Poems Teachers Ask For Volume I Part 42

Back! I say, ye forked-tongued serpents reeking with the filth of h.e.l.l!

Don't ye see I have her with me--my poor sainted little Belle?'

"When I'd soothed him into quiet, with a trembling arm he drew My head down, 'Oh, Al,' he whispered, 'such remorse you never knew.'

And again I tried to soothe him, but my eyes o'erbrimmed with tears; His were dry and clear, as brilliant as they were in college years.

All the flush had left his features, he lay white as marble now; Tenderly I smoothed his pillow, wiped the moisture from his brow.

Though I begged him to be quiet, he would talk of those old days, Brokenly at times, but always of 'the boys' with loving praise.

"Once I asked him of Lorena--the sweet girl whom he had wed-- You remember Rena Barstow. When I asked if she were dead, 'No,' he said, his poor voice faltering, 'she is far beyond the Rhine, But I wish, to G.o.d, it were so, and I still might call her mine.

She's divorced--she's mine no longer,' here his voice grew weak and hoa.r.s.e 'But although I am a drunkard, _I have one they can't divorce_.

I've a little girl in heaven, playing round the Savior's knee, Always patient and so faithful that at last she died for me.

"'I had drank so much, so often, that my brain was going wild; Every one had lost hope in me but my faithful little child.

She would say, "Now stop, dear papa, for I know you can stop _now_."

I would promise, kiss my darling, and the next day break my vow.

So it went until one Christmas, dark and stormy, cold and drear; Out I started, just as usual, for the cursed rum shop near, And my darling followed after, in the storm of rain and sleet, With no covering wrapped about her, naught but slippers on her feet; No one knew it, no one missed her, till there came with solemn tread, Stern-faced men unto our dwelling, bringing back our darling--_dead!_ They had found her cold and lifeless, like, they said, an angel fair, Leaning 'gainst the grog shop window--oh, she thought that _I was there!_ Then he raised his arms toward heaven, called aloud unto the dead, For his mind again was wandering: 'Belle, my precious Belle!' he said, 'Papa's treasure--papa's darling! oh, my baby--did--you--come All the way--alone--my darling--just to lead--poor--papa--home?'

And he surely had an answer, for a silence o'er him fell.

And I sat alone and lonely--death had come with little Belle."

Silence in that princely parlor--head of every guest is bowed.

They still see the red wine sparkle, but 'tis through a misty cloud.

Said the host at last, arising, "I have scorned the pledge to sign, Laughed at temperance all my life long. Never more shall drop of wine Touch my lips. The fruit _was_ bitter, boys; 'twas I proposed it first-- That foul joke from which poor Horace ever bore a life accurst!

Let us pledge ourselves to-night, boys, never more by word, or deed, In our own fair homes, or elsewhere, help to plant the poison seed."

Silence once again, but only for a moment's s.p.a.ce, and then, In one voice they all responded with a low and firm "Amen."

_Will Victor McGuire._

G.o.d's Judgment on a Wicked Bishop

The summer and autumn had been so wet, That in winter the corn was growing yet.

'Twas a piteous sight to see all round The grain lie rotting on the ground.

Every day the starving poor Crowded round Bishop Hatto's door, For he had a plentiful last year's store, And all the neighborhood could tell His granaries were furnish'd well.

At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day To quiet the poor without delay; He bade them to his great barn repair, And they should have food for the winter there.

Rejoiced the tidings good to hear, The poor folk flock'd from far and near; The great barn was full as it could hold Of women and children, and young and old.

Then, when he saw it could hold no more, Bishop Hatto he made fast the door, And while for mercy on Christ they call, He set fire to the barn and burnt them all.

"I' faith, 'tis an excellent bonfire!" quoth he, "And the country is greatly obliged to me For ridding it, in these times forlorn, Of rats that only consume the corn."

So then to his palace returned he, And he sat down to supper merrily, And he slept that night like an innocent man; But Bishop Hatto never slept again.

In the morning, as he enter'd the hall Where his picture hung against the wall, A sweat like death all over him came, For the rats had eaten it out of the frame.

As he look'd, there came a man from his farm, He had a countenance white with alarm: "My lord, I open'd your granaries this morn, And the rats had eaten all your corn."

Another came running presently, And he was pale as pale could be.

"Fly, my lord bishop, fly!" quoth he, "Ten thousand rats are coming this way, The Lord forgive you for yesterday!"

"I'll go to my tower on the Rhine," replied he; "'Tis the safest place in Germany; The walls are high, and the sh.o.r.es are steep And the stream is strong, and the water deep."

Bishop Hatto fearfully hasten'd away, And he cross'd the Rhine without delay, And reach'd his tower and barr'd with care All the windows, doors, and loopholes there.

He laid him down and closed his eyes, But soon a scream made him arise; He started, and saw two eyes of flame On his pillow, from whence the screaming came.

He listen'd and look'd,--it was only the cat, But the bishop he grew more fearful for that, For she sat screaming, mad with fear At the army of rats that were drawing near.

For they have swum over the river so deep, And they have climb'd the sh.o.r.es so steep, And up the tower their way is bent, To do the work for which they were sent.

They are not to be told by the dozen or score; By thousands they come, and by myriads and more; Such numbers had never been heard of before, Such a judgment had never been witness'd of yore. |

Down on his knees the bishop fell, And faster and faster his beads did he tell, As louder and louder, drawing near, The gnawing of their teeth he could hear.

And in at the windows and in at the door, And through the walls helter-skelter they pour; And down from the ceiling and up through the floor,

From the right and the left, from behind and before, From within and without, from above and below,-- And all at once to the bishop they go.

They have whetted their teeth against the stones, And now they pick the bishop's bones; They gnaw'd the flesh from every limb, For they were sent to do judgment on him!

_Robert Southey._

The Last Hymn

The Sabbath day was ending in a village by the sea, The uttered benediction touched the people tenderly, And they rose to face the sunset in the glowing, lighted west, And then hastened to their dwellings for G.o.d's blessed boon of rest.

Bat they looked across the waters, and a storm was raging there; A fierce spirit moved above them--the wild spirit of the air-- And it lashed and shook and tore them till they thundered, groaned and boomed, And, alas! for any vessel in their yawning gulfs entombed.

Very anxious were the people on that rocky coast of Wales, Lest the dawn of coming morrow should be telling awful tales, When the sea had spent its pa.s.sion and should cast upon the sh.o.r.e Bits of wreck and swollen victims as it had done heretofore.

With the rough winds blowing round her, a brave woman strained her eyes, As she saw along the billows a large vessel fall and rise.

Oh, it did not need a prophet to tell what the end must be, For no ship could ride in safety near that sh.o.r.e on such a sea!

Then the pitying people hurried from their homes and thronged the beach.

Oh, for power to cross the waters and the perishing to reach!

Helpless hands were wrung in terror, tender hearts grew cold with dread, And the ship, urged by the tempest, to the fatal rock-sh.o.r.e sped.

"She's parted in the middle! Oh, the half of her goes down!"

"G.o.d have mercy! Is his heaven far to seek for those who drown?"

Lo! when next the white, shocked faces looked with terror on the sea, Only one last clinging figure on a spar was seen to be.