Poems Teachers Ask For Volume I Part 16

Autumn Woods

Ere, in the northern gale, The summer tresses of the trees are gone, The woods of Autumn, all around our vale, Have put their glory on.

The mountains that infold, In their wide sweep, the colored landscape round, Seem groups of giant kings, in purple and gold, That guard the enchanted ground.

I roam the woods that crown The upland, where the mingled splendors glow, Where the gay company of trees look down On the green fields below.

My steps are not alone In these bright walks; the sweet southwest, at play, Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strown Along the winding way.

And far in heaven, the while, The sun, that sends that gale to wander here, Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile,-- The sweetest of the year.

Where now the solemn shade, Verdure and gloom where many branches meet; So grateful, when the noon of summer made The valleys sick with heat?

Let in through all the trees Come the strange rays; the forest depths are bright; Their sunny-colored foliage, in the breeze, Twinkles, like beams of light.

The rivulet, late unseen, Where bickering through the shrubs its waters run, Shines with the image of its golden screen And glimmerings of the sun.

But 'neath yon crimson tree, Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, Her blush of maiden shame.

Oh, Autumn! why so soon Depart the hues that make thy forests glad; Thy gentle wind and thy fair sunny noon, And leave thee wild and sad?

Ah! 'twere a lot too blessed Forever in thy colored shades to stray; Amid the kisses of the soft southwest To rove and dream for aye;

And leave the vain low strife That makes men mad--the tug for wealth and power, The pa.s.sions and the cares that wither life, And waste its little hour.

_William Cullen Bryant._

The Drummer Boy of Mission Ridge

Did you ever hear of the Drummer Boy of Mission Ridge, who lay With his face to the foe, 'neath the enemy's guns, in the charge of that terrible day?

They were firing above him and firing below, and the tempest of shot and sh.e.l.l Was raging like death, as he moaned in his pain, by the breastworks where he fell.

"Go back with your corps," our colonel had said, but he waited the moment when He might follow the ranks and shoulder a gun with the best of us bearded men; And so when the signals from old Fort Wood set an army of veterans wild, He flung down his drum, which spun down the hill like the ball of a wayward child.

And then he fell in with the foremost ranks of brave old company G, As we charged by the flank, with our colors ahead, and our columns closed up like a V, In the long, swinging lines of that splendid advance, when the flags of our corps floated out, Like the ribbons that dance in the jubilant lines of the march of a gala day rout.

He charged with the ranks, though he carried no gun, for the colonel had said him nay, And he breasted the blast of the bristling guns, and the shock of the sickening fray; And when by his side they were falling like hail he sprang to a comrade slain, And shouldered his musket and bore it as true as the hand that was dead in pain.

'Twas dearly we loved him, our Drummer Boy, with a fire in his bright, black eye, That flashed forth a spirit too great for his form--he only was just so high, As tall, perhaps, as your little lad who scarcely reaches your shoulder-- Though his heart was the heart of a veteran then, a trifle, it may be, bolder.

He pressed to the front, our lad so leal, and the works were almost won, A moment more and our flags had swung o'er the muzzle of murderous gun; But a raking fire swept the van, and he fell 'mid the wounded and slain, With his wee wan face turned up to Him who feeleth His children's pain.

Again and again our lines fell back, and again with shivering shocks They flung themselves on the rebels' works as ships are tossed on rocks; To be crushed and broken and scattered amain, as the wrecks of the surging storm.

Where none may rue and none may reck of aught that has human form.

So under the ridge we were lying for the order to charge again, And we counted our comrades missing, and we counted our comrades slain; And one said, "Johnny, our Drummer Boy, is grievously shot and lies Just under the enemy's breastwork; if left on the field he dies."

Then all the blood that was in me surged up to my aching brow, And my heart leaped up like a ball in my throat--I can feel it even now, And I said I would bring that boy from the field, if G.o.d would spare my breath, If all the guns in Mission Ridge should thunder the threat of death.

I crept and crept up the ghastly ridge, by the wounded and the dead, With the moans of my comrades right and left, behind me and yet ahead, Till I came to the form of our Drummer Boy, in his blouse of dusty blue, With his face to the foe, 'neath the enemy's guns, where the blast of the battle blew.

And his gaze as he met my own just there would have melted a heart of stone, As he tried like a wounded bird to rise, and placed his hand in my own; And he said in a voice half smothered, though its whispering thrills me yet, "I think in a moment more that I would have stood on that parapet.

"But now I nevermore will climb, and, Sergeant, when you see The men go up those breastworks there, just stop and waken me; For though I cannot make the charge and join the cheers that rise, I may forget my pain to see the old flag kiss the skies."

Well, it was hard to treat him so, his poor limb shattered sore, But I raised him on my shoulder and to the surgeon bore; And the boys who saw us coming each gave a shout of joy, And uttered fervent prayers for him, our valiant Drummer Boy.

When sped the news that "Fighting Joe" had saved the Union right, With his legions fresh from Lookout; and that Thomas ma.s.sed his might And forced the rebel center; and our cheering ran like wild; And Sherman's heart was happy as the heart of a little child;

When Grant from his lofty outlook saw our flags by the hundred fly Along the slopes of Mission Ridge, where'er he cast his eye; And when we heard the thrilling news of the mighty battle done, The fearful contest ended, and the glorious victory won;

Then his bright black eyes so yearning grew strangely rapt and wide, And in that hour of conquest our little hero died.

But ever in our hearts he dwells, with a grace that ne'er is old, For him the heart to duty wed can nevermore grow cold!

And when they tell of heroes, and the laurels they have won, Of the scars they are doomed to carry, of the deeds that they have done; Of the horror to be biding among the ghastly dead, The gory sod beneath them, the bursting sh.e.l.l o'erhead,

My heart goes back to Mission Ridge and the Drummer Boy who lay With his face to the foe, 'neath the enemy's guns, in the charge of that terrible day; And I say that the land that bears such sons is crowned and dowered with all The dear G.o.d giveth nations to stay them lest they fall.

Oh, glory of Mission Ridge, stream on, like the roseate light of morn, On the sons that now are living, on the sons that are yet unborn!

And cheers for our comrades living, and tears as they pa.s.s away!

And three times three for the Drummer Boy who fought at the front that day!

If--

If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you; If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or being lied about don't deal in lies, Or being hated don't give way to hating, And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream and not make dreams your master; If you can think and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to broken, And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch and toss.

And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with Kings nor lose the common touch; If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you; If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!

_Rudyard Kipling._

Second Table