endless over-word that the Scythe Sings to the blades of the gra.s.s below?

Scythes that swing in the gla.s.s and clover, Something, still, they say as they pa.s.s; What is the word that, over and over, Sings the Scythe to the flowers and gra.s.s?

_Hush, ah hush_, the Scythes are saying, _Hush, and heed not, and fall asleep; Hush_, they say to the gra.s.ses swaying; _Hush_, they sing to the clover deep!

_Hush_--'tis the lullaby Time is singing-- _Hush, and heed not, for all things pa.s.s;_ _Hush, ah hush! and the Scythes are swinging_ Over the clover, over the gra.s.s!

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE ENGLAND, 1837-

WHITE b.u.t.tERFLIES

Fly, white b.u.t.terflies, out to sea, Frail, pale wings for the wind to try, Small white wings that we scarce can see, Fly!

Some fly light as a laugh of glee, Some fly soft as a long, low sigh; All to the haven where each would be, Fly!

RUDYARD KIPLING ENGLAND, 1865-

RECESSIONAL

A VICTORIAN ODE

G.o.d of our fathers, known of old-- Lord of our far-flung battle line-- Beneath whose awful hand we hold Dominion over palm and pine-- Lord G.o.d of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies-- The captains and the kings depart-- Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice, An humble and a contrite heart.

Lord G.o.d of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget!

Far-called our navies melt away-- On dune and headland sinks the fire-- Lo, all our pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!

Judge of the nations, spare us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe-- Such boasting as the Gentiles use, Or lesser breeds without the Law-- Lord G.o.d of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust In reeking tube and iron shard-- All valiant dust that builds on dust, And guarding calls not Thee to guard.

For frantic boast and foolish word, Thy mercy on Thy people, Lord!