If you sit down at set of sunAnd count the deeds that you have done,And, counting, findOne self-denying act, one word that eased the heart of him that heard;One glance most kind, which felt like sunshine where it went,Then you may count that day well spent.But if through, all the livelong dayYou've eased no heart by yea or nay,If through it all you've nothing done that you can traceThat brought the sunshine to one face,No act most small that helped some soul and nothing cost,Then count that day as worse than lost.
Say not the struggle nought availeth,The labor and the wounds are vain,The enemy faints not, nor faileth,And as things have been they remain.If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;It may be, in yon smoke concealed,Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers,And, but for you, possess the field.For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,Seem here no painful inch to gain,Far back, through creeks and inlets making,Comes silent, flooding in, the main,And not by eastern windows only,When daylight comes, comes in the light,In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly,But westward, look, the land is bright.A.H. Clough.
There dwelt a miller, hale and bold,Beside the river Dee;He worked and sang from morn till night—No lark more blithe than he;And this the burden of his songForever used to be:"I envy nobody—no, not I—And nobody envies me!""Thou'rt wrong, my friend," said good King Hal,"As wrong as wrong can be;For could my heart be light as thine,I'd gladly change with thee.And tell me now, what makes thee sing,With voice so loud and free,While I am sad, though I'm a king,Beside the river Dee?"The miller smiled and doffed his cap,"I earn my bread," quoth he;"I love my wife, I love my friend,I love my children three;I owe no penny I cannot pay,I thank the river DeeThat turns the mill that grinds the cornThat feeds my babes and me.""Good friend," said Hal, and sighed the while,"Farewell, and happy be;But say no more, if thou'dst be trueThat no one envies thee;Thy mealy cap is worth my crown,Thy mill my kingdom's fee;Such men as thou art England's boast,O miller of the Dee!"Charles Mackay.
Take me back to the days when the old red cradle rocked,In the sunshine of the years that are gone;To the good old trusty days, when the door was never locked,And we slumbered unmolested till the dawn.I remember of my years I had numbered almost seven,And the old cradle stood against the wall—I was youngest of the five, and two were gone to heaven,But the old red cradle rocked us all.And if ever came a day when my cheeks were flushed and hot,When I did not mind my porridge or my play,I would clamber up its side and the pain would be forgot,When the old red cradle rocked away.It has been a hallowed spot where I've turned through all the years,Which have brought me the evil with the good,And I turn again to-night, aye, and see it through my tears,The place where the dear old cradle stood.By its side my father paused with a little time to spare.And the care-lines would soften on his brow,Ah! 't was but a little while that I knew a father's care,But I fancy in my dreams I see him now.By my mother it was rocked when the evening meal was laid,And again I seem to see her as she smiled;When the rest were all in bed, 'twas there she knelt and prayed,By the old red cradle and her child.Aye, it cradled one and all, brothers, sisters in it lay,And it gave me the sweetest rest I've known;But to-night the tears will flow, and I let them have their way,For the passing years are leaving me alone.And it seems of those to come, I would gladly give them allFor a slumber as free from care as then,Just to wake to-morrow morn where the rising sun would fallRound the old red cradle once again.But the cradle long has gone and the burdens that it bore,One by one, have been gathered to the fold;Still the flock is incomplete, for it numbers only four,With one left out straying in the cold.Heaven grant again we may in each other's arms be locked,Where no sad tears of parting ever fall;God forbid that one be lost that the old red cradle rocked;And the dear old cradle rocked us all.Annie J. Granniss.
My papa held me up to the Moo Cow MooSo close I could almost touch,And I fed him a couple of times or so,And I wasn't a fraid-cat, much.But if my papa goes in the house,And my mamma she goes in too,I keep still like a little mouseFor the Moo Cow Moo might Moo.The Moo Cow's tail is a piece of ropeAll raveled out where it grows;And it's just like feeling a piece of soapAll over the Moo Cow's nose.And the Moo Cow Moo has lots of funJust switching his tail about,But if he opens his mouth, why then I run,For that's where the Moo comes out.The Moo Cow Moo has deers on his head,And his eyes stick out of their place,And the nose of the Moo Cow Moo is spreadAll over the Moo Cow's face.And his feet are nothing but fingernails,And his mamma don't keep them cut,And he gives folks milk in water pails,When he don't keep his handles shut.But if you or I pull his handles, whyThe Moo Cow Moo says it hurts,But the hired man sits down close byAnd squirts, and squirts, and squirts.Edmund Vance Cooke.
All things bright and beautiful,All creatures great and small,All things wise and wonderful,—The Lord God made them all.Each little flower that opens,Each little bird that sings,—He made their glowing colors,He made their tiny wings.The rich man in his castle,The poor man at his gate,God made them, high or lowly,And ordered their estate.The purple-headed mountain,The river running by,The morning, and the sunsetThat lighteth up the sky,The cold wind in the winter,The pleasant summer sun,The ripe fruits in the garden,—He made them, every one.The tall trees in the greenwood,The meadows where we play,The rushes by the waterWe gather every day,—He gave us eyes to see them,And lips that we might tellHow great is God Almighty,Who hath made all things well.Cecil Frances Alexander.
Oh, good painter, tell me true,Has your hand the cunning to drawShapes of things that you never saw?Aye? Well, here is an order for you.Woods and cornfields, a little brown,—The picture must not be over-bright,—Yet all in the golden and gracious lightOf a cloud, when the summer sun is down.Alway and alway, night and morn,Woods upon woods, with fields of cornLying between them, not quite sere,And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom,When the wind can hardly find breathing-room,Under their tassels,—cattle near,Biting shorter the short green grass,And a hedge of sumach and sassafras,With bluebirds twittering all around,—(Ah, good painter, you can't paint sound!)—These, and the little house where I was born,Low and little, and black and old,With children, many as it can hold,All at the windows, open wide,—Heads and shoulders clear outside,And fair young faces all ablush:Perhaps you have seen, some day,Roses crowding the self-same way,Out of a wilding, wayside bush.Listen closer. When you have doneWith woods and cornfields and grazing herds,A lady, the loveliest ever the sunLooked down upon you must paint for me:Oh, if I could only make you seeThe clear blue eyes, the tender smile,The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace,The woman's soul, and the angel's faceThat are beaming on me all the while,I need not speak these foolish words:Yet one word tells you all I would say,—She is my mother: you will agreeThat all the rest may be thrown away.Two little urchins at her kneeYou must paint, sir: one like me,—The other with a clearer brow,And the light of his adventurous eyesFlashing with boldest enterprise:At ten years old he went to sea,—God knoweth if he be living now;He sailed in the good ship "Commodore,"—Nobody ever crossed her trackTo bring us news, and she never came back.Ah, it is twenty long years and moreSince that old ship went out of the bayWith my great-hearted brother on her deck:I watched him till he shrank to a speck,And his face was toward me all the way.Bright his hair was, a golden brown,The time we stood at our mother's knee:That beauteous head, if it did go down,Carried sunshine into the sea!Out in the fields one summer nightWe were together, half afraidOf the corn-leaves' rustling, and of the shadeOf the high hills, stretching so still and far,—Loitering till after the low little lightOf the candle shone through the open door,And over the hay-stack's pointed top,All of a tremble and ready to drop,The first half-hoar, the great yellow star,That we, with staring, ignorant eyes,Had often and often watched to seePropped and held in its place in the skiesBy the fork of a tall red mulberry-tree,Which close in the edge of our flax-field grew,—Dead at the top, just one branch fullOf leaves, notched round, and lined with wool,From which it tenderly shook the dewOver our heads, when we came to playIn its hand-breadth of shadow, day after day.Afraid to go home, sir; for one of us boreA nest full of speckled and thin-shelled eggs,—The other, a bird, held fast by the legs,Not so big as a straw of wheat:The berries we gave her she wouldn't eat,But cried and cried, till we held her bill,So slim and shining, to keep her still.At last we stood at our mother's knee.Do you think, sir, if you try,You can paint the look of a lie?If you can, pray have the graceTo put it solely in the faceOf the urchin that is likest me:I think 'twas solely mine, indeed:But that's no matter,—paint it so;The eyes of our mother—(take good heed)—Looking not on the nestful of eggs,Nor the fluttering bird, held so fast by the legs,But straight through our faces down to our lies,And, oh, with such injured, reproachful surprise!I felt my heart bleed where that glance went, as thoughA sharp blade struck through it.You, sir, knowThat you on the canvas are to repeatThings that are fairest, things most sweet,—Woods and cornfields and mulberry-tree,—The mother,—the lads, with their bird at her knee:But, oh, that look of reproachful woe!High as the heavens your name I'll shout,If you paint me the picture, and leave that out.Alice Cary.
Who won the war?'T was little Belgium stemmed the tideOf ruthless hordes who thought to rideHer borders through and prostrate FranceEre yet she'd time to raise her lance.'T was plucky Belgium.Who won the war?Italia broke the galling chainWhich bound her to the guilty twain;Then fought 'gainst odds till one of theseLay prone and shattered at her knees.'T was gallant Italy.Who won the war?Old England's watch dogs of the mainTheir vigil kept, and not in vain;For not a ship their wrath dared braveSave those which skulked beneath the wave.'T was mighty England.Who won the war?'T was France who wrote in noble rageThe grandest words on history's page,"They shall not pass"—the devilish Hun;And he could never pass Verdun.'T was sturdy France.Who won the war?In darkest hour there rose a cry,"Liberty, sweet Liberty, thou shalt not die!"Thank God! they came across the sea,Two million men and victory!'T was glorious America.Who won the war?No one of these; not one, but allWho answered Freedom's clarion call.Each humble man who did his bitIn God's own book of fame is writ.These won the war.Woodbury Pulsifer.
The bravest battle that ever was fought!Shall I tell you where and when?On the map of the world you will find it not,'Twas fought by the mothers of men.Nay, not with cannon or battle shot,With sword or nobler pen,Nay, not with eloquent words or thoughtFrom mouths of wonderful men;But deep in the walled-up woman's heart—Of woman that would not yield,But bravely, silently, bore her part—Lo, there is the battle field!No marshaling troup, no bivouac song,No banner to gleam or wave,But oh, these battles, they last so long—From babyhood to the grave.Yet, faithful as a bridge of stars,She fights in her walled-up town—Fights on and on in the endless wars,Then, silent, unseen, goes down.Oh, ye with banner and battle shot,And soldiers to shout and praisesI tell you the kingliest victories foughtWere fought in those silent ways.Oh, spotless in a world of shame,With splendid and silent scorn,Go back to God as white as you came—The kingliest warrior born!Joaquin Miller.
Bob went lookin' for a job—Didn't want a situation; didn't ask a lofty station:Didn't have a special mission for a topnotcher's position;Didn't have such fine credentials—but he had the real essentials—Had a head that kept on workin' and two hands that were not shirkin';Wasn't either shirk or snob;Wasn't Mister—just plain Bob,Who was lookin' for a job.Bob went lookin' for a job;And he wasn't scared or daunted when he saw a sign—"Men Wanted,"Walked right in with manner fittin' up to where the Boss was sittin',And he said: "My name is Bob, and I'm lookin' for a job;And if you're the Boss that hires 'em, starts 'em working and that fires 'em,Put my name right down here, Neighbor, as a candidate for labor;For my name is just plain 'Bob,And my pulses sort o' throbFor that thing they call a job."Bob kept askin' for a job,And the Boss, he says: "What kind?" And Bob answered: "Never mind;For I am not a bit partic'ler and I never was a sticklerFor proprieties in workin'—if you got some labor lurkin'Anywhere around about kindly go and trot it out.It's, a job I want, you see—Any kind that there may beWill be good enough for me."Well, sir, Bob he got a job.But the Boss went 'round all day in a dreamy sort of way;And he says to me: "By thunder, we have got the world's Eighth Wonder!Got a feller name of Bob who just asked me for a job—Never asks when he engages about overtime in wages;Never asked if he'd get pay by the hour or by the day;Never asked me if it's airy work and light and sanitary;Never asked me for my notion of the chances of promotion;Never asked for the duration of his annual vacation;Never asked for Saturday half-a-holiday with pay;Never took me on probation till he tried the situation;Never asked me if it's sittin' work or standin', or befittin'Of his birth and inclination—he just filed his application,Hung his coat up on a knob,Said his name was just plain Bob—And went workin' at a job!"James W. Foley.
Whatever I do and whatever I say,Aunt Tabitha tells me it isn't the wayWhenshewas a girl (forty summers ago);Aunt Tabitha tells me they never did so.Dear aunt! If I only would take her advice!But I like my own way, and I find itsonice!And besides, I forget half the things I am told;But they all will come back to me—when I am old.If a youth passes by, it may happen, no doubt,He may chance to look in as I chance to look out;Shewould never endure an impertinent stare—It ishorrid, she says, and I mustn't sit there.A walk in the moonlight has pleasures, I own,But it isn't quite safe to be walking alone;So I take a lad's arm—just for safety you know—But Aunt Tabitha tells metheydidn't do so.How wicked we are, and how good they were then!They kept at arm's length those detestable men;What an era of virtue she lived in!—But stay—Were themenall such rogues in Aunt Tabitha's day?If the menwereso wicked, I'll ask my papaHow he dared to propose to my darling mamma;Was he like the rest of them? Goodness! Who knows?And what shallIsay, if a wretch should propose?I am thinking if aunt knew so little of sin,What a wonder Aunt Tabitha's aunt must have been!And her grand-aunt—it scares me—how shockingly sadThat we girls of to-day are so frightfully bad!A martyr will save us, and nothing else can,Letme perish—to rescue some wretched young man!Though when to the altar a victim I go,Aunt Tabitha'll tell meshenever did so!
Hats off!Along the street there comesA blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums,A flash of color beneath the sky:Hats off!The flag is passing by!Blue and crimson and white it shines,Over the steel-tipped, ordered lines.Hats off!The colors before us fly;But more than the flag is passing by.Sea-fights and land-fights, grim and great,Fought to make and to save the State;Weary marches and sinking ships;Cheers of victory on dying lips;Days of plenty and years of peace,March of a strong land's swift increase:Equal justice, right and law,Stately honor and reverent awe;Sign of a nation, great and strong,To ward her people from foreign wrong;Pride and glory and honor, allLive in the colors to stand or fall.Hats off!Along the street there comesA blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums,And loyal hearts are beating high:Hats off!The flag is passing by!H.H. Bennett.
The rivers of France are ten score and twain,But five are the names that we know:The Marne, the Vesle, the Oureq and the Aisne,And the Somme of the swampy flow.The rivers of France, from source to sea,Are nourished by many a rill,But these five, if ever a drouth there beThe fountains of sorrow would fill.The rivers of France shine silver white,But the waters of five are redWith the richest blood, in the fiercest fightFor freedom that ever was shed.The rivers of France sing soft as they run,But five have a song of their own,That hymns the fall of the arrogant oneAnd the proud cast down from his throne.The rivers of France all quietly takeTo sleep in the house of their birth,But the carnadined wave of five shall breakOn the uttermost strands of earth.Five rivers of France—see! their names are writOn a banner of crimson and gold,And the glory of those who fashioned itShall nevermore cease to be told.H.J.M., in London "Times."
There's no dew left on the daisies and clover,There's no rain left in heaven;I've said my "seven times" over and over:Seven times one are seven.I am old, so old I can write a letter;My birthday lessons are done;The lambs play always, they know no better,They are only one times one.O Moon! in the night I have seen you sailingAnd shining so round and low;You were bright! but your light is failing,You are nothing now but a bow.You Moon, have you done something wrong in heaven,That God has hidden your face?I hope if you have, you'll soon be forgiven,And shine again in your place.O velvet Bee, you're a dusty fellow;You've powdered your legs with gold!O brave Marshmary buds, rich and yellow,Give me your money to hold!O Columbine, open your folded wrapperWhere two twin turtle-doves dwell!O Cuckoo-pint, toll me the purple clapperThat hangs in your clear green bell!And show me your nest, with the young ones in it,I will not steal them away;I am old! you may trust me, linnet, linnet,I am seven times one to-day.Jean Ingelow.
You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes,How many soever they be,And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he ranges,Come over, come over to me.Yet birds' clearest carol by fall or by swellingNo magical sense conveys,And bells have forgotten their old art of tellingThe fortune of future days."Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily.While a boy listened alone;Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearilyAll by himself on a stone.Poor bells! I forgive you; your good days are over,And mine, they are yet to be;No listening, no longing shall aught, aught discover:You leave the story to me.The foxglove shoots out of the green matted heather,Preparing her hoods of snow:She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather:Oh, children take long to grow.I wish and I wish that the spring would go faster,Nor long summer bide so late;And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster,For some things are ill to wait.I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover,While dear hands are laid on my head:"The child is a woman, the book may close over,For all the lessons are said."I wait for my story—the birds cannot sing it,Not one, as he sits on the tree;The bells cannot ring it, but long years, oh bring it!Such as I wish it to be.Jean Ingelow.
I leaned out of window, I smelt the white clover,Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate;"Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover—Hush, nightingale, hush! O sweet nightingale, waitTill I listen and hearIf a step draweth near,For my love he is late!"The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer,A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree,The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer:To what art thou listening, and what dost thou see?p>Let the star-clusters grow,Let the sweet waters flow.And cross quickly to me."You night-moths that hover where honey brims overFrom sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep;You glowworms, shine out, and the pathway discoverTo him that comes darkling along the rough steep.Ah, my sailor, make haste,For the time runs to waste,And my love lieth deep,"Too deep for swift telling; and yet, my one lover,I've conned thee an answer, it waits thee to-night."By the sycamore passed he, and through the white clover;Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned took flight;But I'll love him more, moreThan e'er wife loved before,Be the days dark or bright.Jean Ingelow.