Sweet and low, sweet and low,Wind of the western sea,Low, low, breathe and blow,Wind of the western sea!Over the rolling waters go,Come from the dying moon, and blow,Blow him again to me;While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,Father will come to thee soon;Rest, rest, on mother's breast,Father will come to thee soon;Father will come to his babe in the nest,Silver sails all out of the westUnder the silver moon;Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
Blessings on thee, little man,Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!With thy turned-up pantaloons,And thy merry whistled tunes;With thy red lip, redder stillKissed by strawberries on the hill;With the sunshine on thy face,Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace:From, my heart I give thee joy,—I was once a barefoot boy!Prince thou art,—the grown-up manOnly is republican.Let the million-dollared ride!Barefoot, trudging at his side,Thou hast more than he can buyIn the reach of ear and eye,—Outward sunshine, inward joy:Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!O for boyhood's painless play,Sleep that wakes in laughing day,Health that mocks the doctor's rules,Knowledge never learned of schools,Of the wild bee's morning chase,Of the wild-flower's time and place.Flight of fowl and habitudeOf the tenants of the wood;How the tortoise bears his shell,How the woodchuck digs his cell,And the ground-mole sinks his well;How the robin feeds her young,How the oriole's nest is hung;Where the whitest lilies blow,Where the freshest berries grow,Where the groundnut trails its vine,Where the wood-grape's clusters shine;Of the black wasp's cunning way,Mason of his walls of clay,And the architectural plansOf gray hornet artisans!—For, eschewing books and tasks,Nature answers all he asks;Hand in hand with her he walks,Face to face with her he talks,Part and parcel of her joy,—Blessings on the barefoot boy!O for boyhood's time of June,Crowding years in one brief moon,When all things I heard or saw,Me, their master, waited for.I was rich in flowers and trees,Humming-birds and honey-bees;For my sport the squirrel played,Plied the snouted mole his spade;For my taste the blackberry conePurpled over hedge and stone;Laughed the brook for my delightThrough the day and through the nightWhispering at the garden wall,Talked with me from fall to fall;Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond,Mine the walnut slopes beyond,Mine, on bending orchard trees,Apples of Hesperides!Still as my horizon grew,Larger grew my riches too;All the world I saw or knewSeemed a complex Chinese toy,Fashioned for a barefoot boy!O for festal dainties spread,Like my bowl of milk and bread,—Pewter spoon and bowl of wood,On the door-stone, gray and rude!O'er me, like a regal tent,Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent,Purple-curtained, fringed with gold.Looped in many a wind-swung fold;While for music came the playOf the pied frogs' orchestra;And, to light the noisy choir,Lit the fly his lamp of fire.I was monarch: pomp and joyWaited on the barefoot boy!Cheerily, then, my little man,Live and laugh, as boyhood can!Though the flinty slopes be hard,Stubble-speared the new-mown sward,Every morn shall lead thee throughFresh baptisms of the dew;Every evening from thy feetShall the cool wind kiss the heat:All too soon these feet must hideIn the prison cells of pride,Lose the freedom of the sod,Like a colt's for work be shod,Made to tread the mills of toil,Up and down in ceaseless moil:Happy if their track be foundNever on forbidden ground,Happy if they sink not inQuick and treacherous sands of sin.Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy,Ere it passes, barefoot boy!John Greenleaf Whittier.
There,—my blessing with you!And these few precepts in thy memorySee thou character.—Give thy thoughts no tongue,Nor any unproportion'd thought his act.Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar.The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel;But do not dull thy palm with entertainmentOf each new-hatched, unfledged comrade. BewareOf entrance to a quarrel; but being in,Bear't that the opposed may beware of thee.Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice:Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment.Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,But not expressed in fancy; rich, not gaudy:For the apparel oft proclaims the man.Neither a borrower nor a lender be,For loan oft loses both itself and friend,And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.This above all: to thine own self be true,And it must follow, as the night the day,Thou canst not then be false to any man.William Shakespeare.
The mountain and the squirrelHad a quarrel,And the former called the latter "Little Prig."Bun replied,"You are doubtless very big;But all sorts of things and weatherMust be taken in together,To make up a yearAnd a sphere.And I think it no disgraceTo occupy my place.If I'm not so large as you,You are not so small as I,And not half as spry.I'll not deny you makeA very pretty squirrel track;Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;If I cannot carry forests on my back,Neither can you crack a nut."Ralph Waldo Emerson.
Suppose, my little lady,Your doll should break her head,Could you make it whole by cryingTill your eyes and nose are red?And wouldn't it be pleasanterTo treat it as a joke,And say you're glad "'Twas Dolly'sAnd not your head that broke"?Suppose you're dressed for walking,And the rain comes pouring down,Will it clear off any soonerBecause you scold and frown?And wouldn't it be nicerFor you to smile than pout,And so make sunshine in the houseWhen there is none without?Suppose your task, my little man,Is very hard to get,Will it make it any easierFor you to sit and fret?And wouldn't it be wiserThan waiting like a dunce,To go to work in earnestAnd learn the thing at once?Suppose that some boys have a horse,And some a coach and pair,Will it tire you less while walkingTo say, "It isn't fair"?And wouldn't it be noblerTo keep your temper sweet,And in your heart be thankfulYou can walk upon your feet?And suppose the world don't please you,Nor the way some people do,Do you think the whole creationWill be altered just for you?And isn't it, my boy or girl,The wisest, bravest plan,Whatever comes, or doesn't come,To do the best you can?Phoebe Cary.
I like little Pussy,Her coat is so warm;And if I don't hurt herShe'll do me no harm.So I'll not pull her tail,Nor drive her away,But Pussy and IVery gently will play;She shall sit by my side,And I'll give her some food;And she'll love me becauseI am gentle and good.I'll pat little Pussy,And then she will purr,And thus show her thanksFor my kindness to her;I'll not pinch her ears,Nor tread on her paw,Lest I should provoke herTo use her sharp claw;I never will vex her,Nor make her displeased,For Pussy don't likeTo be worried or teased.Jane Taylor.
Over the river and through the wood,To Grandfather's house we go;The horse knows the wayTo carry the sleighThrough the white and drifted snow.Over the river and through the wood,—Oh, how the wind does blow!It stings the toes,And bites the nose,As over the ground we go.Over the river and through the wood,Trot fast, my dapple gray!Spring over the ground,Like a hunting hound,For this is Thanksgiving-Day.Over the river and through the wood,And straight through the barnyard gate!We seem to goExtremely slow,—It is so hard to wait!Over the river and through the wood;Now Grandmother's cap I spy!Hurrah for the fun!Is the pudding done?Hurrah for the pumpkin pie!Lydia Maria Child.
I wandered lonely as a cloudThat floats on high o'er vales and hills,When all at once I saw a crowd,A host, of golden daffodils;Beside the lake, beneath the trees,Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.Continuous as the stars that shineAnd twinkle on the milky way,They stretched in never-ending lineAlong the margin of a bay;Ten thousand saw I at a glance,Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.The waves beside them danced; but theyOutdid the sparkling waves in glee;A poet could not but be gayIn such a jocund company;I gazed—and gazed—but little thoughtWhat wealth the show to me had brought.For oft, when on my couch I lieIn vacant or in pensive mood,They flash upon that inward eyeWhich is the bliss of solitude;And then my heart with pleasure fills,And dances with the daffodils.William Wordsworth.
I've watched you now a full half-hour,Self-poised upon that yellow flower;And, little Butterfly! indeedI know not if you sleep or feed.More motionless! and thenHow motionless!—not frozen seasWhat joy awaits you, when the breezeHath found you out among the trees,And calls you forth again;This plot of orchard-ground is ours;My trees they are, my Sister's flowers;Here rest your wings when they are weary;Here lodge as in a sanctuary!Come often to us, fear no wrong;Sit near us on the bough!We'll talk of sunshine and of song,And summer days when we were young;Sweet childish days, that were as longAs twenty days are now.William Wordsworth.
Thou blossom bright with autumn dew,And colored with the heaven's own blue,That openest when the quiet lightSucceeds the keen and frosty night,Thou comest not when violets leanO'er wandering brooks and springs unseen,Or columbines, in purple dressed,Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.Thou waitest late and com'st alone,When woods are bare and birds are flown,And frosts and shortening days portendThe aged Year is near his end.Then doth thy sweet and quiet eyeLook through its fringes to the sky,Blue—blue—as if that sky let fallA flower from its cerulean wall.I would that thus, when I shall seeThe hour of death draw near to me,Hope, blossoming within my heart,May look to heaven as I depart.William Cullen Bryant.
"Give us a song!" the soldiers cried,The outer trenches guarding,When the heated guns of the camps alliedGrew weary of bombarding.The dark Redan, in silent scoff,Lay, grim and threatening, under;And the tawny mound of the MalakoffNo longer belched its thunder.There was a pause. A guardsman said,"We storm the forts to-morrow;Sing while we may, another dayWill bring enough of sorrow."They lay along the battery's sideBelow the smoking cannon:Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde,And from the banks of Shannon.They sang of love, and not of fame;Forgot was Britain's glory:Each heart recalled a different name,But all sang "Annie Laurie."Voice after voice caught up the song,Until its tender passionRose like an anthem, rich and strong,—Their battle-eve confession.Dear girl, her name he dared not speak,But, as the song grew louder,Something upon the soldier's cheekWashed off the stains of powder.Beyond the darkening ocean burnedThe bloody sunset's embers,While the Crimean valleys learnedHow English love remembers.And once again a fire of hellRained on the Russian quarters,With scream of shot, and burst of shell,And bellowing of the mortars!And Irish Nora's eyes are dimFor a singer, dumb and gory;And English Mary mourns for himWho sang of "Annie Laurie."Sleep, soldiers! still in honored restYour truth and valor wearing:The bravest are the tenderest,—The loving are the daring.Bayard Taylor.
She walks in beauty, like the nightOf cloudless climes and starry skies;And all that's best of dark and brightMeet in her aspect and her eyes:Thus mellowed to that tender lightWhich heaven to gaudy day denies.One shade the more, one ray the less,Had half impaired the nameless graceWhich waves in every raven tress,Or softly lightens o'er her face;Where thoughts serenely sweet expressHow pure, how dear their dwelling-place.And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,The smiles that win, the tints that glow,But tell of days in goodness spent,A mind at peace with all below,A heart whose love is innocent!Lord Byron.
All are architects of Fate,Working in these walls of Time;Some with massive deeds and great,Some with ornaments of rhyme.Nothing useless is, or low;Each thing in its place is best;And what seems but idle showStrengthens and supports the rest.For the structure that we raise,Time is with materials filled;Our to-days and yesterdaysAre the blocks with which we build.Truly shape and fashion these;Leave no yawning gaps between;Think not, because no man sees,Such things will remain unseen.In the elder days of Art,Builders wrought with greatest careEach minute and unseen part;For the Gods see everywhere.Let us do our work as well,Both the unseen and the seen!Make the house, where Gods may dwell,Beautiful, entire, and clean.Else our lives are incomplete,Standing in these walls of Time,Broken stairways, where the feetStumble as they seek to climb.Build to-day, then, strong and sure,With a firm and ample base;And ascending and secureShall to-morrow find its place.Thus alone can we attainTo those turrets, where the eyeSees the world as one vast plain,And one boundless reach of sky.Henry W. Longfellow.
There's a merry brown thrush sitting up in the tree,He's singing to me! He's singing to me!And what does he say, little girl, little boy?"Oh, the world's running over with joy!Don't you hear? don't you see?Hush! Look! In my tree,I'm as happy as happy can be!"And the brown thrush keeps singing, "A nest do you see,And five eggs hid by me in the juniper tree?Don't meddle! don't touch! little girl, little boy,Or the world will lose some of its joy!Now I'm glad! now I'm free!And I always shall be,If you never bring sorrow to me."So the merry brown thrush sings away in the tree,To you and to me, to you and to me;And he sings all the day, little girl, little boy,"Oh, the world's running over with joy;But long it won't be,Don't you know? don't you see?Unless we are as good as can be!"Lucy Larcom.
The quality of mercy is not strain'd.It droppeth as the gentle rain from heavenUpon the place beneath. It is twice bless'd:It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomesThe throned monarch better than his crown.His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,The attribute to awe and majesty,Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;But mercy is above this sceptred sway;It is enthroned in the hearts of kings;It is an attribute to God himself;And earthly power doth then show likest God'sWhen mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,Though justice be thy plea, consider this,That, in the course of justice, none of usShould see salvation: we do pray for mercy;And that same prayer doth teach us all to renderThe deeds of mercy.William Shakespeare.
If you've tried and have not won,Never stop for crying;All's that's great and good is doneJust by patient trying.Though young birds, in flying, fall,Still their wings grow stronger;And the next time they can keepUp a little longer.Though the sturdy oak has knownMany a blast that bowed her,She has risen again, and grownLoftier and prouder.If by easy work you beat,Who the more will prize you?Gaining victory from defeat,—That's the test that tries you!Phoebe Cary.
You know we French stormed Ratisbon:A mile or so awayOn a little mound, NapoleonStood on our storming-day;With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,Legs wide, arms locked behind,As if to balance the prone brow,Oppressive with its mind.Just as perhaps he mused, "My plansThat soar, to earth may fall,Let once my army-leader LannesWaver at yonder wall,"—Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flewA rider, bound on boundFull-galloping; nor bridle drewUntil he reached the mound.Then off there flung in smiling joy,And held himself erectBy just his horse's mane, a boy:You hardly could suspect—(So tight he kept his lips compressed,Scarce any blood came through)You looked twice ere you saw his breastWas all but shot in two."Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's graceWe've got you Ratisbon!The Marshall's in the market-place,And you'll be there anonTo see your flag-bird flap his vansWhere I, to heart's desire,Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his plansSoared up again like fire.The chief's eye flashed; but presentlySoftened itself, as sheathesA film the mother-eagle's eyeWhen her bruised eaglet breathes;"You're wounded!" "Nay," his soldier's prideTouched to the quick, he said:"I'm killed, Sire!" And his chief beside,Smiling, the boy fell dead.Robert Browning.
The splendor falls on castle wallsAnd snowy summits old in story:The long light shakes across the lakes,And the wild cataract leaps in glory.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,And thinner, clearer, farther going!O sweet and far from cliff and scar[A]The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.O love, they die in yon rich sky,They faint on hill or field or river:Our echoes roll from soul to soul,And grow for ever and for ever.Blow bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
[A]Scar, a deep bank.
[A]Scar, a deep bank.
They say that God lives very high;But if you look above the pinesYou cannot see our God; and why?And if you dig down in the mines,You never see him in the gold,Though from Him all that's glory shines.God is so good, He wears a foldOf heaven and earth across His face,Like secrets kept for love untold.But still I feel that His embraceSlides down by thrills through all things made,Through sight and sound of every place;As if my tender mother laidOn my shut lips her kisses' pressure,Half waking me at night, and said,"Who kissed you through the dark, dear guesser?"Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
By the flow of the inland river,Where the fleets of iron have fled,Where the blades of grave grass quiver,Asleep are the ranks of the dead;Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment day—Under the one, the Blue;Under the other, the Gray.These in the robings of glory,Those in the gloom of defeat,All, with the battle blood gory,In the dusk of eternity meet;Under the sod and the dew,—Waiting the judgment day—Under the laurel, the Blue;Under the willow, the Gray.From the silence of sorrowful hoursThe desolate mourners go,Lovingly laden with flowersAlike for the friend and the foe;Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment day—Under the roses, the Blue;Under the lilies, the Gray.So with an equal splendorThe morning sun-rays fall,With a touch impartially tender,On the blossoms blooming for all;Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment day—'Broidered with gold, the Blue;Mellowed with gold, the Gray.So, when the summer calleth,On forest and field of grainWith an equal murmur fallethThe cooling drip of the rain;Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment day—Wet with the rain, the Blue;Wet with the rain, the Gray.Sadly, but not with upbraiding,The generous deed was done;In the storm of the years that are fading.No braver battle was won;Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment day—Under the blossoms, the Blue;Under the garlands, the Gray.No more shall the war-cry sever,Or the winding rivers be red;They banish our anger foreverWhen they laurel the graves of our dead!Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment day—Love and tears for the Blue;Tears and love for the Gray.Francis Miles Finch.