Half a league, half a league,Half a league onward,All in the valley of DeathRode the six hundred."Forward, the Light Brigade!Charge for the guns," he said:Into the valley of DeathRode the six hundred."Forward, the Light Brigade!"Was there a man dismay'd?Not tho' the soldier knewSome one had blunder'd:Theirs not to make reply,Theirs not to reason why,Theirs but to do and die:Into the valley of DeathRode the six hundred.Cannon to right of them,Cannon to left of them,Cannon in front of themVolley'd and thunder'd;Storm'd at with shot and shell,Boldly they rode and well,Into the jaws of Death,Into the mouth of HellRode the six hundred,Flash'd all their sabres bare,Flash'd as they turn'd in air,Sabring the gunners there,Charging an army, whileAll the world wonder'd:Plung'd in the battery-smokeRight thro' the line they broke;Cossack and RussianReel'd from the sabre-strokeShatter'd and sunder'd.Then they rode back, but not,—Not the six hundred.Cannon to right of them,Cannon to left of them,Cannon behind themVolley'd and thunder'd;Storm'd at with shot and shell,While horse and hero fell,They that had fought so wellCame thro' the jaws of Death,Back from the mouth of Hell,All that was left of them,Left of six hundred.When can their glory fade?O the wild charge they made!All the world wonder'd.Honor the charge they made!Honor the Light Brigade,Noble six hundred!Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
Up from the South at break of day,Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay,The affrighted air with a shudder bore,Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door,The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar,Telling the battle was on once more,And Sheridan—twenty miles away.And wider still those billows of warThundered along the horizon's bar;And louder yet into Winchester rolledThe roar of that red sea uncontrolled,Making the blood of the listener coldAs he thought of the stake in that fiery fray,And Sheridan—twenty miles away.But there is a road from Winchester town,A good broad highway leading down;And there, through the flush of the morning light,A steed, as black as the steeds of night,Was seen to pass, as with eagle flight;As if he knew the terrible need,He stretched away with the utmost speed;Hills rose and fell—but his heart was gay,With Sheridan fifteen miles away.Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering South,The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth;Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster,Foreboding to foemen the doom of disaster.The heart of the steed and the heart of the masterWere beating like prisoners assaulting their walls,Impatient to be where the battle-field calls;Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play,With Sheridan only ten miles away.Under his spurning feet the roadLike an arrowy Alpine river flowed,And the landscape sped away behindLike an ocean flying before the wind;And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire,Swept on, with his wild eyes full of fire.But lo! he is nearing his heart's desire—He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray,With Sheridan only five miles away.The first that the General saw were the groupsOf stragglers, and then the retreating troops.What was done? what to do? a glance told him both,Then striking his spurs, with a terrible oath,He dashed down the line 'mid a storm of huzzas,And the wave of retreat checked its course there, becauseThe sight of the master compelled it to pause.With foam and with dust the black charger was gray;By the flash of his eye and the red nostril's playHe seemed to the whole great army to say,"I have brought you Sheridan all the wayFrom Winchester down to save the day!"Hurrah, hurrah for Sheridan!Hurrah, hurrah for horse and man!And when their statues are placed on high,Under the dome of the Union sky—The American soldier's Temple of Fame—There, with the glorious General's name,Be it said in letters both bold and bright:"Here is the steed that saved the day,By carrying Sheridan into the fight,From Winchester—twenty miles away!"Thomas Buchanan Read.
O little town of Bethlehem,How still we see thee lie!Above thy deep and dreamless sleepThe silent stars go by;Yet in thy dark streets shinethThe everlasting Light;The hopes and fears of all the yearsAre met in thee to-night.For Christ is born of Mary,And, gathered all above,While mortals sleep, the angels keepTheir watch of wondering love.O morning stars, togetherProclaim the holy birth!And praises sing to God the King,And peace to men on earth.How silently, how silently,The wondrous gift is given!So God imparts to human heartsThe blessings of His heaven.No ear may hear His coming,But in this world of sin,Where meek souls will receive Him still,The dear Christ enters in.O holy Child of Bethlehem!Descend to us, we pray;Cast out our sin, and enter in,Be born in us to-day.We hear the Christmas angelsThe great glad tidings tell;Oh, come to us, abide with us,Our Lord Emmanuel!Phillips Brooks.
This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,Sails the unshadowed main,—The venturous bark that flingsOn the sweet summer wind its purpled wingsIn gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings,And coral reefs lie bare,Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;Wrecked is the ship of pearl!And every chambered cell,Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,Before thee lies revealed,—Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!Year after year beheld the silent toilThat spread his lustrous coil;Still, as the spiral grew,He left the past year's dwelling for the new,Stole with soft step its shining archway through,Built up its idle door,Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,Child of the wandering sea,Cast from her lap, forlorn!From thy dead lips a clearer note is bornThan ever Triton blew from wreathed horn!While on mine ear it rings,Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:—Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,As the swift seasons roll!Leave thy low-vaulted past!Let each new temple, nobler than the last,Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,Till thou at length art free,Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!Oliver Wendell Holmes.
True worth is inbeing, notseeming,—In doing, each day that goes by,Some little good—not in dreamingOf great things to do by and by.For whatever men say in their blindness,And spite of the fancies of youth,There's nothing so kingly as kindness,And nothing so royal as truth.We get back our mete as we measure—We cannot do wrong and feel right,Nor can we give pain and gain pleasure,For justice avenges each slight.The air for the wing of the sparrow,The bush for the robin and wren,But alway the path that is narrowAnd straight, for the children of men.'Tis not in the pages of storyThe heart of its ills to beguile,Though he who makes courtship to gloryGives all that he hath for her smile.For when from her heights he has won her,Alas! it is only to proveThat nothing's so sacred as honor,And nothing so loyal as love!We cannot make bargains for blisses,Nor catch them like fishes in nets;And sometimes the thing our life missesHelps more than the thing which it gets.For good lieth not in pursuing,Nor gaining of great nor of small,But just in the doing, and doingAs we would be done by, is all.Through envy, through malice, through hating,Against the world, early and late,No jot of our courage abating—Our part is to work and to wait.And slight is the sting of his troubleWhose winnings are less than his worth;For he who is honest is noble,Whatever his fortunes or birth.Alice Cary.
Who has seen the wind?Neither I nor you:But when the leaves hang trembling,The wind is passing through.Who has seen the wind?Neither you nor I:But when the trees bow down their heads,The wind is passing by.Christina G. Rosetti.
The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to seaIn a beautiful pea-green boat;They took some honey, and plenty of money,Wrapped up in a five-pound note.The Owl looked up to the moon aboveAnd sang to a small guitar,"O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love!What a beautiful Pussy you are,—You are,What a beautiful Pussy you are!"Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl!How wonderful sweet you sing!Oh, let us be married,—too long we have tarried,—But what shall we do for a ring?"They sailed away for a year and a dayTo the land where the Bong-tree grows,And there in a wood, a piggy-wig stoodWith a ring in the end of his nose,—His nose,With a ring in the end of his nose."Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shillingYour ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."So they took it away, and were married next dayBy the turkey who lives on the hill.They dined upon mince and slices of quinceWhich they ate with a runcible spoon,And hand in hand on the edge of the sandThey danced by the light of the moon,—The moon,They danced by the light of the moon.Edward Lear.
The Frost looked forth one still, clear night,And whispered, "Now I shall be out of sight;So through the valley and over the heightIn silence I'll take my way.I will not go on like that blustering train,The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain,That make so much bustle and noise in vain,But I'll be as busy as they!"So he flew to the mountain, and powdered its crest;He lit on the trees, and their boughs he drestIn diamond beads—and over the breastOf the quivering lake he spreadA coat of mail, that it need not fearThe downward point of many a spearThat he hung on its margin, far and near,Where a rock could rear its head.He went to the windows of those who slept,And over each pane like a fairy crept;Wherever he breathed, wherever he stepped,By the light of the morn were seenMost beautiful things; there were flowers and trees;There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees;There were cities with temples and towers; and theseAll pictured in silver sheen!But he did one thing that was hardly fair,—He peeped in the cupboard, and finding thereThat all had forgotten for him to prepare,"Now, just to set them a-thinking,I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he;"This costly pitcher I'll burst in three;And the glass of water they've left for meShall 'tchick!' to tell them I'm drinking!"Hannah F. Gould.
Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard!Heap high the golden corn!No richer gift has Autumn pouredFrom out her lavish horn!Let other lands, exulting, gleanThe apple from the pine,The orange from its glossy green,The cluster from the vine;We better love the hardy giftOur rugged vales bestow,To cheer us when the storm shall driftOur harvest-fields with snow.Through vales of grass and meads of flowers,Our plows their furrows made,While on the hills the sun and showersOf changeful April played.We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain,Beneath the sun of May,And frightened from our sprouting grainThe robber crows away.All through the long, bright days of June,Its leaves grew green and fair,And waved in hot midsummer's noonIts soft and yellow hair.And now, with Autumn's moonlit eyes,Its harvest time has come,We pluck away the frosted leavesAnd bear the treasure home.There, richer than the fabled giftApollo showered of old,Fair hands the broken grain shall sift,And knead its meal of gold.Let vapid idlers loll in silk,Around their costly board;Give us the bowl of samp and milk,By homespun beauty poured!Where'er the wide old kitchen hearthSends up its smoky curls,Who will not thank the kindly earth,And bless our farmer girls!Then shame on all the proud and vain,Whose folly laughs to scornThe blessing of our hardy grain,Our wealth of golden corn!Let earth withhold her goodly root,Let mildew blight her rye,Give to the worm the orchard's fruit,The wheat-field to the fly:But let the good old crop adornThe hills our fathers trod;Still let us, for His golden corn,Send up our thanks to God!John G. Whittier.
When I consider how my light is spentEre half my days, in this dark world and wide,And that one talent which is death to hide,Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bentTo serve therewith my Maker, and presentMy true account, lest He, returning, chide;"Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?"I fondly ask. But Patience, to preventThat murmur, soon replies, "God doth not needEither man's work or His own gifts. Who bestBear His mild yoke, they serve Him best. His stateIs kingly: thousands at his bidding speed,And post o'er land and ocean without rest;They also serve who only stand and wait."John Milton.
Where the pools are bright and deep,Where the gray trout lies asleep,Up the river and o'er the lea,That's the way for Billy and me.Where the blackbird sings the latest,Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest,Where the nestlings chirp and flee.That's the way for Billy and me.Where the mowers mow the cleanest,Where the hay lies thick and greenest;There to trace the homeward bee,That's the way for Billy and me.Where the hazel bank is steepest,Where the shadow falls the deepest,Where the clustering nuts fall free,That's the way for Billy and me.Why the boys should drive awayLittle sweet maidens from their play,Or love to banter and fight so well,That's the thing I never could tell.But this I know, I love to play,Through the meadow, among the hay,Up the water and o'er the lea,That's the way for Billy and me.James Hogg.
The leaves are fading and falling,The winds are rough and wild,The birds have ceased their calling,But let me tell you, my child,Though day by day, as it closes,Doth darker and colder grow,The roots of the bright red rosesWill keep alive in the snow.And when the winter is over,The boughs will get new leaves,The quail come back to the clover,And the swallow back to the eaves.There must be rough, cold weather,And winds and rains so wild;Not all good things togetherCome to us here, my child.So, when some dear joy losesIts beauteous summer glow,Think how the roots of the rosesAre kept alive in the snow.Alice Gary.
What does little birdie say,In her nest at peep of day?"Let me fly," says little birdie—"Mother, let me fly away.""Birdie, rest a little longer,Till the little wings are stronger."So she rests a little longer,Then she flies away.What does little baby sayIn her bed at peep of day?Baby says, like little birdie,"Let me rise and fly away.""Baby, sleep a little longer,Till the little limbs are stronger.If she sleeps a little longer,Baby, too, shall fly away."Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
Up the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren't go a-huntingFor fear of little men;Wee folk, good folk,Trooping all together;Green jacket, red cap,And white owl's feather!Down along the rocky shoreSome make their home;They live on crispy pancakesOf yellow tide foam;Some in the reedsOf the black mountain-lake,With frogs for their watch dogs,All night awake.High on the hill-topThe old King sits;He is now so old and grayHe's nigh lost his wits.With a bridge of white mistColumbkill he crosses,On his stately journeysFrom Slieveleague to Rosses;Or going up with musicOn cold, starry nights,To sup with the QueenOf the gay Northern Lights.By the craggy hillside,Through the mosses bare,They have planted thorn treesFor pleasure here and there;Is any man so daring,As dig them up in spite?He shall find their sharpest thornsIn his bed at night.Up the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren't go a-huntingFor fear of little men;Wee folk, good folk,Trooping all together;Green jacket, red cap,And white owl's feather,William Allingham.
Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful World,With the wonderful water round you curled,And the wonderful grass upon your breast,World, you are beautifully drest.The wonderful air is over me.And the wonderful wind is shaking the tree—It walks on the water, and whirls the mills,And talks to itself on the top of the hills.You friendly Earth, how far do you go,With the wheat-fields that nod and the rivers that flow,With cities and gardens, and cliffs and isles,And people upon you for thousands of miles?Ah! you are so great, and I am so small,I hardly can think of you, World, at all;And yet, when I said my prayers today,A whisper within me seemed to say:"You are more than the Earth, though you are such a dot!You can love and think, and the Earth can not."William Brighty Rands.
Be strong!We are not here to play, to dream, to drift;We have hard work to do, and loads to lift;Shun not the struggle—face it; 'tis God's gift.Be strong!Say not, "The days are evil. Who's to blame?"And fold the hands and acquiesce—oh shame!Stand up, speak out, and bravely, in God's name.Be strong!It matters not how deep intrenched the wrong.How hard the battle goes, the day how long;Faint not—fight on! To-morrow comes the song.Maltbie Davenport Babcock.
When cats run home and light is come,And dew is cold upon the ground,And the far-off stream is dumb,And the whirring sail goes round,And the whirring sail goes round,Alone and warming his five wits,The white owl in the belfry sits.When merry milkmaids click the latch,And rarely smells the new-mown hay,And the cock hath sung beneath the thatchTwice or thrice his roundelay,Twice or thrice his roundelay;Alone and warming his five wits,The white owl in the belfry sits.Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
Master of human destinies am I!Fame, love and fortune on my footsteps wait.Cities and fields I walk: I penetrateDeserts and fields remote, and, passing byHovel and mart and palace, soon or lateI knock unbidden once at every gate!If sleeping, wake: if feasting, rise beforeI turn away. It is the hour of fate,And they who follow me reach every stateMortals desire, and conquer every foeSave death; but those who doubt or hesitate,Condemned to failure, penury and woe,Seek me in vain and uselessly implore—I answer not, and I return no more.John J. Ingalls.
They do me wrong who say I come no moreWhen once I knock and fail to find you in;For every day I stand outside your doorAnd bid you wake and rise to fight and win.Wail not for precious chances passed away!Weep not for golden ages on the wane!Each night I burn the records of the day;At sunrise every soul is born again.Laugh like a boy at splendors that have sped;To vanished joys be blind and deaf and dumb;My judgments seal the dead past with its dead,But never bind a moment yet to come.Though deep in mire, wring not your hands and weep;I lend an arm to all who say: "I can!"No shamefac'd outcast ever sank so deepBut yet might rise and be again a man.Dost thou behold thy lost youth all aghast?Dost reel from righteous retribution's blow?Then turn from blotted archives of the pastAnd find the future's pages white as snow!Art thou a mourner? Rouse thee from thy spell;Art thou a sinner? Sins may be forgiven!Each morning gives thee wings to flee from hell;Each night a star to guide thy feet to Heaven.Walter Malone.