Chapter X: Book TWO (8)

The sermon wasn't flowery; 'twas simple Gospel truth; It fitted poor old men like me; it fitted hopeful youth; 'Twas full of consolation, for weary hearts that bleed; 'Twas full of invitations, to Christ and not to creed.

The preacher made sin hideous in Gentiles and in Jews; He shot the golden sentences down in the finest pews; And--though I can't see very well--I saw the falling tear That told me hell was some ways off, and heaven very near.

How swift the golden moments fled within that holy place! How brightly beamed the light of heaven from every happy face! Again I longed for that sweet time when friend shall meet with friend-- "When congregations ne'er break up, and Sabbaths have no end."

I hope to meet that minister--that congregation, too-- In that dear home beyond the stars that shine from heaven's blue; I doubt not I'll remember, beyond life's evenin' gray, The happy hour of worship in that model church today.

Dear wife, the fight will soon be fought; the vict'ry soon be won; The shinin' goal is just ahead; the race is nearly run; O'er the river we are nearin', they are throngin' to the shore, To shout our safe arrival where the weary weep no more.

_John H. Yates._

The Volunteer Organist

The gret big church wuz crowded full uv broadcloth an' of silk, An' satins rich as cream thet grows on our ol' brindle's milk; Shined boots, biled shirts, stiff dickeys, an' stove-pipe hats were there, An' doodes 'ith trouserloons so tight they couldn't kneel down in prayer.

The elder in his poolpit high, said, as he slowly riz: "Our organist is kept' to hum, laid up 'ith roomatiz, An' as we hev no substitoot, as brother Moore ain't here, Will some 'un in the congregation be so kind's to volunteer?"

An' then a red-nosed, blear-eyed tramp, of low-toned, rowdy style, Give an interductory hiccup, an' then swaggered up the aisle. Then thro' that holy atmosphere there crep' a sense er sin, An' thro' thet air of sanctity the odor uv ol' gin.

Then Deacon Purington he yelled, his teeth all set on edge: "This man perfanes the house of God! W'y, this is sacrilege!" The tramp didn' hear a word he said, but slouched 'ith stumblin' feet, An' stalked an' swaggered up the steps, an' gained the organ seat.

He then went pawin' thro' the keys, an' soon there rose a strain Thet seemed to jest bulge out the heart, an' 'lectrify the brain; An' then he slapped down on the thing 'ith hands an' head an' knees, He slam-dashed his hull body down kerflop upon the keys.

The organ roared, the music flood went sweepin' high an' dry, It swelled into the rafters, an' bulged out into the sky; The ol' church shook and staggered, an' seemed to reel an' sway, An' the elder shouted "Glory!" an' I yelled out "Hooray!!"

An' then he tried a tender strain that melted in our ears, Thet brought up blessed memories and drenched 'em down 'ith tears; An' we dreamed uv ol' time kitchens, 'ith Tabby on the mat, Uv home an' luv an' baby days, an' Mother, an' all that!

An' then he struck a streak uv hope--a song from souls forgiven-- Thet burst from prison bars uv sin, an' stormed the gates uv heaven; The morning stars together sung--no soul wuz left alone-- We felt the universe wuz safe, an' God was on His throne!

An' then a wail of deep despair an' darkness come again, An' long, black crape hung on the doors uv all the homes uv men; No luv, no light, no joy, no hope, no songs of glad delight, An' then--the tramp, he swaggered down an' reeled out into the night!

But we knew he'd tol' his story, tho' he never spoke a word, An' it was the saddest story thet our ears had ever heard; He had tol' his own life history, an' no eye was dry thet day, W'en the elder rose an' simply said: "My brethren, let up pray."

_Sam Walter Foss._

The Finding of the Lyre

There lay upon the ocean's shore What once a tortoise served to cover; A year and more, with rush and roar, The surf had rolled it over, Had played with it, and flung it by, As wind and weather might decide it, Then tossed it high where sand-drifts dry Cheap burial might provide it. It rested there to bleach or tan, The rains had soaked, the suns had burned it; With many a ban the fisherman Had stumbled o'er and spurned it; And there the fisher-girl would stay, Conjecturing with her brother How in their play the poor estray Might serve some use or other.

So there it lay, through wet and dry, As empty as the last new sonnet, Till by and by came Mercury, And, having mused upon it, "Why, here," cried he, "the thing of things In shape, material, and dimension! Give it but strings, and, lo, it sings, A wonderful invention!"

So said, so done; the chords he strained, And, as his fingers o'er them hovered, The shell disdained a soul had gained, The lyre had been discovered. O empty world that round us lies, Dead shell, of soul and thought forsaken, Brought we but eyes like Mercury's, In thee what songs should waken!

_James Russel Lowell._

The High Tide (1571)

(_Or "The Brides of Enderby"_)

The old mayor climbed the belfry tower, The ringers rang by two, by three; "Pull, if ye never pulled before; Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he. "Play uppe, play uppe O Boston bells! Play all your changes, all your swells, Play uppe 'The Brides of Enderby.'"

Men say it was a stolen tyde-- The Lord that sent it, He knows all; But in myne ears doth still abide The message that the bells let fall: And there was naught of strange, beside The flight of mews ans peewits pied By millions crouched on the old sea-wall.

I sat and spun within the doore, My thread break off, I raised myne eyes; The level sun, like ruddy ore, Lay sinking in the barren skies, And dark against day's golden death She moved where Lindis wandereth, My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth.

"Cusha! Cusha!" all along; Ere the early dews were falling, Farre away I heard her song. "Cusha! Cusha!" all along; Where the reedy Lindis floweth, Floweth, floweth, From the meads where melick groweth Faintly came her milking song:

"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, "For the dews will soone be falling; Leave your meadow grasses mellow, Mellow, mellow; Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, Hollow, hollow; Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, From the clovers lift your head; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, Jetty, to the milking shed."

If it be long, ay, long ago, When I beginne to think howe long, Againe I hear the Lindis flow, Swift as an arrowe, sharp and strong; And all the aire, it seemeth mee, Bin full of floating bells (sayeth she), That ring the tune of Enderby.

Alle fresh the level pasture lay, And not a shadowe mote be seene, Save where full fyve good miles away The steeple towered from out the greene; And lo! the great bell farre and wide Was heard in all the country side That Saturday at eventide.

The swanherds where there sedges are Moved on in sunset's golden breath, The shepherde lads I heard affare, And my sonne's wife, Elizabeth; Till floating o'er the grassy sea Came down that kindly message free, The "Brides of Mavis Enderby."

Then some looked uppe into the sky, And all along where Lindis flows To where the goodly vessels lie, And where the lordly steeple shows, They sayde, "And why should this thing be? What danger lowers by land or sea? They ring the tune of Enderby!

"For evil news from Mablethorpe, Of pyrate galleys warping downe; For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe, They have not spared to wake the towne; But while the west bin red to see, And storms be none, and pyrates flee, Why ring 'The Brides of Enderby'?"

I looked without, and lo! my sonne Came riding down with might and main: He raised a shout as he drew on, Till all the welkin rang again, "Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" (A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.)

"The old sea wall (he cried) is downe, The rising tide comes on apace, And boats adrift in yonder towne Go sailing uppe the market-place." He shook as one that looks on death: "God save you, mother!" straight he saith, "Where is my wife, Elizabeth?"

"Good sonne, where Lindis winds away, With her two bairns I marked her long; And ere yon bells beganne to play Afar I heard her milking song." He looked across the grassy lea, To right, to left, "Ho, Enderby!" They rang "The Brides of Enderby"!

With that he cried and beat his breast; For, lo! along the river's bed A mighty eygre reared his crest, And uppe the Lindis raging sped. It swept with thunderous noises loud; Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, Or like a demon in a shroud.

And rearing Lindis backward pressed, Shook all her trembling bankes amaine, Then madly at the eygre's breast Flung uppe her weltering walls again. Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout-- Then beaten foam flew round about-- Then all the mighty floods were out.

So farre, so fast the eygre drave, The heart had hardly time to beat, Before a shallow seething wave Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet. The feet had hardly time to flee Before it brake against the knee, And all the world was in the sea.

Upon the roofe we sat that night, The noise of bells went sweeping by; I marked the lofty beacon light Stream from the church tower, red and high,-- A lurid mark and dread to see; And awesome bells they were to mee, That in the dark rang "Enderby."

They rang the sailor lads to guide From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed; And I--my sonne was at my side, And yet the ruddy beacon glowed; And yet he moaned beneath his breath, "Oh, come in life, or come in death! Oh, lost! my love, Elizabeth."

And didst thou visit him no more? Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare; The waters laid thee at his doore, Ere yet the early dawn was clear; Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, The lifted sun shone on thy face, Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place.

That flow strewed wrecks about the grass, That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea; A fatal ebbe and flow, alas! To manye more than myne and me: But each will mourn his own (she saith), And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.

I shall never hear her more By the reedy Lindis shore, "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling Ere the early dews be falling; I shall never hear her song, "Cusha! Cusha!" all along, Where the sunny Lindis floweth, Goeth, floweth; From the meads where melick groweth, When the water winding down, Onward floweth to the town.

I shall never see her more Where the reeds and rushes quiver, Shiver, quiver; Stand beside the sobbing river, Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling To the sandy lonesome shore; I shall never hear her calling, "Leave your meadow grasses mellow, Mellow, mellow; Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot; Quit your pipes of parsley hollow, Hollow, hollow; Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow; Lightfoot, Whitefoot, From your clovers lift the head; Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow, Jetty, to the milking-shed."

_Jean Ingelow._

September Days

O month of fairer, rarer days Than Summer's best have been; When skies at noon are burnished blue, And winds at evening keen; When tangled, tardy-blooming things From wild waste places peer, And drooping golden grain-heads tell That harvest-time is near.

Though Autumn tints amid the green Are gleaming, here and there, And spicy Autumn odors float Like incense on the air, And sounds we mark as Autumn's own Her nearing steps betray, In gracious mood she seems to stand And bid the Summer stay.

Though 'neath the trees, with fallen leaves The sward be lightly strown, And nests deserted tell the tale Of summer bird-folk flown; Though white with frost the lowlands lie When lifts the morning haze, Still there's a charm in every hour Of sweet September days.

_Helen L. Smith_

The New Year

Who comes dancing over the snow, His soft little feet all bare and rosy? Open the door, though the wild wind blow, Take the child in and make him cozy, Take him in and hold him dear, Here is the wonderful glad New Year.

_Dinah M. Craik_

An "If" For Girls

(_With apologies to Mr. Rudyard Kipling_.)

If you can dress to make yourself attractive,
Yet not make puffs and curls your chief delight;
If you can swim and row, be strong and active,
But of the gentler graces lose not sight;
If you can dance without a craze for dancing,
Play without giving play too strong a hold,
Enjoy the love of friends without romancing,
Care for the weak, the friendless and the old;

If you can master French and Greek and Latin,
And not acquire, as well, a priggish mien,
If you can feel the touch of silk and satin
Without despising calico and jean;
If you can ply a saw and use a hammer,
Can do a man's work when the need occurs,
Can sing when asked, without excuse or stammer,
Can rise above unfriendly snubs and slurs;

If you can make good bread as well as fudges,
Can sew with skill and have an eye for dust,
If you can be a friend and hold no grudges,
A girl whom all will love because they must;

If sometime you should meet and love another
And make a home with faith and peace enshrined,
And you its soul--a loyal wife and mother--
You'll work out pretty nearly to my mind
The plan that's been developed through the ages,
And win the best that life can have in store,
You'll be, my girl, the model for the sages--
A woman whom the world will bow before.

_Elizabeth Lincoln Otis._

Boy and Girl of Plymouth

Little lass of Plymouth,--gentle, shy, and sweet; Primly, trimly tripping down the queer old street; Homespun frock and apron, clumsy buckled shoe; Skirts that reach your ankles, just as Mother's do; Bonnet closely clinging over braid and curl; Modest little maiden,--Plymouth's Pilgrim girl!

Little lad of Plymouth, stanchly trudging by; Strong your frame, and sturdy; kind and keen your eye; Clad in belted doublet, buckles at your knee; Every garment fashioned as a man's might be; Shoulder-cloak and breeches, hat with bell-shaped crown; Manly little Pilgrim,--boy of Plymouth town!

Boy and girl of Plymouth, brave and blithe, and true; Finer task than yours was, children never knew; Sharing toil and hardship in the strange, new land; Hope, and help, and promise of the weary band; Grave the life around you, scant its meed of joy; Yours to make it brighter,--Pilgrim girl and boy!

_Helen L. Smith_.

Work: A Song of Triumph

Work!
Thank God for the might of it,
The ardor, the urge, the delight of it,
Work that springs from the heart's desire,
Setting the brain and the soul on fire--
Oh, what is so good as the heat of it,
And what is so glad as the beat of it,
And what is so kind as the stern command,
Challenging brain and heart and hand?

Work!
Thank God for the pride of it,
For the beautiful, conquering tide of it,
Sweeping the life in its furious flood,
Thrilling the arteries, cleansing the blood,
Mastering stupor and dull despair,
Moving the dreamer to do and dare--
Oh, what is so good as the urge of it,
And what is so glad as the surge of it,
And what is so strong as the summons deep,
Rousing the torpid soul from sleep?

Work!
Thank God for the pace of it,
For the terrible, swift, keen race of it,
Fiery steeds in full control,
Nostrils a-quiver to reach the goal.
Work, the power that drives behind,
Guiding the purposes, taming the mind,
Holding the runaway wishes back,
Reining the will to one steady track,
Speeding the energies, faster, faster,
Triumphing ever over disaster;
Oh, what is so good as the pain of it,
And what is so great as the gain of it,
And what is so kind as the cruel goad,
Forcing us on through the rugged road?

Work!
Thank God for the swing of it,
For the clamoring, hammering ring of it,
Passion of labor daily hurled
On the mighty anvils of the world.
Oh, what is so fierce as the flame of it?
And what is so huge as the aim of it?
Thundering on through dearth and doubt,
Calling the plan of the Maker out,
Work, the Titan; Work, the friend,
Shaping the earth to a glorious end,
Draining the swamps and blasting hills,
Doing whatever the Spirit wills--
Rending a continent apart,
To answer the dream of the Master heart.
Thank God for a world where none may shirk--
Thank God for the splendor of Work!

_Angela Morgan._

Reply to "A Woman's Question"

(_"A Woman's Question" is given on page 129 of Book I, "Poems Teachers Ask For_.")

You say I have asked for the costliest thing
Ever made by the Hand above--
A woman's heart and a woman's life,
And a woman's wonderful love.

That I have written your duty out,
And, man-like, have questioned free--
You demand that I stand at the bar of your soul,
While you in turn question me.

And when I ask you to be my wife,
The head of my house and home,
Whose path I would scatter with sunshine through life,
Thy shield when sorrow shall come--

You reply with disdain and a curl of the lip,
And point to my coat's missing button,
And haughtily ask if I want a _cook_,
To serve up my _beef_ and my _mutton_.

'Tis a _king_ that you look for. Well, I am not he,
But only a plain, earnest man,
Whose feet often shun the hard path they should tread,
Often shrink from the gulf they should span.

'Tis hard to believe that the rose will fade
From the cheek so full, so fair;
'Twere harder to think that a heart proud and cold
Was ever reflected there.

True, the rose will fade, and the leaves will fall,
And the Autumn of life will come;
But the heart that I give thee will be true as in May,
Should I make it thy shelter, thy home.

Thou requir'st "all things that are good and true;
All things that a man should be";
Ah! lady, my _truth_, in return, doubt not,
For the rest, I leave it to thee.

_Nettie H. Pelham._

The Romance of Nick Van Stann

I cannot vouch my tale is true, Nor say, indeed, 'tis wholly new; But true or false, or new or old, I think you'll find it fairly told. A Frenchman, who had ne'er before Set foot upon a foreign shore, Weary of home, resolved to go And see what Holland had to show. He didn't know a word of Dutch, But that could hardly grieve him much; He thought, as Frenchmen always do, That all the world could "parley-voo." At length our eager tourist stands Within the famous Netherlands, And, strolling gaily here and there, In search of something rich or rare, A lordly mansion greets his eyes; "How beautiful!" the Frenchman cries, And, bowing to the man who sate In livery at the garden gate, "Pray, Mr. Porter, if you please, Whose very charming grounds are these? And, pardon me, be pleased to tell Who in this splendid house may dwell." To which, in Dutch, the puzzled man Replied what seemed like "Nick Van Stann,"[*]

"Thanks!" said the Gaul; "the owner's taste Is equally superb and chaste; So fine a house, upon my word, Not even Paris can afford. With statues, too, in every niche; Of course Monsieur Van Stann is rich, And lives, I warrant, like a king,-- Ah! wealth mast be a charming thing!" In Amsterdam the Frenchman meets A thousand wonders in the streets, But most he marvels to behold A lady dressed in silk and gold; Gazing with rapture on the dame, He begs to know the lady's name, And hears, to raise his wonders more, The very words he heard before! "Mercie!" he cries; "well, on my life, Milord has got a charming wife; 'Tis plain to see, this Nick Van Stann Must be a very happy man."

Next day our tourist chanced to pop His head within a lottery shop, And there he saw, with staring eyes, The drawing of the mammoth prize. "Ten millions! 'tis a pretty sum; I wish I had as much at home: I'd like to know, as I'm a sinner, What lucky fellow is the winner?" Conceive our traveler's amaze To hear again the hackneyed phrase. "What? no! not Nick Van Stann again? Faith! he's the luckiest of men. You may be sure we don't advance So rapidly as that in France: A house, the finest in the land; A lovely garden, nicely planned; A perfect angel of a wife, And gold enough to last a life; There never yet was mortal man So blest--as Monsieur Nick Van Stann!"

Next day the Frenchman chanced to meet A pompous funeral in the street; And, asking one who stood close by What nobleman had pleased to die, Was stunned to hear the old reply. The Frenchman sighed and shook his head, "Mon Dieu! poor Nick Van Stann is dead; With such a house, and such a wife, It must be hard to part with life; And then, to lose that mammoth prize,-- He wins, and, pop,--the winner dies! Ah, well! his blessings came so fast, I greatly feared they could not last: And thus, we see, the sword of Fate Cuts down alike the small and great."

[Footnote *: Nicht verstehen:--"I don't understand."]

_John G. Saxe._

Armageddon

Marching down to Armageddon--
Brothers, stout and strong!
Let us cheer the way we tread on,
With a soldier's song!
Faint we by the weary road,
Or fall we in the rout,
Dirge or Pæan, Death or Triumph!--
Let the song ring out!

We are they who scorn the scorners-- Love the lovers--hate None within the world's four corners-- All must share one fate; We are they whose common banner Bears no badge nor sign, Save the Light which dyes it white-- The Hope that makes it shine.

We are they whose bugle rings,
That all the wars may cease;
We are they will pay the Kings
Their cruel price for Peace;
We are they whose steadfast watchword
Is what Christ did teach--
"Each man for his Brother first--
And Heaven, then, for each."

We are they who will not falter--
Many swords or few--
Till we make this Earth the altar
Of a worship new;
We are they who will not take
From palace, priest or code,
A meaner Law than "Brotherhood"--
A lower Lord than God.

Marching down to Armageddon--
Brothers, stout and strong!
Ask not why the way we tread on
Is so rough and long!
God will tell us when our spirits
Grow to grasp His plan!
Let us do our part to-day--
And help Him, helping Man!

Shall we even curse the madness
Which for "ends of State"
Dooms us to the long, long sadness
Of this human hate?
Let us slay in perfect pity
Those that must not live;
Vanquish, and forgive our foes--
Or fall--and still forgive!

We are those whose unpaid legions,
In free ranks arrayed,
Massacred in many regions--
Never once were stayed:
We are they whose torn battalions,
Trained to bleed, not fly,
Make our agonies a triumph,--
Conquer, while we die!

Therefore, down to Armageddon--
Brothers, bold and strong;
Cheer the glorious way we tread on,
With this soldier song!
Let the armies of the old Flags
March in silent dread!
Death and Life are one to us,
Who fight for Quick and Dead!

_Edwin Arnold._

Picciola

It was a sergeant old and gray,
Well singed and bronzed from siege and pillage.
Went tramping in an army's wake
Along the turnpike of the village.

For days and nights the winding host
Had through the little place been marching,
And ever loud the rustics cheered,
Till every throat was hoarse and parching.

The squire and farmer, maid and dame,
All took the sight's electric stirring,
And hats were waved and staves were sung,
And kerchiefs white were countless whirring.

They only saw a gallant show
Of heroes stalwart under banners,
And, in the fierce heroic glow,
'Twas theirs to yield but wild hosannas.

The sergeant heard the shrill hurrahs,
Where he behind in step was keeping;
But, glancing down beside the road,
He saw a little maid sit weeping.

"And how is this?" he gruffly said,
A moment pausing to regard her;--
"Why weepest thou, my little chit?"
And then she only cried the harder.

"And how is this, my little chit?"
The sturdy trooper straight repeated,
"When all the village cheers us on,
That you, in tears, apart are seated?

"We march two hundred thousand strong,
And that's a sight, my baby beauty,
To quicken silence into song
And glorify the soldier's duty."

"It's very, very grand, I know,"
The little maid gave soft replying;
"And father, mother, brother too,
All say 'Hurrah' while I am crying;

"But think, oh, Mr. Soldier, think,
How many little sisters' brothers
Are going all away to fight,
And may be killed, as well as others!"

"Why, bless thee, child," the sergeant said,
His brawny hand her curls caressing,
"'Tis left for little ones like thee
To find that war's not all a blessing."

And "Bless thee!" once again he cried,
Then cleared his throat and looked indignant
And marched away with wrinkled brow
To stop the struggling tear benignant.

And still the ringing shouts went up
From doorway, thatch, and fields of tillage;
The pall behind the standard seen
By one alone of all the village.

The oak and cedar bend and writhe
When roars the wind through gap and braken;
But 'tis the tenderest reed of all
That trembles first when Earth is shaken.

_Robert Henry Newell._

The King's Ring

Once in Persia reigned a king Who upon his signet ring Graved a maxim true and wise Which, if held before his eyes, Gave him counsel at a glance Fit for every change and chance. Solemn words; and these are they: "Even this shall pass away."

Trains of camels through the sand Brought him gems from Samarcand, Fleets of galleys through the seas Brought him pearls to match with these; But he counted not his gain-- Treasurer of the mine and main, "What is wealth?" the king would say; "Even this shall pass away."

In the revels of his court At the zenith of the sport, When the palms of all his guests Burned with clapping at his jests, He, amid his figs and wine, Cried: "O loving friends of mine! Pleasures come, but not to stay, Even this shall pass away."

Fighting on a furious field Once a javelin pierced his shield; Soldiers with loud lament Bore him bleeding to his tent, Groaning with his tortured side. "Pain is hard to bear," he cried; "But with patience day by day, Even this shall pass away."

Struck with palsy, sere and old, Waiting at the gates of gold, Spake he with his dying breath: "Life is done, but what is death?" Then, in answer to the king, Fell a sunbeam on his ring, Showing by a heavenly ray: "Even this shall pass away."

_Theodore Tilton._

Leaving the Homestead

You're going to leave the homestead, John,
You're twenty-one to-day:
And very sorry am I, John,
To see you go away.
You've labored late and early, John,
And done the best you could;
I ain't going to stop you, John,
I wouldn't if I could.

Yet something of your feelings, John,
I s'pose I'd ought to know,
Though many a day has passed away--
'Twas forty years ago--
When hope was high within me, John,
And life lay all before,
That I, with strong and measured stroke,
"Cut loose" and pulled from shore.

The years they come and go, my boy,
The years they come and go;
And raven locks and tresses brown
Grow white as driven snow.
My life has known its sorrows, John,
Its trials and troubles sore;
Yet God withal has blessed me, John,
"In basket and in store."

But one thing let me tell you, John,
Before you make a start,
There's more in being honest, John,
Twice o'er than being smart.
Though rogues may seem to flourish, John,
And sterling worth to fail,
Oh! keep in view the good and true;
'Twill in the end prevail.

Don't think too much of money, John,
And dig and delve and plan,
And rake and scrape in every shape,
To hoard up all you can.
Though fools may count their riches, John,
In dollars and in cents,
The best of wealth is youth and health,
And good sound common sense.

And don't be mean and stingy, John,
But lay a little by
Of what you earn; you soon will learn
How fast 'twill multiply.
So when old age comes creeping on,
You'll have a goodly store
Of wealth to furnish all your needs--
And maybe something more.

There's shorter cuts to fortune, John,
We see them every day;
But those who save their self-respect
Climb up the good old way.
"All is not gold that glitters," John,
And makes the vulgar stare,
And those we deem the richest, John,
Have oft the least to spare.

Don't meddle with your neighbors, John,
Their sorrows or their cares;
You'll find enough to do, my boy,
To mind your own affairs.
The world is full of idle tongues--
You can afford to shirk!
There's lots of people ready, John,
To do such dirty work.

And if amid the race for fame
You win a shining prize,
The humbler work of honest men
You never should despise;
For each one has his mission, John,
In life's unchanging plan--
Though lowly be his station, John,
He is no less a man.

Be good, be pure, be noble, John;
Be honest, brave, be true;
And do to others as you would
That they should do to you;
And put your trust in God, my boy,
Though fiery darts be hurled;
Then you can smile at Satan's rage,
And face a frowning world.

Good-by! May Heaven guard and bless
Your footsteps day by day;
The old house will be lonesome, John,
When you are gone away.
The cricket's song upon the hearth
Will have a sadder tone;
The old familiar spots will be
So lonely when you're gone.

Bernardo Del Carpio

King Alphonso of Asturias had imprisoned the Count Saldana, about the time of the birth of the Count's son Bernardo. In an effort to secure his father's release, Bernardo, when old enough, took up arms. Finally the King offered Bernardo possession of his father's person, in exchange for the Castle of Carpio and all the King's subjects there imprisoned. The cruel trick played by the King on Bernardo is here described.

The warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire, And sued the haughty king to free his long-imprisoned sire; "I bring thee here my fortress-keys, I bring my captive train, I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord!--oh break my father's chain!" "Rise, rise! even now thy father comes, a ransomed man this day; Mount thy good horse; and thou and I will meet him on his way."

Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed, And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's foamy speed. And lo! from far, as on they pressed, there came a glittering band, With one that midst them stately rode, as leader in the land: "Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there, in very truth, is he, The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearned so long to see."

His dark eye flashed, his proud breast heaved, his cheek's hue came and went; He reached that gray-haired chieftain's side, and there, dismounting, bent; A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand he took-- What was there in its touch that all his fiery spirit shook? That hand was cold,--a frozen thing,--it dropped from his like lead! He looked up to the face above,--the face was of the dead! A plume waved o'er the noble brow,--the brow was fixed and white, He met, at last, his father's eyes, but in them was no sight!

Up from the ground he sprang and gazed, but who could paint that gaze? They hushed their very hearts that saw its horror and amaze. They might have chained him, as before that stony form he stood, For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his lip the blood. "Father!" at length he murmured low, and wept like childhood then; Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men!

He thought on all his glorious hopes, and all his young renown; He flung the falchion from his side, and in the dust sat down. Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his darkly mournful brow: "No more, there is no more," he said, "to lift the sword for now; My king is false, my hope betrayed, my father--oh, the worth, The glory, and the loveliness, are passed away from earth! I thought to stand where banners waved, my sire, beside thee, yet! I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's free soil had met! Thou wouldst have known my spirit then;--for thee my fields were won; And thou hast perished in thy chains, as though thou hadst no son!"

Then, starting from the ground once more, he seized the monarch's rein, Amidst the pale and 'wildered looks of all the courtier train; And, with a fierce, o'ermastering grasp, the rearing war-horse led, And sternly set them face to face, the king before the dead: "Came I not forth, upon thy pledge, my father's hand to kiss? Be still, and gaze thou on, false king! and tell me what is this? The voice, the glance, the heart I sought--give answer, where are they? If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life through this cold clay! Into these glassy eyes put light; be still! keep down thine ire; Bid these white lips a blessing speak, this earth is not my sire. Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood was shed! Thou canst not?--and a king!--his dust be mountains on thy head."

He loosed the steed--his slack hand fell; upon the silent face He cast one long, deep, troubled look, then turned from that sad place. His hope was crushed, his after fate untold in martial strain; His banner led the spears no more, amidst the hills of Spain.

_Felicia Hemans._

Mizpah

Go thou thy way, and I go mine,
Apart--but not afar.
Only a thin veil hangs between
The pathways where we are,
And God keep watch 'tween thee and me
This is my prayer.
He looks thy way--He looketh mine
And keeps us near.

I know not where thy road may lie
Nor which way mine will be,
If thine will lead through parching sands
And mine beside the sea.
Yet God keeps watch 'tween thee and me,
So never fear.
He holds thy hand--He claspeth mine
And keeps us near.

Should wealth and fame perchance be thine
And my lot lowly be,
Or you be sad and sorrowful
And glory be for me,
Yet God keep watch 'tween thee and me,
Both are his care.
One arm round me and one round thee
Will keep us near.

I sigh sometimes to see thy face
But since this may not be
I leave thee to the love of Him
Who cares for thee and me.
"I'll keep ye both beneath My wings,"
This comforts--dear.
One wing o'er thee--and one o'er me,
So we are near.

And though our paths be separate
And thy way be not mine--
Yet coming to the mercy seat
My soul shall meet with thine.
And "God keep watch 'tween thee and me"
I'll whisper there.
He blesses me--He blesses thee
And we are near.

God

O Thou eternal One! whose presence bright All space doth occupy, all motion guide-- Unchanged through time's all-devastating flight! Thou only God--there is no God beside! Being above all beings! Mighty One, Whom none can comprehend and none explore, Who fill'st existence with Thyself alone-- Embracing all, supporting, ruling o'er,-- Being whom we call God, and know no more!

In its sublime research, philosophy May measure out the ocean-deep--may count The sands or the sun's rays--but, God! for Thee There is no weight nor measure; none can mount Up to thy mysteries:* Reason's brightest spark, Though kindled by Thy light, in vain would try To trace Thy counsels, infinite and dark: And thought is lost ere thought can soar so high, Even like past moments in eternity.

Thou from primeval nothingness didst call First chaos, then existence--Lord! in Thee Eternity had its foundation; all Sprung forth from Thee--of light, joy, harmony, Sole Origin--all life, all beauty Thine; Thy word created all, and doth create; Thy splendor fills all space with rays divine; Thou art and wert and shalt be! Glorious! Great! Light-giving, life-sustaining Potentate!

Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround-- Upheld by Thee, by Thee inspired with breath! Thou the beginning with the end hast bound, And beautifully mingled life and death! As sparks mount upward from the fiery blaze, So suns are born, so worlds spring forth from Thee; And as the spangles in the sunny rays Shine round the silver snow, the pageantry Of heaven's bright army glitters in Thy praise.

A million torches, lighted by Thy hand, Wander unwearied through the blue abyss-- They own Thy power, accomplish Thy command, All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss. What shall we call them? Piles of crystal light-- A glorious company of golden streams-- Lamps of celestial ether burning bright-- Suns lighting systems with their joyous beams? But Thou to these art as the noon to night.

Yes! as a drop of water in the sea, All this magnificence in Thee is lost:-- What are ten thousand worlds compared to Thee? And what am I then?--Heaven's unnumbered host, Though multiplied by myriads, and arrayed In all the glory of sublimest thought, Is but an atom in the balance, weighed Against Thy greatness--is a cipher brought Against infinity! What am I then? Naught!

Naught! But the effluence of Thy light divine, Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom too; Yes! in my spirit doth Thy spirit shine As shines the sunbeam in a drop of dew. Naught! but I live, and on hope's pinions fly Eager toward Thy presence; for in Thee I live, and breathe, and dwell; aspiring high, Even to the throne of Thy divinity. I am, O God! and surely Thou must be!

Thou art!--directing, guiding all--Thou art! Direct my understanding then to Thee; Control my spirit, guide my wandering heart; Though but an atom midst immensity, Still I am something, fashioned by Thy hand! I hold a middle rank 'twixt heaven and earth-- On the last verge of mortal being stand. Close to the realm where angels have their birth, Just on the boundaries of the spirit-land!

The chain of being is complete in me-- In me is matter's last gradation lost, And the next step is spirit--Deity! I can command the lightning, and am dust! A monarch and a slave--a worm, a god! Whence came I here, and how? so marvelously Constructed and conceived? unknown! this clod Lives surely through some higher energy; For from itself alone it could not be!

Creator, yes! Thy wisdom and Thy word Created me! Thou source of life and good! Thou spirit of my spirit, and my Lord! Thy light, Thy love, in their bright plenitude Filled me with an immortal soul, to spring Over the abyss of death; and bade it wear The garments of eternal day, and wing Its heavenly flight beyond this little sphere, Even to its source--to Thee--its Author there.

O thoughts ineffable! O visions blest! Though worthless our conceptions all of Thee, Yet shall Thy shadowed image fill our breast. And waft its homage to Thy Deity. God! thus alone my lowly thoughts can soar, Thus seek thy presence--Being wise and good! Midst Thy vast works admire, obey, adore; And when the tongue is eloquent no more The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude.

_Gabriel Somanovitch Derzhavin._

Casabianca

The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but him had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck
Shone round him o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud, though childlike form.

The flames roll'd on--he would not go
Without his father's word;
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.

He called aloud: "Say, father, say
If yet my task is done?"
He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.

"Speak, father!" once again he cried,
"If I may yet be gone!"
And but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames roll'd on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair;
And looked from that lone post of death
In still, yet brave despair.

And shouted but once more aloud,
"My father! must I stay?"
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,
The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendor wild,
They caught the flag on high,
And streamed above the gallant child,
Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder sound--
The boy--oh! where was he?
Ask of the winds that far around
With fragments strewed the sea!

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part--
But the noblest thing that perished there
Was that young, faithful heart.

_Felicia Hemans._

Monterey

We were not many,--we who stood Before the iron sleet that day; Yet many a gallant spirit would Give half his years if he but could Have been with us at Monterey.

Now here, now there, the shot it hailed In deadly drifts of fiery spray, Yet not a single soldier quailed When wounded comrades round them wailed Their dying shout at Monterey.

And on, still on our column kept, Through walls of flame, its withering way; Where fell the dead, the living stept, Still charging on the guns which swept The slippery streets of Monterey.

The foe himself recoiled aghast, When, striking where he strongest lay, We swooped his flanking batteries past, And braving full their murderous blast, Stormed home the towers of Monterey.

Our banners on those turrets wave, And there our evening bugles play; Where orange boughs above their grave Keep green the memory of the brave Who fought and fell at Monterey.

We are not many, we who pressed Beside the brave who fell that day; But who of us has not confessed He'd rather share their warrior rest, Than not have been at Monterey?

_Charles Fenno Hoffman._

The Teacher's "If"

If you can take your dreams into the classroom,
And always make them part of each day's work--
If you can face the countless petty problems
Nor turn from them nor ever try to shirk--
If you can live so that the child you work with
Deep in his heart knows you to be a man--
If you can take "I can't" from out his language
And put in place a vigorous "I can"--

If you can take Love with you to the classroom,
And yet on Firmness never shut the door--
If you can teach a child the love of Nature
So that he helps himself to all her store--
If you can teach him life is what we make it,
That he himself can be his only bar--
If you can tell him something of the heavens,
Or something of the wonder of a star--

If you, with simple bits of truth and honor,
His better self occasionally reach--
And yet not overdo nor have him dub you
As one who is inclined to ever preach--
If you impart to him a bit of liking
For all the wondrous things we find in print--
Yet have him understand that to be happy,
Play, exercise, fresh air he must not stint--

If you can give of all the best that's in you,
And in the giving always happy be--
If you can find the good that's hidden somewhere
Deep in the heart of every child you see--
If you can do these things and all the others
That teachers everywhere do every day--
You're in the work that you were surely meant for;
Take hold of it! Know it's your place and stay!

_R.J. Gale._

The Good Shepherd

There were ninety and nine Of a flock, sleek and fine In a sheltering cote in the vale; But a lamb was away, On the mountain astray, Unprotected within the safe pale.

Then the sleet and the rain On the mountain and plain, And the wind fiercely blowing a gale, And the night's growing dark, And the wolf's hungry bark Stir the soul of the shepherd so hale.

And he says, "Hireling, go; For a lamb's in the snow And exposed to the wild hungry beast; 'Tis no time to keep seat, Nor to rest weary feet, Nor to sit at a bounteous feast."

Then the hireling replied, "Here you have at your side All your flock save this one little sheep. Are the ninety and nine, All so safe and so fine, Not enough for the shepherd to keep?"

Then the shepherd replied, "Ah! this lamb from my side Presses near, very near, to my heart. Not its value in pay Makes me urge in this way, But the longings and achings of heart."

"Let me wait till the day, O good shepherd, I pray; For I shudder to go in the dark On the mountain so high And its precipice nigh 'Mong the wolves with their frightening bark."

Then the shepherd said, "No; Surely some one must go Who can rescue my lamb from the cold, From the wolf's hungry maw And the lion's fierce paw And restore it again to the fold."

Then the shepherd goes out With his cloak girt about And his rod and his staff in his hand. What cares he for the cold If his sheep to the fold He can bring from the dark mountain land?

You can hear his clear voice As the mountains rejoice, "Sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep!" Up the hillside so steep, Into caverns so deep, "Sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep!"

Now he hears its weak "baa," And he answers it, "Ah! Sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep!" Then its answering bleat Hurries on his glad feet, And his arms gather up his lost sheep.

Wet and cold on his breast The lost lamb found its rest As he bore it adown to the fold. And the ninety and nine Bleat for joy down the line, That it's safe from the wolf and the cold.

Then he said to his friends, "Now let joy make amends For the steeps and the deeps I have crossed-- For the pelting of sleet And my sore, weary feet, For I've found the dear lamb that was lost."

Let the hirelings upbraid For the nights that He stayed On the mountains so rugged and high. Surely never a jeer From my lips shall one hear, For--that poor lonely lambkin--was--I.

While the eons shall roll O'er my glad ransomed soul I will praise the Good Shepherd above, For a place on His breast, For its comfort and rest, For His wonderful, wonderful love.

_D. N. Howe._

A Sermon in Rhyme

If you have a friend worth loving, Love him. Yes, and let him know That you love him ere life's evening Tinge his brow with sunset glow; Why should good words ne'er be said Of a friend--till he is dead?

If you hear a song that thrills you, Sung by any child of song, Praise it. Do not let the singer Wait deserved praises long; Why should one that thrills your heart Lack that joy it may impart?

If you hear a prayer that moves you By its humble pleading tone, Join it. Do not let the seeker Bow before his God alone; Why should not your brother share The strength of "two or three" in prayer?

If you see the hot tears falling From a loving brother's eyes, Share them, and by sharing, Own your kinship with the skies; Why should anyone be glad, When his brother's heart is sad?

If a silver laugh goes rippling Through the sunshine on his face, Share it. 'Tis the wise man's saying, For both grief and joy a place; There's health and goodness in the mirth In which an honest laugh has birth.

If your work is made more easy By a friendly helping hand, Say so. Speak out brave and truly, Ere the darkness veil the land. Should a brother workman dear Falter for a word of cheer?

Scatter thus your seed of kindness, All enriching as you go-- Leave them, trust the Harvest-Giver; He will make each seed to grow. So, until its happy end, Your life shall never lack a friend.

The Fortunate Isles

You sail and you seek for the Fortunate Isles, The old Greek Isles of the yellow bird's song? Then steer right on through the watery miles, Straight on, straight on, and you can't go wrong. Nay, not to the left, nay, not to the right; But on, straight on, and the Isles are in sight, The Fortunate Isles, where the yellow birds sing And life lies girt with a golden ring.

These Fortunate Isles, they are not far; They lie within reach of the lowliest door; You can see them gleam by the twilight star; You can hear them sing by the moon's white shore, Nay, never look back! Those leveled gravestones, They were landing steps; they were steps unto thrones Of glory for souls that have sailed before And have set white feet on the fortunate shore.

And what are the names of the Fortunate Isles? Why, Duty and Love and a large content. Lo! there are the isles of the watery miles That God let down from the firmament; Lo! Duty and Love, and a true man's trust; Your forehead to God and your feet in the dust; Lo! Duty and Love, and a sweet babe's smiles, And there, O friend, are the Fortunate Isles.

_Joaquin Miller._

What the Choir Sang About the New Bonnet

A foolish little maiden bought a foolish little bonnet, With a ribbon, and a feather, and a bit of lace upon it; And that the other maidens of the little town might know it, She thought she'd go to meeting the next Sunday just to show it.

But though the little bonnet was scarce larger than a dime, The getting of it settled proved to be a work of time; So when 'twas fairly tied, all the bells had stopped their ringing, And when she came to meeting, sure enough the folks were singing.

So this foolish little maiden stood and waited at the door; And she shook her ruffles out behind and smoothed them down before. "Hallelujah! hallelujah!" sang the choir above her head. "Hardly knew you! hardly knew you!" were the words she thought they said.

This made the little maiden feel so very, very cross, That she gave her little mouth a twist, her little head a toss; For she thought the very hymn they sang was all about her bonnet, With the ribbon, and the feather, and the bit of lace upon it.

And she would not wait to listen to the sermon or the prayer, But pattered down the silent street, and hurried up the stair, Till she reached her little bureau, and in a band-box on it, Had hidden, safe from critics' eyes, her foolish little bonnet.

Which proves, my little maidens, that each of you will find In every Sabbath service but an echo of your mind; And the silly little head, that's filled with silly little airs, Will never get a blessing from sermon or from prayers.

_M. T. Morrison._

Work Thou for Pleasure

Work thou for pleasure; paint or sing or carve The thing thou lovest, though the body starve. Who works for glory misses oft the goal; Who works for money coins his very soul. Work for work's sake then, and it well may be That these things shall be added unto thee.

_Kenyon Cox._

The Tin Gee Gee