Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,And Phoebus 'gins arise,His steeds to water at those springsOn chaliced flowers that lies;And winking Mary-buds beginTo ope their golden eyes:With every thing that pretty is,My lady sweet, arise!Arise, arise!William Shakespeare.
In a dark and dismal alley where the sunshine never came,Dwelt a little lad named Tommy, sickly, delicate, and lame;He had never yet been healthy, but had lain since he was bornDragging out his weak existence well nigh hopeless and forlorn.He was six, was little Tommy, 'twas just five years agoSince his drunken mother dropped him, and the babe was crippled so.He had never known the comfort of a mother's tender care,But her cruel blows and curses made his pain still worse to bear.There he lay within the cellar, from the morning till the night,Starved, neglected, cursed, ill-treated, nought to make his dull lifebright;Not a single friend to love him, not a loving thing to love—For he knew not of a Saviour, or a heaven up above.'Twas a quiet, summer evening, and the alley, too, was still;Tommy's little heart was sinking, and he felt so lonely, till,Floating up the quiet alley, wafted inwards from the street,Came the sound of some one singing, sounding, oh! so clear and sweet.Eagerly did Tommy listen as the singing came—Oh! that he could see the singer! How he wished he wasn't lame.Then he called and shouted loudly, till the singer heard the sound,And on noting whence it issued, soon the little cripple found.'Twas a maiden rough and rugged, hair unkempt, and naked feet,All her garments torn and ragged, her appearance far from neat;"So yer called me," said the maiden, "wonder wot yer wants o' me;Most folks call me Singing Jessie; wot may your name chance to be?""My name's Tommy; I'm a cripple, and I want to hear you sing,For it makes me feel so happy—sing me something, anything,"Jessie laughed, and answered smiling, "I can't stay here very long,But I'll sing a hymn to please you, wot I calls the 'Glory Song.'"Then she sang to him of heaven, pearly gates, and streets of gold,Where the happy angel children are not starved or nipped with cold;But where happiness and gladness never can decrease or end,And where kind and loving Jesus is their Sovereign and their Friend.Oh! how Tommy's eyes did glisten as he drank in every wordAs it fell from "Singing Jessie"—was it true, what he had heard?And so anxiously he asked her, "Is there really such a place?"And a tear began to trickle down his pallid little face."Tommy, you're a little heathen; why, it's up beyond the sky,And if yer will love the Saviour, yer shall go there when yer die.""Then," said Tommy, "tell me, Jessie, how can I the Saviour love,When I'm down in this 'ere cellar, and He's up in heaven above?"So the little ragged maiden who had heard at Sunday SchoolAll about the way to heaven, and the Christian's golden rule,Taught the little cripple Tommy how to love, and how to pray,Then she sang a "Song of Jesus," kissed his cheek and went away.Tommy lay within the cellar which had grown so dark and cold,Thinking all about the children in the streets of shining gold;And he heeded not the darkness of that damp and chilly room,For the joy in Tommy's bosom could disperse the deepest gloom."Oh! if I could only see it," thought the cripple, as he lay,"Jessie said that Jesus listens and I think I'll try and pray";So he put his hands together, and he closed his little eyes,And in accents weak, yet earnest, sent this message to the skies:—"Gentle Jesus, please forgive me as I didn't know afore,That yer cared for little cripples who is weak and very poor,And I never heard of heaven till that Jessie came to-dayAnd told me all about it, so I wants to try and pray."Yer can see me, can't yer, Jesus? Jessie told me that yer could,And I somehow must believe it, for it seems so prime and good;And she told me if I loved you, I should see yer when I die,In the bright and happy heaven that is up beyond the sky."Lord, I'm only just a cripple, and I'm no use here below,For I heard my mother whisper, she'd be glad if I could go;And I'm cold and hungry sometimes; and I feel so lonely, too,Can't yer take me, gentle Jesus, up to heaven along o' you?"Oh! I'd be so good and patient, and I'd never cry or fret,And your kindness to me, Jesus, I would surely not forget;I would love you all I know of, and would never make a noise—Can't you find me just a corner, where I'll watch the other boys?"Oh! I think yer'll do it, Jesus, something seems to tell me so,For I feel so glad and happy, and I do so want to go,How I long to see yer, Jesus, and the children all so bright!Come and fetch me, won't yer, Jesus? Come and fetch me home tonight!"Tommy ceased his supplication, he had told his soul's desire,And he waited for the answer till his head began to tire;Then he turned towards his corner and lay huddled in a heap,Closed his little eyes so gently, and was quickly fast asleep.Oh, I wish that every scoffer could have seen his little faceAs he lay there in the corner, in that damp, and noisome place;For his countenance was shining like an angel's, fair and bright,And it seemed to fill the cellar with a holy, heavenly light.He had only heard of Jesus from a ragged singing girl,He might well have wondered, pondered, till his brain began to whirl;But he took it as she told it, and believed it then and there,Simply trusting in the Saviour, and his kind and tender care.In the morning, when the mother came to wake her crippled boy,She discovered that his features wore a look of sweetest joy,And she shook him somewhat roughly, but the cripple's face was cold—He had gone to join the children in the streets of shining gold.Tommy's prayer had soon been answered, and the Angel Death had comeTo remove him from his cellar, to his bright and heavenly homeWhere sweet comfort, joy, and gladness never can decrease or end,And where Jesus reigns eternally, his Sovereign and his Friend.John F. Nicholls.
It was a bright and lovely summer's morn,Fair bloomed the flowers, the birds sang softly sweet,The air was redolent with perfumed balm,And Nature scattered, with unsparing hand,Her loveliest graces over hill and dale.An artist, weary of his narrow roomWithin the city's pent and heated walls,Had wandered long amid the ripening fields,Until, remembering his neglected themes,He thought to turn his truant steps toward home.These led him through a rustic, winding lane,Lined with green hedge-rows spangled close with flowers,And overarched by trees of noblest growth.But when at last he reached the farther endOf this sweet labyrinth, he there beheldA vision of such pure, pathetic grace,That weariness and haste were both obscured,It was a child—a young and lovely childWith eyes of heavenly hue, bright golden hair,And dimpled hands clasped in a morning prayer,Kneeling beside its youthful mother's knee.Upon that baby brow of spotless snow,No single trace of guilt, or pain, or woe,No line of bitter grief or dark despair,Of envy, hatred, malice, worldly care,Had ever yet been written. With bated breath,And hand uplifted as in warning, swift,The artist seized his pencil, and there tracedIn soft and tender lines that image fair:Then, when 'twas finished, wrote beneath one word,A word of holiest import—Innocence.Years fled and brought with them a subtle change,Scattering Time's snow upon the artist's brow,But leaving there the laurel wreath of fame,While all men spake in words of praise his name;For he had traced full many a noble workUpon the canvas that had touched men's souls,And drawn them from the baser things of earth,Toward the light and purity of heaven.One day, in tossing o'er his folio's leaves,He chanced upon the picture of the child,Which he had sketched that bright morn long before,And then forgotten. Now, as he paused to gaze,A ray of inspiration seemed to dartStraight from those eyes to his. He took the sketch,Placed it before his easel, and with careThat seemed but pleasure, painted a fair theme,Touching and still re-touching each bright lineament,Until all seemed to glow with life divine—'Twas innocence personified. But stillThe artist could not pause. He needs must haveA meet companion for his fairest theme;And so he sought the wretched haunts of sin,Through miry courts of misery and guilt,Seeking a face which at the last was found.Within a prison cell there crouched a man—Nay, rather say a fiend—with countenance seamedAnd marred by all the horrid lines of sin;Each mark of degradation might be traced,And every scene of horror he had known,And every wicked deed that he had done,Were visibly written on his lineaments;Even the last, worst deed of all, that left him here,A parricide within a murderer's cell.Here then the artist found him; and with handMade skillful by its oft-repeated toil,Transferred unto his canvas that vile face,And also wrote beneath it just one word,A word of darkest import—it was Vice.Then with some inspiration not his own,Thinking, perchance, to touch that guilty heart,And wake it to repentance e'er too late,The artist told the tale of that bright morn,Placed the two pictured faces side by side,And brought the wretch before them. With a shriekThat echoed through those vaulted corridors,Like to the cries that issue from the lipsOf souls forever doomed to woe,Prostrate upon the stony floor he fell,And hid his face and groaned aloud in anguish."I was that child once—I, yes, even I—In the gracious years forever fled,That innocent and happy little child!These very hands were raised to God in prayer,That now are reddened with a mother's blood.Great Heaven! can such things be? Almighty power,Send forth Thy dart and strike me where I lie!"He rose, laid hold upon the artist's armAnd grasped it with demoniac power,The while he cried: "Go forth, I say, go forthAnd tell my history to the tempted youth.I looked upon the wine when it was red,I heeded not my mother's piteous prayers,I heeded not the warnings of my friends,But tasted of the wine when it was red,Until it left a demon in my heartThat led me onward, step by step, to this,This horrible place from which my body goesUnto the gallows, and my soul to hell!"He ceased as last. The artist turned and fled;But even as he went, unto his earsWere borne the awful echoes of despair,Which the lost wretch flung on the empty air,Cursing the demon that had brought him there.
There are two kinds of people on earth to-day;Just two kinds of people, no more, I say.Not the sinner and saint, for it's well understood,The good are half bad and the bad are half good.Not the rich and the poor, for to rate a man's wealth,You must first know the state of his conscience and health.Not the humble and proud, for in life's little span,Who puts on vain airs is not counted a man.Not the happy and sad, for the swift flying yearsBring each man his laughter and each man his tears.No; the two kinds of people on earth I mean,Are the people who lift and the people who lean.Wherever you go, you will find the earth's massesAre always divided in just these two classes.And, oddly enough, you will find, too, I ween,There's only one lifter to twenty who lean.In which class are you? Are you easing the loadOf overtaxed lifters, who toil down the road?Or are you a leaner, who lets others shareYour portion of labor, and worry and care?Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
It isn't the thing you do, dear,It's the thing you leave undoneThat gives you a bit of a heartacheAt the setting of the sun.The tender word forgotten;The letter you did not write;The flowers you did not send, dear,Are your haunting ghosts at night.The stone you might have liftedOut of a brother's way;The bit of hearthstone counselYou were hurried too much to say;The loving touch of the hand, dear,The gentle, winning toneWhich you had no time nor thought forWith troubles enough of your own.Those little acts of kindnessSo easily out of mind,Those chances to be angelsWhich we poor mortals find—They come in night and silence,Each sad, reproachful wraith,When hope is faint and flaggingAnd a chill has fallen on faith.For life is all too short, dear,And sorrow is all too great,To suffer our slow compassionThat tarries until too late;And it isn't the thing you do, dear,It's the thing you leave undoneWhich gives you a bit of a heartacheAt the setting of the sun,Margaret E. Sangster.
Give me that grand old volume, the gift of a mother's love,Tho' the spirit that first taught me has winged its flight above.Yet, with no legacy but this, she has left me wealth untold,Yea, mightier than earth's riches, or the wealth of Ophir's gold.When a child, I've kneeled beside her, in our dear old cottage home,And listened to her reading from that prized and cherished tome,As with low and gentle cadence, and a meek and reverent mien,God's word fell from her trembling lips, like a presence felt and seen.Solemn and sweet the counsels that spring from its open page,Written with all the fervor and zeal of the prophet age;Full of the inspiration of the holy bards who trod,Caring not for the scoffer's scorn, if they gained a soul to God.Men who in mind were godlike, and have left on its blazoned scrollFood for all coming ages in its manna of the soul;Who, through long days of anguish, and nights devoid of ease,Still wrote with the burning pen of faith its higher mysteries.I can list that good man yonder, in the gray church by the brook,Take up that marvelous tale of love, of the story and the Book,How through the twilight glimmer, from the earliest dawn of time,It was handed down as an heirloom, in almost every clime.How through strong persecution and the struggle of evil daysThe precious light of the truth ne'er died, but was fanned to a beacon blaze.How in far-off lands, where the cypress bends o'er the laurel bough,It was hid like some precious treasure, and they bled for its truth, as now.He tells how there stood around it a phalanx none could break,Though steel and fire and lash swept on, and the cruel wave lapt the stake;How dungeon doors and prison bars had never damped the flame,But raised up converts to the creed whence Christian comfort came.That housed in caves and caverns—how it stirs our Scottish blood!—The Convenanters, sword in hand, poured forth the crimson flood;And eloquent grows the preacher, as the Sabbath sunshine falls,Thro' cobwebbed and checkered pane, a halo on the walls!That still 'mid sore disaster, in the heat and strife of doubt,Some bear the Gospel oriflamme, and one by one march out,Till forth from heathen kingdoms, and isles beyond the sea,The glorious tidings of the Book spread Christ's salvation free.So I cling to my mother's Bible, in its torn and tattered boards,As one of the greatest gems of art, and the king of all other hoards,As in life the true consoler, and in death ere the Judgment call,The guide that will lead to the shining shore, where the Father waits for all.
This poem was read by Edwin Markham at the dedication of the Lincoln Memorial at Washington, D.C.,May 30, 1922. Before reading, he said: "No oration, no poem, can rise to the high level of this historichour. Nevertheless, I venture to inscribe this revised version of my Lincoln poem to this stupendous LincolnMemorial, to this far-shining monument of remembrance, erected in immortal marble to the honor of ourdeathless martyr—the consecrated statesman, the ideal American, the ever-beloved friend of humanity."
When the Norn Mother saw the Whirlwind HourGreatening and darkening as it hurried on,She left the Heaven of Heroes and came downTo make a man to meet the mortal need,She took the tried clay of the common road—Clay warm yet with the genial heat of Earth,Dasht through it all a strain of prophecy;Tempered the heap with thrill of human tears;Then mixt a laughter with the serious stuff.Into the shape she breathed a flame to lightThat tender, tragic, ever-changing face;And laid on him a sense of the Mystic Powers,Moving—all husht—behind the mortal veil.Here was a man to hold against the world,A man to match the mountains and the sea.The color of the ground was in him, the red earth;The smack and tang of elemental things;The rectitude and patience of the cliff;The good-will of the rain that loves all leaves;The friendly welcome of the wayside well;The courage of the bird that dares the sea;The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn;The pity of the snow that hides all scars;The secrecy of streams that make their wayUnder the mountain to the rifted rock;The tolerance and equity of lightThat gives as freely to the shrinking flowerAs to the great oak flaring to the wind—To the grave's low hill as to the MatterhornThat shoulders out the sky. Sprung from the West,He drank the valorous youth of a new world.The strength of virgin forests braced his mind,The hush of spacious prairies stilled his soul.His words were oaks in acorns; and his thoughtsWere roots that firmly gript the granite truth.Up from log cabin to the Capitol,One fire was on his spirit, one resolve—To send the keen ax to the root of wrong,Clearing a free way for the feet of God,The eyes of conscience testing every stroke,To make his deed the measure of a man.He built the rail-pile as he built the State,Pouring his splendid strength through every blow;The grip that swung the ax in IllinoisWas on the pen that set a people free.So came the Captain with the mighty heart;And when the judgment thunders split the house,Wrenching the rafters from their ancient rest,He held the ridgepole up, and spikt againThe rafters of the Home. He held his place—Held the long purpose like a growing tree—Held on through blame and faltered not at praise.And when he fell in whirlwind, he went downAs when a lordly cedar, green with boughs,Goes down with a great shout upon the hills,And leaves a lonesome place against the sky.Edwin Markham.
If I had known in the morningHow wearily all the dayThe words unkindWould trouble my mindI said when you went away,I had been more careful, darling,Nor given you needless pain;But we vex "our own"With look and toneWe may never take back again.For though in the quiet eveningYou may give me the kiss of peace,Yet it might beThat never for me,The pain of the heart should cease.How many go forth in the morning,That never come home at night!And hearts have brokenFor harsh words spokenThat sorrow can ne'er set right.We have careful thoughts for the stranger,And smiles for the sometime guest,But oft for "our own"The bitter tone,Though we love "our own" the best.Ah, lips with the curve impatient!Ah, brow with that look of scorn!'Twere a cruel fate,Were the night too lateTo undo the work of morn.Margaret E. Sangster.
The gate was thrown open, I rode out alone,More proud than a monarch, who sits on a throne.I am but a jockey, but shout upon shoutWent up from the people who watched me ride out.And the cheers that rang forth from that warm-hearted crowdWere as earnest as those to which monarch e'er bowed.My heart thrilled with pleasure so keen it was pain,As I patted my Salvator's soft, silken mane;And a sweet shiver shot from his hide to my handAs we passed by the multitude down to the stand.The great wave of cheering came billowing backAs the hoofs of brave Tenny ran swift down the track,And he stood there beside us, all bone and all muscle,Our noble opponent, well trained for the tussleThat waited us there on the smooth, shining course.My Salvator, fair to the lovers of horseAs a beautiful woman is fair to man's sight—Pure type of the thoroughbred, clean-limbed and bright—Stood taking the plaudits as only his dueAnd nothing at all unexpected or new.And then there before us as the bright flag is spread,There's a roar from the grand stand, and Tenny's ahead;At the sound of the voices that shouted, "A go!"He sprang like an arrow shot straight from the bow.I tighten the reins on Prince Charlie's great son;He is off like a rocket, the race is begun.Half-way down the furlong their heads are together,Scarce room 'twixt their noses to wedge in a feather;Past grand stand, and judges, in neck-to-neck strife,Ah, Salvator, boy, 'tis the race of your life!I press my knees closer, I coax him, I urge,I feel him go out with a leap and a surge;I see him creep on, inch by inch, stride by stride,While backward, still backward, falls Tenny beside.We are nearing the turn, the first quarter is passed—'Twixt leader and chaser the daylight is cast;The distance elongates; still Tenny sweeps on,As graceful and free-limbed and swift as a fawn,His awkwardness vanished, his muscles all strained—A noble opponent well born and well trained.I glanced o'er my shoulder; ha! Tenny! the costOf that one second's flagging will be—the race lost;One second's yielding of courage and strength,And the daylight between us has doubled its length.The first mile is covered, the race is mine—no!For the blue blood of Tenny responds to a blow;He shoots through the air like a ball from a gun,And the two lengths between us are shortened to one.My heart is contracted, my throat feels a lump,For Tenny's long neck is at Salvator's rump;And now with new courage grown bolder and bolder,I see him once more running shoulder to shoulder.With knees, hands and body I press my grand steed;I urge him, I coax him, I pray him to heed!O Salvator! Salvator! List to my calls,For the blow of my whip will hurt both if it falls.There's a roar from the crowd like the ocean in storm,As close to the saddle leaps Tenny's great form;One mighty plunge, and with knee, limb and hand,I lift my horse first by a nose past the stand.We are under the string now—the great race is done—And Salvator, Salvator, Salvator won!Cheer, hoary-headed patriarchs; cheer loud, I say;'Tis the race of a century witnessed to-day!Though ye live twice the space that's allotted to menYe never will see such a grand race again.Let the shouts of the populace roar like the surf,For Salvator, Salvator, king of the turf,He has rivaled the record of thirteen long years;He has won the first place in the vast line of peers.'Twas a neck-to-neck contest, a grand, honest race,And even his enemies grant him his place.Down into the dust let old records be hurled,And hang out 2:05 to the gaze of the world!Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
I'd like to hunt the Injuns 't roam the boundless plain!I'd like to be a pirate an' plow the ragin' main!An' capture some big island, in lordly pomp to rule;But I just can't be nothin' cause I got to go to school.'Most all great men, so I have read, has been the ones 'at gotThe least amount o' learnin' by a flickerin' pitch pine knot;An' many a darin' boy like me grows up to be a fool,An' never 'mounts to nothin' 'cause he's got to go to school.I'd like to be a cowboy an' rope the Texas steer!I'd like to be a sleuth-houn' or a bloody buccaneer!An' leave the foe to welter where their blood had made a pool;But how can I git famous? 'cause I got to go to school.I don't see how my parents kin make the big mistake.O' keepin' down a boy like me 'at's got a name to make!It ain't no wonder boys is bad, an' balky as a mule;Life ain't worth livin' if you've got to waste your time in school.I'd like to be regarded as "The Terror of the Plains"!I'd like to hear my victims shriek an' clank their prison chains!I'd like to face the enemy with gaze serene an' cool,An' wipe 'em off the earth, but pshaw! I got to go to school.What good is 'rithmetic an' things, exceptin' jest for girls,Er them there Fauntleroys 'at wears their hair in pretty curls?An' if my name is never seen on hist'ry's page, why, you'llRemember 'at it's all because I got to go to school.Nixon Waterman.
Silent he watched them—the soldiers and dog—Tin toys on the little armchair,Keeping their tryst through the slow going yearsFor the hand that had stationed them there;And he said that perchance the dust and the rustHid the griefs that the toy friends knew,And his heart watched with them all the dark years,Yearning ever for Little Boy Blue.Three mourners they were for Little Boy Blue,Three ere the cold winds had begun;Now two are left watching—the soldier and dog;But for him the vigil is done.For him too, the angel has chanted a songA song that is lulling and true.He has seen the white gates of the mansions of rest,Thrown wide by his Little Boy Blue.God sent not the Angel of Death for his soul—Not the Reaper who cometh for all—But out of the shadows that curtained the dayHe heard his lost little one call,Heard the voice that he loved, and following fast,Passed on to the far-away strand;And he walks the streets of the City of Peace,With Little Boy Blue by the hand.Sarah Beaumont Kennedy.
In Gettysburg at break of dayThe hosts of war are held in leashTo gird them for the coming fray,E'er brazen-throated monsters flame,Mad hounds of death that tear and maim.Ho, boys in blue,And gray so true,Fate calls to-day the roll of fame.On Cemetery Hill was doneThe clangor of four hundred guns;Through drifting smoke the morning sunShone down a line of battled grayWhere Pickett's waiting soldiers lay.Virginians all,Heed glory's call,You die at Gettysburg to-day,'Twas Pickett's veteran brigade,Great Lee had named; he knew them well;Oft had their steel the battle stayed.O warriors of the eagle plume,Fate points for you the hour of doom.Ring rebel yell,War cry and knell!The stars, to-night, will set in gloom.O Pickett's men, ye sons of fate,Awe-stricken nations bide your deeds.For you the centuries did wait,While wrong had writ her lengthening scrollAnd God had set the judgment roll.A thousand yearsShall wait in tears,And one swift hour bring to goal.The charge is done, a cause is lost;But Pickett's men heed not the dinOf ragged columns battle tost;For fame enshrouds them on the field,And pierced, Virginia, is thy shield.But stars and barsShall drape thy scars;No cause is lost till honor yield.