Poems Teachers Ask For Volume II Part 3

To prove thou knowest, approvest thy son.

What! silent yet? Canst thou not feel My warm blood o'er thy heart congeal?

Speak, mother, speak! lift up thy head!

What! silent still? Then art thou dead: --Great G.o.d, I thank thee! Mother, I Rejoice with thee,--and thus--to die."

One long, deep breath, and his pale head Lay on his mother's bosom,--dead.

_Ann S. Stephens._

The Height of the Ridiculous

I wrote some lines once on a time In wondrous merry mood, And thought, as usual, men would say They were exceeding good.

They were so queer, so very queer, I laughed as I would die; Albeit, in the general way, A sober man am I.

I called my servant, and he came; How kind it was of him To mind a slender man like me, He of the mighty limb!

"These to the printer," I exclaimed, And, in my humorous way, I added (as a trifling jest), "There'll be the devil to pay."

He took the paper, and I watched, And saw him peep within; At the first line he read, his face Was all upon the grin.

He read the next; the grin grew broad, And shot from ear to ear; He read the third; a chuckling noise I now began to hear.

The fourth; he broke into a roar; The fifth; his waistband split; The sixth; he burst five b.u.t.tons off, And tumbled in a fit.

Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye, I watched that wretched man, And since, I never dare to write As funny as I can.

_Oliver Wendell Holmes._

Excelsior

The shades of night were falling fast, As through an Alpine village pa.s.sed A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, A banner with the strange device, Excelsior!

His brow was sad his eye beneath Flashed like a falchion from its sheath, And like a silver clarion rung The accents of that unknown tongue, Excelsior!

In happy homes he saw the light Of household fires gleam warm and bright; Above, the spectral glaciers shone, And from his lips escaped a groan, Excelsior!

"Try not the Pa.s.s!" the old man said; "Dark lowers the tempest overhead, The roaring torrent is deep and wide!"

And loud the clarion voice replied, Excelsior!

"O stay," the maiden said, "and rest Thy weary head upon this breast!"

A tear stood in his bright blue eye, But still he answered, with a sigh, Excelsior!

"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch!

Beware the awful avalanche!"

This was the peasant's last Good-night, A voice replied, far up the height, Excelsior!

At break of day, as heavenward The pious monks of Saint Bernard Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, A voice cried through the startled air, Excelsior!

A traveller, by the faithful hound, Half-buried in the snow was found, Still grasping in his hand of ice That banner with the strange device, Excelsior!

There in the twilight cold and gray, Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, And from the sky, serene and far, A voice fell, like a falling star, Excelsior!

_Henry W. Longfellow._

The Bivouac of the Dead

The m.u.f.fled drum's sad roll has beat The soldier's last tattoo; No more on life's parade shall meet That brave and fallen few.

On fame's eternal camping ground Their silent tents are spread, And Glory guards with solemn round The bivouac of the dead.

No rumor of the foe's advance Now swells upon the wind; No troubled thought at midnight haunts Of loved ones left behind; No vision of the morrow's strife The warrior's dream alarms; No braying horn or screaming fife At dawn shall call to arms.

Their shivered swords are red with rust; Their plumed heads are bowed; Their haughty banner, trailed in dust, Is now their martial shroud; And plenteous funeral tears have washed The red stains from each brow; And the proud forms, by battle gashed, Are free from anguish now.

The neighing troop, the flashing blade, The bugle's stirring blast, The charge, the dreadful cannonade, The din and shout are pa.s.sed.

Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal, Shall thrill with fierce delight Those b.r.e.a.s.t.s that nevermore shall feel The rapture of the fight.

Like a fierce northern hurricane That sweeps his great plateau, Flushed with the triumph yet to gain, Came down the serried foe, Who heard the thunder of the fray Break o'er the field beneath, Knew well the watchword of that day Was "Victory or Death!"

Full many a mother's breath hath swept O'er Angostura's plain, And long the pitying sky hath wept Above its moulder'd slain.

The raven's scream, or eagle's flight, Or shepherd's pensive lay, Alone now wake each solemn height That frowned o'er that dread fray.

Sons of the "dark and b.l.o.o.d.y ground,"

Ye must not slumber there, Where stranger steps and tongues resound Along the heedless air!

Your own proud land's heroic soil Shall be your fitter grave; She claims from war its richest spoil,-- The ashes of her brave.

Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest, Far from the gory field, Borne to a Spartan mother's breast On many a b.l.o.o.d.y shield.

The sunshine of their native sky Smiles sadly on them here, And kindred eyes and hearts watch by The heroes' sepulcher.

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead!

Dear as the blood ye gave; No impious footsteps here shall tread The herbage of your grave; Nor shall your glory be forgot While fame her record keeps, Or honor points the hallowed spot Where Valor proudly sleeps.

Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone In deathless song shall tell, When many a vanished year hath flown, The story how ye fell.

Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, Nor time's remorseless doom, Can dim one ray of holy light That gilds your glorious tomb.

_Theodore O'Hara._