Poems Teachers Ask For Volume II Part 63

The autumn is old; The sere leaves are flying; He hath gathered up gold, And now he is dying: Old age, begin sighing!

The vintage is ripe; The harvest is heaping; But some that have sowed Have no riches for reaping:-- Poor wretch, fall a-weeping!

The year's in the wane; There is nothing adorning; The night has no eve, And the day has no morning; Cold winter gives warning.

The rivers run chill; The red sun is sinking; And I am grown old, And life is fast shrinking; Here's enow for sad thinking!

_Thomas Hood_.

Grandmother's Quilt

Why, yes, dear, we can put it by. It does seem out of place On top of these down comforts and this spread of silk and lace, You see, I'm used to having it lie so, across my feet, But maybe I won't need it here, with this nice furnace heat; I made it? Yes, dear, long ago. 'Twas lots of work, you think?

Oh, not so much. My rose quilt, now, all white and green and pink, Is really handsome. This is just a plain, log cabin block, Pieced out of odds and ends; but still--now that's your papa's frock Before he walked, and this bit here is his first little suit.

I trimmed it up with silver braid. My, but he did look cute!

That red there in the centers, was your Aunt Ruth's for her name, Her grandmother almost clothed the child, before the others came.

Those plaids? The younger girls', they were. I dressed them just alike.

And this was baby Winnie's sack--the precious little tyke!

Ma wore this gown to visit me (they drove the whole way then).

And little Edson wore this waist. He never came again.

This lavender par'matta was your Great-aunt Jane's--poor dear!

Mine was a sprig, with the lilac ground; see, in the corner here.

Such goods were high in war times. Ah, that sc.r.a.p of army blue; Your bright eyes spied it! Yes, dear child, that has its memories, too.

They sent him home on furlough once--our soldier brother Ned; But somewhere, now, the dear boy sleeps among the unknown dead.

That flowered patch? Well, now, to think you'd pick that from the rest!

Why, dearie--yes, it's satin ribbed--that's grandpa's wedding vest!

Just odds and ends! no great for looks. My rose quilt's nicer, far, Or the one in basket pattern, or the double-pointed star.

But, somehow--What! We'll leave it here? The bed won't look so neat, But I think I would sleep better with it so, across my feet.

The Two Angels

Two angels, one of Life and one of Death, Pa.s.sed o'er our village as the morning broke; The dawn was on their faces, and beneath, The sombre houses hea.r.s.ed with plumes of smoke.

Their att.i.tude and aspect were the same, Alike their features and their robes of white; But one was crowned with amaranth, as with flame, And one with asphodels, like flakes of light.

I saw them pause on their celestial way; Then said I, with deep fear and doubt oppressed, "Beat not so loud, my heart, lest thou betray The place where thy beloved are at rest!"

And he who wore the crown of asphodels, Descending, at my door began to knock, And my soul sank within me, as in wells The waters sink before an earthquake's shock.

I recognized the nameless agony, The terror and the tremor and the pain, That oft before had filled or haunted me, And now returned with threefold strength again.

The door I opened to my heavenly guest, And listened, for I thought I heard G.o.d's voice; And, knowing whatsoe'er he sent was best, Dared neither to lament nor to rejoice.

Then with a smile, that filled the house with light, "My errand is not Death, but Life," he said; And ere I answered, pa.s.sing out of sight, On his celestial emba.s.sy he sped.

'Twas at thy door, O friend! and not at mine, The angel with the amaranthine wreath, Pausing, descended, and with, voice divine, Whispered a word that had a sound like Death.

Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom, A shadow on those features fair and thin; And softly, from that hushed and darkened room, Two angels issued, where but one went in.

All is of G.o.d! If he but waves his hand, The mists collect, the rain falls thick and loud, Till, with a smile of light on sea and land, Lo! he looks back from the departing cloud.

Angels of Life and Death alike are his; Without his leave they pa.s.s no threshold o'er; Who, then, would wish or dare, believing this, Against his messengers to shut the door?

_Henry W. Longfellow._

The Witch's Daughter

It was the pleasant harvest-time, When cellar-bins are closely stowed, And garrets bend beneath their load, And the old swallow-haunted barns-- Brown-gabled, long, and full of seams Through which the moted sunlight streams--

And winds blow freshly in, to shake The red plumes of the roosted c.o.c.ks, And the loose hay-mow's scented locks-- Are filled with summer's ripened stores, Its odorous gra.s.s and barley sheaves, From their low scaffolds to their eaves.

On Esek Harden's oaken floor, With many an autumn threshing worn, Lay the heaped ears of unhusked corn.

And thither came young men and maids, Beneath a moon that, large and low, Lit that sweet eve of long ago, They took their places; some by chance, And others by a merry voice Or sweet smile guided to their choice.

How pleasantly the rising moon, Between the shadow of the mows, Looked on them through the great elm-boughs!-- On st.u.r.dy boyhood, sun-embrowned, On girlhood with its solid curves Of healthful strength and painless nerves!

And jests went round, and laughs that made The house-dog answer with his howl, And kept astir the barn-yard fowl.

And quaint old songs their fathers sung, In Derby dales and Yorkshire moors, Ere Norman William trod their sh.o.r.es; And tales, whose merry license shook The fat sides of the Saxon thane, Forgetful of the hovering Dane!

But still the sweetest voice was mute That river-valley ever heard From lip of maid or throat of bird; For Mabel Martin sat apart, And let the hay-mow's shadow 'fall Upon the loveliest face of all.

She sat apart, as one forbid, Who knew that none would condescend To own the Witch-wife's child a friend.

The seasons scarce had gone their round, Since curious thousands thronged to see Her mother on the gallows-tree; And mocked the palsied limbs of age, That faltered on the fatal stairs, And wan lip trembling with its prayers!

Few questioned of the sorrowing child, Or, when they saw the mother die, Dreamed of the daughter's agony.

They went up to their homes that day, As men and Christians justified: G.o.d willed it, and the wretch had died!

Dear G.o.d and Father of us all, Forgive our faith in cruel lies,-- Forgive the blindness that denies!

Forgive Thy creature when he takes, For the all-perfect love Thou art, Some grim creation of his heart.

Cast down our idols, overturn Our b.l.o.o.d.y altars; let us see Thyself in Thy humanity!

Poor Mabel from her mother's grave Crept to her desolate hearth-stone, And wrestled with her fate alone; With love, and anger, and despair, The phantoms of disordered sense, The awful doubts of Providence!

The school-boys jeered her as they pa.s.sed, And, when she sought the house of prayer, Her mother's curse pursued her there.

And still o'er many a neighboring door She saw the horseshoe's curved charm, To guard against her mother's harm;--

That mother, poor, and sick, and lame, Who daily, by the old arm-chair, Folded her withered hands in prayer;-- Who turned, in Salem's dreary jail, Her worn old Bible o'er and o'er, When her dim eyes could read no more!