The sunlight shone on walls of stone,And towers sublime and tall,King Alfred sat upon his throneWithin his council hall.And glancing o'er the splendid throng,With grave and solemn face,To where his noble vassals stood,He saw a vacant place."Where is the Earl of Holderness?"With anxious look, he said."Alas, O King!" a courtier cried,"The noble Earl is dead!"Before the monarch could expressThe sorrow that he felt,A soldier, with a war-worn face,Approached the throne, and knelt."My sword," he said, "has ever been,O King, at thy command,And many a proud and haughty DaneHas fallen by my hand."I've fought beside thee in the field,And 'neath the greenwood tree;It is but fair for thee to giveYon vacant place to me.""It is not just," a statesman cried,"This soldier's prayer to hear,My wisdom has done more for theeThan either sword or spear."The victories of thy council hallHave made thee more renownThan all the triumphs of the fieldHave given to thy crown."My name is known in every land,My talents have been thine,Bestow this Earldom, then, on me,For it is justly mine."Yet, while before the monarch's throneThese men contending stood,A woman crossed the floor, who woreThe weeds of widowhood.And slowly to King Alfred's feetA fair-haired boy she led—"O King, this is the rightful heirOf Holderness," she said."Helpless, he comes to claim his own,Let no man do him wrong,For he is weak and fatherless,And thou art just and strong.""What strength or power," the statesman cried,"Could such a judgement bring?Can such a feeble child as thisDo aught for thee, O King?"When thou hast need of brawny armsTo draw thy deadly bows,When thou art wanting crafty menTo crush thy mortal foes."With earnest voice the fair young boyReplied: "I cannot fight,But I can pray to God, O King,And God can give thee might!"The King bent down and kissed the child,The courtiers turned away,"The heritage is thine," he said,"Let none thy right gainsay."Our swords may cleave the casques of men,Our blood may stain the sod,But what are human strength and powerWithout the help of God?"Eugene J. Hall.
'Tis a lesson you should heed,Try, try again;If at first you don't succeed,Try, try again;Then your courage shall appear,For if you will persevere,You will conquer, never fear,Try, try again.Once or twice though you should fail,Try, try again;If at last you would prevail,Try, try again;If we strive 'tis no disgraceTho' we may not win the race,What should you do in that case?Try, try again.If you find your task is hard,Try, try again;Time will bring you your reward,Try, try again;All that other folks can do,Why, with patience, may not you?Only keep this rule in view,Try, try again.
Ye say they all have passed away—that noble race and brave,That their light canoes have vanished from off the crested wave;That,'mid the forests where they roamed, there rings no hunter's shout,But their name is on your waters—ye may not wash it out.'Tis where Ontario's billow like ocean's surge is curled,Where strong Niagara's thunders wake the echo of the world;Where red Missouri bringeth rich tribute from the west,And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps on green Virginia's breast.Ye say their cone-like cabins, that clustered o'er the vale,Have fled away like withered leaves, before the autumn's gale;But their memory liveth on your hills, their baptism on your shore,Your everlasting rivers speak their dialect of yore.Old Massachusetts wears it upon her lordly crown,And broad Ohio bears it amid his young renown;Connecticut hath wreathed it where her quiet foliage waves,And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse through all her ancient caves.Wachusett hides its lingering voice within his rocky heart,And Alleghany graves its tone throughout his lofty chart;Monadnock on his forehead hoar doth seal the sacred trust;Your mountains build their monument, though ye destroy their dust.Ye call those red-browed brethren the insects of an hour,Crushed like the noteless worm amid the regions of their power;Ye drive them from their fathers' lands, ye break of faith the seal,But can ye from the court of heaven exclude their last appeal?Ye see their unresisting tribes, with toilsome steps and slow,On through the trackless desert pass, a caravan of woe.Think ye the Eternal Ear is deaf? His sleepless vision dim?Think ye the soul's blood may not cry from that far land to Him?Lydia H. Sigourney.
(During the Civil War, a Southern prisoner at Camp Chase in Ohio lay sick in the hospital. Heconfided to a friend, Colonel Hawkins of Tennessee, that he was grieving because his fiancee,a Nashville girl, had not written to him. The soldier died soon afterward, Colonel Hawkinshaving promised to open and answer any mail that came for him. This poem is in reply to aletter from his friend's fiancee, in which she curtly broke the engagement.)
Your letter, lady, came too late,For heaven had claimed its own;Ah, sudden change—from prison barsUnto the great white throne;And yet I think he would have stayed,To live for his disdain,Could he have read the careless wordsWhich you have sent in vain.So full of patience did he wait,Through many a weary hour,That o'er his simple soldier-faithNot even death had power;And you—did others whisper lowTheir homage in your ear,As though among their shallow throngHis spirit had a peer?I would that you were by me now,To draw the sheet asideAnd see how pure the look he woreThe moment when he died.The sorrow that you gave to himHad left its weary trace,As 'twere the shadow of the crossUpon his pallid face."Her love," he said, "could change for meThe winter's cold to spring."Ah, trust of fickle maiden's love,Thou art a bitter thing!For when these valleys, bright in May,Once more with blossoms wave,The northern violets shall blowAbove his humble grave.Your dole of scanty words had beenBut one more pang to bearFor him who kissed unto the lastYour tress of golden hair;I did not put it where he said,For when the angels come,I would not have them find the signOf falsehood in the tomb.I've read your letter, and I knowThe wiles that you have wroughtTo win that trusting heart of his,And gained it—cruel thought!What lavish wealth men sometimes giveFor what is worthless all!What manly bosoms beat for themIn folly's falsest thrall!You shall not pity him, for nowHis sorrow has an end;Yet would that you could stand with meBeside my fallen friend!And I forgive you for his sake,As he—if he be forgiven—May e'en be pleading grace for youBefore the court of Heaven.To-night the cold winds whistle by,As I my vigil keepWithin the prison dead-house, whereFew mourners come to weep.A rude plank coffin holds his form;Yet death exalts his face,And I would rather see him thusThan clasped in your embrace.To-night your home may shine with lightAnd ring with merry song,And you be smiling as your soulHad done no deadly wrong;Your hand so fair that none would thinkIt penned these words of pain;Your skin so white—would God your heartWere half as free from stain.I'd rather be my comrade deadThan you in life supreme;For yours the sinner's waking dread,And his the martyr's dream!Whom serve we in this life we serveIn that which is to come;He chose his way, you—yours; let GodPronounce the fitting doom.W.S. Hawkins.
A harbor in a sunny, southern city;Ships at their anchor, riding in the lee;A little lad, with steadfast eyes, and dreamy,Who ever watched the waters lovingly.A group of sailors, quaintly garbed and bearded;Strange tales, that snared the fancy of the child:Of far-off lands, strange beasts, and birds, and people,Of storm and sea-fight, danger-filled and wild.And ever in the boyish soul was ringingThe urging, surging challenge of the sea,To dare,—as these men dared, its wrath and danger,To learn,—as they, its charm and mystery.Columbus, by the sunny, southern harbor,You dreamed the dreams that manhood years made true;Thank God for men—their deeds have crowned the ages—Who once were little dreamy lads like you.Helen L. Smith.
I'm not a chicken; I have seenFull many a chill September,And though I was a youngster then,That gale I well remember;The day before, my kite-string snapped,And I, my kite pursuing,The wind whisked off my palm-leaf hat;—For me two storms were brewing!It came as quarrels sometimes do,When married folks get clashing;There was a heavy sigh or two,Before the fire was flashing,—A little stir among the clouds,Before they rent asunder,—A little rocking of the trees,And then came on the thunder.Lord! how the ponds and rivers boiled,And how the shingles rattled!And oaks were scattered on the ground,As if the Titans battled;And all above was in a howl,And all below a clatter,—The earth was like a frying-pan.Or some such hissing matter.It chanced to be our washing-day,And all our things were drying:The storm came roaring through the lines,And set them all a-flying;I saw the shirts and petticoatsGo riding off like witches;I lost, ah! bitterly I wept,—I lost my Sunday breeches!I saw them straddling through the air,Alas! too late to win them;I saw them chase the clouds, as ifThe devil had been in them;They were my darlings and my pride,My boyhood's only riches,—"Farewell, farewell," I faintly cried,—"My breeches! O my breeches!"That night I saw them in my dreams,How changed from what I knew them!The dews had steeped their faded threads,The winds had whistled through them!I saw the wide and ghastly rentsWhere demon claws had torn them;A hole was in their amplest part,As if an imp had worn them.I have had many happy yearsAnd tailors kind and clever,But those young pantaloons have goneForever and forever!And not till fate has cut the lastOf all my earthly stitches,This aching heart shall cease to mournMy loved, my long-lost breeches!O.W. Holmes
Somewhere, out on the blue sea sailing,Where the winds dance and spin;Beyond the reach of my eager hailing,Over the breakers' din;Out where the dark storm-clouds are lifting,Out where the blinding fog is drifting,Out where the treacherous sand is shifting,My ship is coming in.O, I have watched till my eyes were aching,Day after weary day;O, I have hoped till my heart was breakingWhile the long nights ebbed away;Could I but know where the waves had tossed her,Could I but know what storms had crossed her,Could I but know where the winds had lost her,Out in the twilight gray!But though the storms her course have altered,Surely the port she'll win,Never my faith in my ship has faltered,I know she is coming in.For through the restless ways of her roaming,Through the mad rush of the wild waves foaming,Through the white crest of the billows combing,My ship is coming in.Beating the tides where the gulls are flying,Swiftly she's coming in:Shallows and deeps and rocks defying,Bravely she's coming in.Precious the love she will bring to bless me,Snowy the arms she will bring to caress me,In the proud purple of kings she will dress me—My ship that is coming in.White in the sunshine her sails will be gleaming,See, where my ship comes in;At masthead and peak her colors streaming,Proudly she's sailing in;Love, hope and joy on her decks are cheering,Music will welcome her glad appearing,And my heart will sing at her stately nearing,When my ship comes in.Robert Jones Burdette.
Laugh, and the world laughs with you,Weep, and you weep alone;For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,But has trouble enough of its own.Sing, and the hills will answer,Sigh, it is lost on the air;The echoes bound to a joyful sound,But shirk from voicing care.Rejoice and men will seek you;Grieve, and they turn and go;They want full measure of all your pleasure,But they do not need your woe.Be glad, and your friends are many;Be sad, and you lose them all,There are none to decline your nectar'd wine,But alone you must drink life's gall.Feast, and your halls are crowded;Fast, and the world goes by;Succeed and give, and it helps you live,But no man can help you die.There is room in the halls of pleasureFor a large and lordly train,But one by one we must all file onThrough the narrow aisle of pain.Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
The coppenter man said a wicked word,When he hitted his thumb one day,En I know what it was, because I heard,En it's somethin' I dassent say.He growed us a house with rooms inside it,En the rooms is full of floorsIt's my papa's house, en when he buyed it,It was nothin' but just outdoors.En they planted stones in a hole for seeds,En that's how the house began,But I guess the stones would have just growed weeds,Except for the coppenter man.En the coppenter man took a board and saidHe'd skin it and make some curls,En I hung 'em onto my ears en head,En they make me look like girls.En he squinted along one side, he did,En he squinted the other side twice,En then he told me, "You squint it, kid,"'Cause the coppenter man's reel nice.But the coppenter man said a wicked word,When he hitted 'his thumb that day;He said it out loud, too, 'cause I heard,En it's something I dassent say.En the coppenter man said it wasn't bad,When you hitted your thumb, kerspat!En there'd be no coppenter men to be had,If it wasn't for words like that.Edmund Vance Cooke.
No, I never, till life and its shadows shall end,Can forget the sweet sound of the bells of Ostend!The day set in darkness, the wind it blew loud,And rung as it passed through each murmuring shroud.My forehead was wet with the foam of the spray,My heart sighed in secret for those far away;When slowly the morning advanced from the east,The toil and the noise of the tempest had ceased;The peal from a land I ne'er saw, seemed to say,"Let the stranger forget every sorrow to-day!"Yet the short-lived emotion was mingled with pain,I thought of those eyes I should ne'er see again;I thought of the kiss, the last kiss which I gave,And a tear of regret fell unseen on the wave;I thought of the schemes fond affection had planned,Of the trees, of the towers, of my own native land.But still the sweet sounds, as they swelled to the air,Seemed tidings of pleasure, though mournful to bear,And I never, till life and its shadows shall end,Can forget the sweet sound of the bells of Ostend!W.L. Bowles.
With sable-draped banners and slow measured tread,The flower laden ranks pass the gates of the dead;And seeking each mound where a comrade's form restsLeave tear-bedewed garlands to bloom, on his breast.Ended at last is the labor of love;Once more through the gateway the saddened lines move—A wailing of anguish, a sobbing of grief,Falls low on the ear of the battle-scarred chief;Close crouched by the portals, a sunny-haired childBesought him in accents with grief rendered wild:"Oh! sir, he was good, and they say he died brave—Why, why, did you pass by my dear papa's grave?I know he was poor, but as kind and as trueAs ever marched into the battle with you;His grave is so humble, no stone marks the spot,You may not have seen it. Oh, say you did not!For my poor heart will break if you knew he was there,And thought him too lowly your offerings to share.He didn't die lowly—he poured his heart's bloodIn rich crimson streams, from the top-crowning sodOf the breastworks which stood in front of the fight—And died shouting, 'Onward! for God and the right!'O'er all his dead comrades your bright garlands wave,But you haven't putoneonmypapa's grave.If mamma were here—but she lies by his side,Her wearied heart broke when our dear papa died!""Battalion! file left! countermarch!" cried the chief,"This young orphaned maid hath full cause for her grief."Then up in his arms from the hot, dusty street,He lifted the maiden, while in through the gateThe long line repasses, and many an eyePays fresh tribute of tears to the lone orphan's sigh."This way, it is—here, sir, right under this tree;They lie close together, with just room for me.""Halt! Cover with roses each lowly green mound;A love pure as this makes these graves hallowed ground.""Oh! thank you, kind sir! I ne'er can repayThe kindness you've shown little Daisy to-day;But I'll pray for you here, each day while I live,'Tis all that a poor soldier's orphan can give.I shall see papa soon and dear mamma, too—I dreamed so last night, and I know 'twill come true;And they will both bless you, I know, when I sayHow you folded your arms round their dear one to-day;How you cheered her sad heart and soothed it to rest,And hushed its wild throbs on your strong, noble breast;And when the kind angels shall callyouto comeWe'll welcome you there to our beautiful homeWhere death never comes his black banners to wave,And the beautiful flowers ne'er weep o'er a grave."C.E.L. Holmes.
Two little stockings hung side by side,Close to the fireside broad and wide."Two?" said Saint Nick, as down he came,Loaded with toys and many a game."Ho, ho!" said he, with a laugh of fun,"I'll have no cheating, my pretty one."I know who dwells in this house, my dear,There's only one little girl lives here."So he crept up close to the chimney place,And measured a sock with a sober face;Just then a wee little note fell outAnd fluttered low, like a bird, about."Aha! What's this?" said he, in surprise,As he pushed his specs up close to his eyes,And read the address in a child's rough plan."Dear Saint Nicholas," so it began,"The other stocking you see on the wallI have hung up for a child named Clara Hall."She's a poor little girl, but very good,So I thought, perhaps, you kindly wouldFill up her stocking, too, to-night,And help to make her Christmas bright.If you've not enough for both stockings there,Please put all in Clara's, I shall not care."Saint Nicholas brushed a tear from his eye,And, "God bless you, darling," he said with a sigh;Then softly he blew through the chimney highA note like a bird's, as it soars on high,When down came two of the funniest mortalsThat ever were seen this side earth's portals."Hurry up," said Saint Nick, "and nicely prepareAll a little girl wants where money is rare."Then, oh, what a scene there was in that room!Away went the elves, but down from the gloomOf the sooty old chimney came tumbling lowA child's whole wardrobe, from head to toe.How Santa Clans laughed, as he gathered them in,And fastened each one to the sock with a pin;Right to the toe he hung a blue dress,—"She'll think it came from the sky, I guess,"Said Saint Nicholas, smoothing the folds of blue,And tying the hood to the stocking, too.When all the warm clothes were fastened on,And both little socks were filled and done,Then Santa Claus tucked a toy here and there,And hurried away to the frosty air,Saying, "God pity the poor, and bless the dear childWho pities them, too, on this night so wild."The wind caught the words and bore them on highTill they died away in the midnight sky;While Saint Nicholas flew through the icy air,Bringing "peace and good will" with him everywhere.Sara Keables Hunt.
I have a rendezvous with DeathAt some disputed barricade,When Spring comes back with rustling shadeAnd apple-blossoms fill the air—I have a rendezvous with DeathWhen Spring brings back blue days and fair.It may be he shall take my handAnd lead me into his dark landAnd close my eyes and quench my breath—It may be I shall pass him still.I have a rendezvous with DeathOn some scarred slope of battered hill,When Spring comes round again this yearAnd the first meadow-flowers appear.God knows't were better to be deepPillowed in silk and scented down,Where Love throbs out in blissful sleep,Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath—Where hushed awakenings are dear....But I've a rendezvous with DeathAt midnight in some flaming town,When Spring trips north again this year,And I to my pledged word am true,I shall not fail that rendezvous.Alan Seeger.
Let us be kind;The way is long and lonely,And human hearts are asking for this blessing only—That we be kind.We cannot know the grief that men may borrow,We cannot see the souls storm-swept by sorrow,But love can shine upon the way to-day, to-morrow—Let us be kind.Let us be kind;This is a wealth that has no measure,This is of Heaven and earth the highest treasure—Let us be kind.A tender word, a smile of love in meeting,A song of hope and victory to those retreating,A glimpse of God and brotherhood while life is fleeting—Let us be kind.Let us be kind;Around the world the tears of time are falling,And for the loved and lost these human hearts are calling—Let us be kind.To age and youth let gracious words be spoken;Upon the wheel of pain so many lives are broken,We live in vain who give no tender token—Let us be kind.Let us be kind;The sunset tints will soon be in the west,Too late the flowers are laid then on the quiet breast—Let us be kind.And when the angel guides have sought and found us,Their hands shall link the broken ties of earth that bound us,And Heaven and home shall brighten all around us—Let us be kind.W. Lomax Childress.