Poems Teachers Ask For Volume II Part 4

Children

Come to me, O ye children!

For I hear you at your play, And the questions that perplexed me Have vanished quite away.

Ye open the eastern windows, That look towards the sun, Where thoughts are singing swallows And the brooks of morning run.

In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine, In your thoughts the brooklet's flow But in mine is the wind of Autumn And the first fall of the snow.

Ah! what would the world be to us If the children were no more?

We should dread the desert behind us Worse than the dark before.

What the leaves are to the forest, With light and air for food, Ere their sweet and tender juices Have been hardened into wood,--

That to the world are children; Through them it feels the glow Of a brighter and sunnier climate Than reaches the trunks below.

Come to me, O ye children!

And whisper in my ear What the birds and the winds are singing In your sunny atmosphere.

For what are all our contrivings, And the wisdom of our books, When compared with your caresses, And the gladness of your looks?

Ye are better than all the ballads That ever were sung or said; For ye are living poems, And all the rest are dead.

_Henry W. Longfellow._

The Eve of Waterloo

(The battle of Waterloo occurred June 18, 1815)

There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men.

A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell; But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell.

Did ye not hear it?--No; 'twas but the wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stony street: On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet To chase the glowing hours with flying feet-- But, hark!--that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!

Arm! arm! it is--it is the cannon's opening roar.

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; And the deep thunder, peal on peal afar; And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering with white lips, "The foe! they come! they come!"

Last noon beheld them full of l.u.s.ty life, Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, The midnight brought the signal sound of strife, The morn the marshaling in arms,--the day Battle's magnificently stern array!

The thunder clouds close o'er it, which when rent The earth is covered thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, Rider and horse--friend, foe--in one red burial blent.

_Lord Byron._

The Land Where Hate Should Die

This is the land where hate should die-- No feuds of faith, no spleen of race, No darkly brooding fear should try Beneath our flag to find a place.

Lo! every people here has sent Its sons to answer freedom's call, Their lifeblood is the strong cement That builds and binds the nation's wall.

This is the land where hate should die-- Though dear to me my faith and shrine, I serve my country when I Respect the creeds that are not mine.

He little loves his land who'd cast Upon his neighbor's word a doubt, Or cite the wrongs of ages past From present rights to bar him out.

This is the land where hate should die-- This is the land where strife should cease, Where foul, suspicious fear should fly Before the light of love and peace.

Then let us purge from poisoned thought That service to the state we give, And so be worthy as we ought Of this great land in which we live.

_Denis A. McCarthy._

Trouble In the "Amen Corner"

'Twas a stylish congregation, that of Theophrastus Brown, And its organ was the finest and the biggest in the town, And the chorus--all the papers favorably commented on it, For 'twas said each female member had a forty-dollar bonnet.

Now in the "amen corner" of the church sat Brother Eyer, Who persisted every Sabbath-day in singing with the choir; He was poor but genteel-looking, and his heart as snow was white, And his old face beamed with sweetness when he sang with all his might.

His voice was cracked and broken, age had touched his vocal chords, And nearly every Sunday he would misp.r.o.nounce the words Of the hymns, and 'twas no wonder, he was old and nearly blind, And the choir rattling onward always left him far behind.

The chorus stormed and bl.u.s.tered, Brother Eyer sang too slow, And then he used the tunes in vogue a hundred years ago; At last the storm-cloud burst, and the church was told, in fine, That the brother must stop singing, or the choir would resign.

Then the pastor called together in the vestry-room one day Seven influential members who subscribe more than they pay, And having asked G.o.d's guidance in a printed pray'r or two, They put their heads together to determine what to do.

They debated, thought, suggested, till at last "dear Brother York,"

Who last winter made a million on a sudden rise in pork, Rose and moved that a committee wait at once on Brother Eyer, And proceed to rake him lively "for disturbin' of the choir."

Said he: "In that 'ere organ I've invested quite a pile, And we'll sell it if we cannot worship in the latest style; Our Philadelphy tenor tells me 'tis the hardest thing Fer to make G.o.d understand him when the brother tries to sing.

"We've got the biggest organ, the best-dressed choir in town, We pay the steepest sal'ry to our pastor, Brother Brown; But if we must humor ignorance because it's blind and old-- If the choir's to be pestered, I will seek another fold."

Of course the motion carried, and one day a coach and four, With the latest style of driver, rattled up to Eyer's door; And the sleek, well-dress'd committee, Brothers Sharkey, York and Lamb, As they crossed the humble portal took good care to miss the jamb.

They found the choir's great trouble sitting in his old arm chair, And the Summer's golden sunbeams lay upon his thin white hair; He was singing "Rock of Ages" in a cracked voice and low But the angels understood him, 'twas all he cared to know.

Said York: "We're here, dear brother, with the vestry's approbation To discuss a little matter that affects the congregation"; "And the choir, too," said Sharkey, giving Brother York a nudge, "And the choir, too!" he echoed with the graveness of a judge.

"It was the understanding when we bargained for the chorus That it was to relieve us, that is, do the singing for us; If we rupture the agreement, it is very plain, dear brother, It will leave our congregation and be gobbled by another.

"We don't want any singing except that what we've bought!

The latest tunes are all the rage; the old ones stand for naught; And so we have decided--are you list'ning, Brother Eyer?-- That you'll have to stop your singin' for it flurrytates the choir."