Poems Teachers Ask For Volume I Part 61

One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!

_Lord Byron._

The Builders

All are architects of Fate, Working in these walls of Time; Some with ma.s.sive deeds and great, Some with ornaments of rhyme.

Nothing useless is, or low; Each thing in its place is best; And what seems but idle show Strengthens and supports the rest.

For the structure that we raise, Time is with materials filled; Our to-days and yesterdays Are the blocks with which we build.

Truly shape and fashion these; Leave no yawning gaps between; Think not, because no man sees, Such things will remain unseen.

In the elder days of Art, Builders wrought with greatest care Each minute and unseen part; For the G.o.ds see everywhere.

Let us do our work as well, Both the unseen and the seen!

Make the house, where G.o.ds may dwell, Beautiful, entire, and clean.

Else our lives are incomplete, Standing in these walls of Time, Broken stairways, where the feet Stumble as they seek to climb.

Build to-day, then, strong and sure, With a firm and ample base; And ascending and secure Shall to-morrow find its place.

Thus alone can we attain To those turrets, where the eye Sees the world as one vast plain, And one boundless reach of sky.

_Henry W. Longfellow._

The Brown Thrush

There's a merry brown thrush sitting up in the tree, He's singing to me! He's singing to me!

And what does he say, little girl, little boy?

"Oh, the world's running over with joy!

Don't you hear? don't you see?

Hush! Look! In my tree, I'm as happy as happy can be!"

And the brown thrush keeps singing, "A nest do you see, And five eggs hid by me in the juniper tree?

Don't meddle! don't touch! little girl, little boy, Or the world will lose some of its joy!

Now I'm glad! now I'm free!

And I always shall be, If you never bring sorrow to me."

So the merry brown thrush sings away in the tree, To you and to me, to you and to me; And he sings all the day, little girl, little boy, "Oh, the world's running over with joy; But long it won't be, Don't you know? don't you see?

Unless we are as good as can be!"

_Lucy Larcom._

The Quality of Mercy

(_From, "The Merchant of Venice"_)

The quality of mercy is not strain'd.

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath. It is twice bless'd: It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.

'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes The throned monarch better than his crown.

His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, The attribute to awe and majesty, Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; But mercy is above this sceptred sway; It is enthroned in the hearts of kings; It is an attribute to G.o.d himself; And earthly power doth then show likest G.o.d's When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, Though justice be thy plea, consider this, That, in the course of justice, none of us Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy; And that same prayer doth teach us all to render The deeds of mercy.

_William Shakespeare._

Don't Give Up

If you've tried and have not won, Never stop for crying; All's that's great and good is done Just by patient trying.

Though young birds, in flying, fall, Still their wings grow stronger; And the next time they can keep Up a little longer.

Though the st.u.r.dy oak has known Many a blast that bowed her, She has risen again, and grown Loftier and prouder.

If by easy work you beat, Who the more will prize you?

Gaining victory from defeat,-- That's the test that tries you!

_Phoebe Cary._

Incident of the French Camp

You know we French stormed Ratisbon: A mile or so away On a little mound, Napoleon Stood on our storming-day; With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, Legs wide, arms locked behind, As if to balance the p.r.o.ne brow, Oppressive with its mind.

Just as perhaps he mused, "My plans That soar, to earth may fall, Let once my army-leader Lannes Waver at yonder wall,"-- Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew A rider, bound on bound Full-galloping; nor bridle drew Until he reached the mound.

Then off there flung in smiling joy, And held himself erect By just his horse's mane, a boy: You hardly could suspect-- (So tight he kept his lips compressed, Scarce any blood came through) You looked twice ere you saw his breast Was all but shot in two.

"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by G.o.d's grace We've got you Ratisbon!

The Marshall's in the market-place, And you'll be there anon To see your flag-bird flap his vans Where I, to heart's desire, Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his plans Soared up again like fire.