Poems Every Child Should Know Part 39

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; Thus unlamented let me die; Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie.

ALEXANDER POPE.

JOHN ANDERSON

"John Anderson," by Robert Burns (1759-96). This poem is included to please several teachers.

John Anderson, my jo, John, When we were first acquent Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is bald, John, Your locks are like the snow; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither, And mony a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither; Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go, And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo.

ROBERT BURNS.

THE G.o.d OF MUSIC.

"The G.o.d of Music," by Edith M. Thomas, an Ohio poetess now living. In this sonnet the poetess has touched the power of Wordsworth or Keats and placed herself among the immortals.

The G.o.d of Music dwelleth out of doors.

All seasons through his minstrelsy we meet, Breathing by field and covert haunting-sweet From organ-lofts in forests old he pours: A solemn harmony: on leafy floors To smooth autumnal pipes he moves his feet, Or with the tingling plectrum of the sleet In winter keen beats out his thrilling scores.

Leave me the reed unplucked beside the stream.

And he will stoop and fill it with the breeze; Leave me the viol's frame in secret trees, Unwrought, and it shall wake a druid theme; Leave me the whispering sh.e.l.l on Nereid sh.o.r.es.

The G.o.d of Music dwelleth out of doors.

EDITH M. THOMAS.

A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT.

"A Musical Instrument" by Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-61). This poem is the supreme masterpiece of Mrs. Browning. The prime thought in it is the sacrifice and pain that must go to make a poet of any genius.

"The great G.o.d sighed for the cost and the pain."

What was he doing, the great G.o.d Pan, Down in the reeds by the river?

Spreading ruin and scattering ban, Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat, And breaking the golden lilies afloat With the dragon-fly on the river.

He tore out a reed, the great G.o.d Pan, From the deep cool bed of the river: The limpid water turbidly ran, And the broken lilies a-dying lay, And the dragon-fly had fled away, Ere he brought it out of the river.

High on the sh.o.r.e sat the great G.o.d Pan, While turbidly flow'd the river; And hack'd and hew'd as a great G.o.d can, With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed, Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed To prove it fresh from the river.

He cut it short, did the great G.o.d Pan (How tall it stood in the river!), Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man, Steadily from the outside ring, And notched the poor dry empty thing In holes, as he sat by the river.

"This is the way," laugh'd the great G.o.d Pan (Laugh'd while he sat by the river), "The only way, since G.o.ds began To make sweet music, they could succeed."

Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed He blew in power by the river.

Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan!

Piercing sweet by the river!

Blinding sweet, O great G.o.d Pan!

The sun on the hill forgot to die, And the lilies reviv'd, and the dragon-fly Came back to dream on the river.

Yet half a beast is the great G.o.d Pan, To laugh as he sits by the river, Making a poet out of a man: The true G.o.ds sigh for the cost and pain,-- For the reed which grows nevermore again As a reed with the reeds in the river.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

THE BRIDES OF ENDERBY.

"The Brides of Enderby," by Jean Ingelow (1830-97). This poem is very dramatic, and the music of the refrain has done much to make it popular. But the pathos is that which endears it.

The old mayor climb'd the belfry tower, The ringers ran by two, by three; "Pull, if ye never pull'd before; Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he.

"Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells!

Ply all your changes, all your swells, Play uppe, 'The Brides of Enderby.'"

Men say it was a stolen tyde-- The Lord that sent it, He knows all; But in myne ears doth still abide The message that the bells let fall: And there was naught of strange, beside The flight of mews and peewits pied By millions crouch'd on the old sea wall.

I sat and spun within the doore, My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes; The level sun, like ruddy ore, Lay sinking in the barren skies; And dark against day's golden death She moved where Lindis wandereth, My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth.

"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, Ere the early dews were falling, Farre away I heard her song, "Cusha! Cusha!" all along; Where the reedy Lindis floweth, Floweth, floweth, From the meads where melick groweth Faintly came her milking song--

"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, "For the dews will soone be falling; Leave your meadow gra.s.ses mellow, Mellow, mellow; Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; Come uppe, Whitefoot, come uppe, Lightfoot; Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, Hollow, hollow; Come uppe, Jetty, rise and follow, From the clovers lift your head; Come uppe, Whitefoot, come uppe, Lightfoot, Come uppe, Jetty, rise and follow, Jetty, to the milking shed."

If it be long ay, long ago, When I beginne to think howe long, Againe I hear the Lindis flow, Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong; And all the aire, it seemeth mee, Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), That ring the tune of Enderby.

Alle fresh the level pasture lay, And not a shadowe mote be seene, Save where full fyve good miles away The steeple tower'd from out the greene; And lo! the great bell farre and wide Was heard in all the country side That Sat.u.r.day at eventide.

The swanherds where their sedges are Mov'd on in sunset's golden breath, The shepherde lads I heard afarre, And my sonne's wife, Elizabeth; Till floating o'er the gra.s.sy sea Came downe that kyndly message free, The "Brides of Mavis Enderby."

Then some look'd uppe into the sky, And all along where Lindis flows To where the goodly vessels lie, And where the lordly steeple shows.

They sayde, "And why should this thing be?

What danger lowers by land or sea?

They ring the tune of Enderby!

"For evil news from Mablethorpe, Of pyrate galleys warping down; For shippes ash.o.r.e beyond the scorpe, They have not spar'd to wake the towne: But while the west bin red to see, And storms be none, and pyrates flee, Why ring 'The Brides of Enderby'?"

I look'd without, and lo! my sonne Came riding downe with might and main; He rais'd a shout as he drew on, Till all the welkin rang again, "Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"

(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.)

"The olde sea wall," he cried, "is downe, The rising tide comes on apace, And boats adrift in yonder towne Go sailing uppe the market-place."

He shook as one that looks on death: "G.o.d save you, mother!" straight he saith "Where is my wife, Elizabeth?"

"Good sonne, where Lindis winds her way With her two bairns I marked her long; And ere yon bells beganne to play Afar I heard her milking song."

He looked across the gra.s.sy lea, To right, to left, "Ho, Enderby!"

They rang "The Brides of Enderby!"

With that he cried and beat his breast; For, lo! along the river's bed A mighty eygre rear'd his crest, And uppe the Lindis raging sped.

It swept with thunderous noises loud; Shap'd like a curling snow-white cloud, Or like a demon in a shroud.