Poems Teachers Ask For Volume II Part 10

The longing for ign.o.ble things; The strife for triumph more than truth; The hardening of the heart, that brings Irreverence for the dreams of youth;

All thoughts of ill; all evil deeds, That have their root in thoughts of ill; Whatever hinders or impedes The action of the n.o.bler will;--

All these must first be trampled down Beneath our feet, if we would gain In the bright fields of fair renown The right of eminent domain.

We have not wings, we cannot soar; But we have feet to scale and climb By slow degrees, by more and more, The cloudy summits of our time.

The mighty pyramids of stone That wedge-like cleave the desert airs, When nearer seen, and better known, Are but gigantic flights of stairs,

The distant mountains, that uprear Their solid bastions to the skies, Are crossed by pathways, that appear As we to higher levels rise.

The heights by great men reached and kept Were not attained by sudden flight.

But they, while their companions slept, Were toiling upward in the night.

Standing on what too long we bore With shoulders bent and downcast eyes, We may discern--unseen before-- A path to higher destinies.

Nor deem the irrevocable Past As wholly wasted, wholly vain, If, rising on its wrecks, at last To something n.o.bler we attain.

_H.W. Longfellow._

Loss and Gain

When I compare What I have lost with what I have gained, What I have missed with what attained, Little room do I find for pride.

I am aware How many days have been idly spent; How like an arrow the good intent Has fallen short or been turned aside.

But who shall dare To measure loss and gain in this wise?

Defeat may be victory in disguise; The lowest ebb in the turn of the tide.

_H.W. Longfellow._

John Thompson's Daughter

(A Parody on "Lord Ullin's Daughter")

A fellow near Kentucky's clime Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry, And I'll give thee a silver dime To row us o'er the ferry."

"Now, who would cross the Ohio, This dark and stormy water?"

"Oh, I am this young lady's beau, And she John Thompson's daughter.

"We've fled before her father's spite With great precipitation, And should he find us here to-night, I'd lose my reputation.

"They've missed the girl and purse beside, His hors.e.m.e.n hard have pressed me.

And who will cheer my bonny bride, If yet they shall arrest me?"

Out spoke the boatman then in time, "You shall not fail, don't fear it; I'll go not for your silver dime, But--for your manly spirit.

"And by my word, the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry; For though a storm is coming on, I'll row you o'er the ferry."

By this the wind more fiercely rose, The boat was at the landing, And with the drenching rain their clothes Grew wet where they were standing.

But still, as wilder rose the wind, And as the night grew drearer, Just back a piece came the police, Their tramping sounded nearer.

"Oh, haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, "It's anything but funny; I'll leave the light of loving eyes, But not my father's money!"

And still they hurried in the race Of wind and rain unsparing; John Thompson reached the landing-place, His wrath was turned to swearing.

For by the lightning's angry flash, His child he did discover; One lovely hand held all the cash, And one was round her lover!

"Come back, come back," he cried in woe, Across the stormy water; "But leave the purse, and you may go, My daughter, oh, my daughter!"

'Twas vain; they reached the other sh.o.r.e, (Such dooms the Fates a.s.sign us), The gold he piled went with his child, And he was left there, minus.

_Phoebe Cary._

Grandfather's Clock

My grandfather's clock was too tall for the shelf, So it stood ninety years on the floor; It was taller by half than the old man himself, Though it weighed not a pennyweight more.

It was bought on the morn of the day that he was born, And was always his treasure and pride, But it stopped short ne'er to go again When the old man died.

In watching its pendulum swing to and fro, Many hours had he spent while a boy; And in childhood and manhood the clock seemed to know And to share both his grief and his joy, For it struck twenty-four when he entered at the door, With a blooming and beautiful bride, But it stopped short never to go again When the old man died.

My grandfather said that of those he could hire, Not a servant so faithful he found, For it wasted no time and had but one desire, At the close of each week to be wound.

And it kept in its place, not a frown upon its face, And its hands never hung by its side.

But it stopped short never to go again When the old man died.

_Henry C. Work._

A Cradle Hymn

Hush! my dear, lie still and slumber, Holy angels guard thy bed!

Heavenly blessings without number Gently falling on thy head.