Chapter 4

And now some fragments of its branches bare, Shaped as a stately chair, Have, by a hearth-stone found a home at last, And whisper of the past.

The Danish king could not in all his pride Repel the ocean tide. But, seated in this chair, I can in rhyme Roll back the tide of time.

I see again, as one in vision sees, The blossoms and the bees, And hear the children's voices call, And the brown chestnuts fall.

I see the smithy with its fires aglow, I hear the bellows blow, And the shrill hammers on the anvil beat The iron white with heat.

And thus, dear children, have ye made for me This day a jubilee, And to my more than three-score years and ten Brought back my youth again.

The heart hath its own memory, like the mind And in it are enshrined The precious keepsakes, into which is wrought The giver's loving thought.

Only your love and your remembrance could Give life to this dead wood, And make these branches, leafless now so long, Blossom again in song.

--_Longfellow._

[13] Copyrighted by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Reprinted by permission of the publishers.

A SONG OF EASTER.[14]

Sing, children, sing, And the lily censers swing; Sing that life and joy are waking and that Death no more is king. Sing the happy, happy tumult of the slowly bright'ning Spring; Sing, little children, sing, Sing, children, sing, Winter wild has taken wing.

Fill the air with the sweet tidings till the frosty echoes ring. Along the eaves, the icicles no longer cling; And the crocus in the garden lifts its bright face to the sun; And in the meadow, softly the brooks begin to run; And the golden catkins, swing In the warm air of the Spring-- Sing, little children, sing.

Sing, children, sing, The lilies white you bring In the joyous Easter morning, for hopes are blossoming, And as earth her shroud of snow from off her breast doth fling, So may we cast our fetters off in God's eternal Spring; So may we find release at last from sorrow and from pain, Soon may we find our childhood's calm, delicious dawn again. Sweet are your eyes, O little ones, that look with smiling grace, Without a shade of doubt or fear into the future's face.

Sing, sing in happy chorus, with happy voices tell That death is life, and God is good, and all things shall be well. That bitter day shall cease In warmth and light and peace, That winter yields to Spring-- Sing, little children, sing.

--_Celia Thaxter._

[14] Copyrighted by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Reprinted by permission of the publishers.

THE JOY OF THE HILLS.[15]

I ride on the mountain tops, I ride; I have found my life and am satisfied. Onward I ride in the blowing oats, Checking the field lark's rippling notes-- Lightly I sweep from steep to steep; O'er my head through branches high Come glimpses of deep blue sky; The tall oats brush my horse's flanks: Wild poppies crowd on the sunny banks; A bee booms out of the scented grass; A jay laughs with me as I pass.

I ride on the hills, I forgive, I forget Life's hoard of regret-- All the terror and pain of a chafing chain. Grind on, O cities, grind! I leave you a blur behind. I am lifted elate--the skies expand; Here the world's heaped gold is a pile of sand. Let them weary and work in their narrow walls; I ride with the voices of waterfalls. I swing on as one in a dream--I swing. Down the very hollows, I shout, I sing. The world is gone like an empty word; My body's a bough in the wind,--my heart a bird.

--_Edwin Markham._

[15] By permission from Edwin Markham's "Joy of the Hills and Other Poems," copyright by Doubleday & McClure, New York.

IN BLOSSOM TIME.

Its O my heart, my heart, To be out in the sun and sing, To sing and shout in the fields about, In the balm and blossoming.

Sing loud, O bird in the tree; O bird, sing loud in the sky, And honey-bees, blacken the clover-beds; There are none of you as glad as I.

The leaves laugh low in the wind, Laugh low with the wind at play; And the odorous call of the flowers all Entices my soul away.

For oh, but the world is fair, is fair, And oh, but the world is sweet; I will out in the old of the blossoming mould, And sit at the Master's feet.

And the love my heart would speak, I will fold in the lily's rim, That the lips of the blossom more pure and meek May offer it up to Him.

Then sing in the hedgerow green, O thrush, O skylark, sing in the blue; Sing loud, sing clear, that the King may hear, And my soul shall sing with you.

--_Ina Coolbrith._

THE STARS AND THE FLOWERS.[16]

Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, When he called the flowers so blue and golden Stars that in earth's firmament do shine.

Stars they are wherein we read our history, As astrologers and seers of eld; Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery, Like the burning stars that they beheld.

Wondrous truths and manifold as wondrous, God hath written in those stars above; But not less in the bright flowerets under us Stands the revelation of His love.

Bright and glorious is that revelation, Written all over this great world of ours Making evident our own creation, In these stars of earth, these golden flowers.

And the poet, faithful and far-seeing, Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part Of the selfsame universal Being, Which is throbbing in his brain and heart.

Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining; Buds that open only to decay;

Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues, Flaunting gaily in the golden light; Large desires with most uncertain issues, Tender wishes blossoming at night.

These in flowers and men are more than seeming, Workings are they of the selfsame powers, Which the poet, in no idle dreaming, Seeth in himself and in the flowers.

Everywhere about us are they glowing, Some like stars to tell us Spring is born: Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing, Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn.

Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing, And in summer's green-emblazoned field, But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing, In the center of his blazoned shield.

Not alone in meadows and green alleys On the mountaintop and by the brink Of sequestered pool in woodland valleys, Where the slaves of nature stoop to drink;

Not alone in her vast dome of glory, Not on graves of birds or beasts alone, But in old cathedrals, high and hoary, On the tombs of heroes carved in stone;

In the cottage of the rudest peasant, In ancestral homes whose crumbling towers, Speaking of the Past unto the Present, Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers.

In all places, then, and in all seasons, Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings; Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons, How akin they are to human things.

And with childlike, credulous affection We behold their tender buds expand; Emblems of our own great resurrection, Emblems of the bright and better land.

--_Longfellow_

[16] Copyrighted by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Reprinted by permission of the publishers.

MEADOW-LARKS.

Sweet, sweet, sweet! Oh, happy that I am! (Listen to the meadow-larks, across the fields that sing!) Sweet, sweet, sweet! O subtle breath of balm, O winds that blow, O buds that grow, O rapture of the spring!

Sweet, sweet, sweet! O skies, serene and blue, That shut the velvet pastures in, that fold the mountain's crest! Sweet, sweet, sweet! What of the clouds ye knew? The vessels ride a golden tide, upon a sea at rest.

Sweet, sweet, sweet! Who prates of care and pain? Who says that life is sorrowful? O life so glad, so fleet! Ah! he who lives the noblest life finds life the noblest gain, The tears of pain a tender rain to make its waters sweet.

Sweet, sweet, sweet! O happy world that is! Dear heart, I hear across the fields my mateling pipe and call Sweet, sweet, sweet! O world so full of bliss, For life is love, the world is love, and love is over all!

--_Ina Coolbrith._

THE ARROW AND THE SONG.

I shot an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For who has sight so keen and strong, That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend.

--_Longfellow._

THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSIZ.[17]

It was fifty years ago, In the pleasant month of May, In the beautiful Pays de Vaud, A child in its cradle lay.

And Nature, the old nurse, took The child upon her knee, Saying: "Here is a story-book Thy Father has written for thee."

"Come, wander with me," she said, "Into regions yet untrod; And read what is still unread In the manuscripts of God."

And he wandered away and away With Nature, the dear old nurse, Who sang to him night and day The rhymes of the universe.

And whenever the way seemed long, Or his heart began to fail, She would sing a more wonderful song, Or tell a more marvelous tale.

So she keeps him still a child, And will not let him go, Though at times his heart beats wild For the beautiful Pays de Vaud;

Though at times he hears in his dreams The Ranz des Vaches of old, And the rush of mountain streams From glaciers clear and cold;

And the mother at home says, "Hark! For his voice I listen and yearn; It is growing late and dark, And my boy does not return!"

--_Longfellow._

[17] Copyrighted by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Reprinted by permission of the publishers.

SIXTH GRADE

BREAK, BREAK, BREAK.

Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me.

Oh, well for the fisherman's boy, That he shouts with his sister at play! Oh, well for the sailor lad, That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But oh, for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.

--_Alfred, Lord Tennyson._

COLUMBUS--WESTWARD.[18]

Behind him lay the gray Azores, Behind the Gates of Hercules; Before him not the ghost of shores, Before him only shoreless seas. The good mate said: "Now we must pray, For lo, the very stars are gone. Brave Adm'r'l speak; what shall I say?" "Why say: 'Sail on! sail on! sail on!'"

"My men grow mutinous day by day; My men grow ghastly wan and weak." The stout mate thought of home; a spray Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek. "What shall I say, brave Adm'r'l, say, If we sight naught but seas at dawn?" "Why you shall say at break of day: 'Sail on! sail on! sail on! sail on!'"

They sailed and sailed, as the winds might blow, Until at last the blanched mate said: "Why, not even God would know Should I and all my men fall dead. These very winds forget their way, For God from these dread seas is gone. Now speak, brave Adm'r'l; speak and say"-- He said: "Sail on! sail on! sail on!"

They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate: "This mad sea shows its teeth to-night. He curls his lips, he lies in wait, With lifted teeth, as if to bite! Brave Adm'r'l, say but one good word; What shall we do when hope is gone?" The words leapt as a leaping sword: "Sail on! sail on! sail on! sail on!"

Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck, And peered through darkness. Ah, that night Of all dark nights! And then a speck-- A light! A light! A light! A light! It grew, a starlit flag unfurled! It grew to be Time's burst of dawn. He gained a world; he gave that world Its grandest lesson: "On! sail on!"

--_Joaquin Miller._

[18] In a recent critical article, in the London _Athenæum_ is the sentence: "In point of power, workmanship and feeling, among all the poems written by Americans, we are inclined to give first place to the 'Port of Ships' (or 'Columbus') by Joaquin Miller."

THE DAY IS DONE.

The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters, Not from the bards[19] sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music, Their mighty thoughts suggest Life's endless toil and endeavor; And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor; And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care, And come like the benediction[20] That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares that infest the day, Shall fold their tents like the Arabs, And as silently steal away.

--_Longfellow._

[19] _bards_, ancient poets.

[20] _benediction_, blessing.

THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIMS.

The breaking waves dashed high on a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky their giant branches tossed; And the heavy night hung dark the hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moored their bark on the wild New England shore.

Not as the conqueror comes, they the true-hearted, came; Not with the roll of stirring drums, and the trumpet that sings of fame; Not as the flying come, in silence and in fear; They shook the depths of the desert gloom with their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storm they sang, and the stars heard, and the sea; And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang with the anthems of the free! The ocean eagle soared from his nest by the white wave's foam, And the rocking pines of the forest roared--this was their welcome home!

There were men with hoary hair amidst that pilgrim band; Why had they come to wither there away from their childhood's land? There was woman's fearless eye, lit by her deep love's truth; There was manhood's brow serenely high, and the fiery heart of youth.

What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war? They sought a faith's pure shrine! Ay, call it holy ground, the soil where first they trod: They left unstained, what there they found, Freedom to worship God.

--_Mrs. Hemans._

HE PRAYETH BEST.

"He prayeth best, who loveth best All things both great and small; For the dear God who loveth us, He made and loveth all."

--_Coleridge._

EACH AND ALL.

Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown, Of thee from the hilltop looking down; The heifer that lows in the upland farm, Far heard, lows not thine ear to charm, The sexton, tolling his bell at noon, Deems not that great Napoleon Stops his horse, and lists with delight, Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height; Nor knowest thou what argument Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent. All are needed by each one; Nothing is fair or good alone. I thought the sparrow's note from heaven, Singing at dawn on the alder bough; I brought him home, in his nest, at even, He sings the song, but it cheers not now, For I did not bring the river and sky; He sang to my ear, they sang to my eye. The delicate shells lay on the shore; The bubbles of the latest wave Fresh pearls to their enamel gave, And the bellowing of the savage sea Greeted their safe escape to me. I wiped away the weeds and foam, I fetched my sea-born treasures home; But the poor, unsightly, noisome things Had left their beauty on the shore With the sun and the sand and the wild uproar. The lover watched his graceful maid, As mid the virgin train she strayed, Nor knew her beauty's best attire Was woven still by the snow-white quire. At last she came to his hermitage, Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage; The gay enchantment was undone, A gentle wife, but fairy none. When I said, "I covet truth; Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat; I leave it behind with the games of youth." As I spoke, beneath my feet The ground pine curled its pretty leaf, Running over the club-moss burrs; I inhaled the violet's breath; Around me stood the oaks and firs, Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground. Over me soared the eternal sky, Full of light and of deity; Again I saw, again I heard, The rolling river, the morning bird; Beauty through my senses stole: I yielded myself to the perfect whole.

--_Emerson._

PAUL REVERE'S RIDE.

Listen, my children, and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere. On the eighteenth of April in Seventy-five; Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and year.

He said to his friend, "If the British march By land or sea from the town[21] to-night, Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch Of the North Church tower as a signal light-- One if by land, and two if by sea, And I on the opposite shore[22] will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm, For the country folk to be up and to arm."

Then he said "Good-night!" and with muffled oar Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, Just as the moon rose over the bay, Where swinging wide at her moorings lay The Somerset, British man-of-war; A phantom ship, with each mast and spar Across the moon like a prison bar, And a huge black hulk that was magnified By its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street, Wanders and watches with eager ears, Till in the silence around him he hears The muster of men at the barrack door, The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, And the measured tread of the grenadiers[23] Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed to the tower of the church, Up the wooden stairs with stealthy tread, To the belfry chamber overhead, And startled the pigeons from their perch, On the sombre rafters, that round him made Masses and moving shapes of shade-- Up the light ladder, slender and tall, To the highest window in the wall, Where he paused to listen and look down A moment on the roofs of the town, And the moonlight flowing over all.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere Now he patted his horse's side, Now gazed at the landscape far and near, Then, impetuous, stamped the earth, And turned and tightened his saddle girth; But mostly he watched with eager search The belfry-tower of the old North Church, As it rose above the graves on the hill, Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.

And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight A _second_ lamp in the belfry burns!

* * * * *

A hurry of hoofs in the village street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark Struck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet; That was all! And yet through the gloom and the light, The fate of a nation was riding that night.

It was twelve by the village clock When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. He heard the crowing of the cock, And the barking of the farmer's dog, And felt the damp of the river fog, That rises when the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock, When he rode into Lexington. He saw the gilded weathercock Swim in the moonlight as he passed, And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, Gaze at him with a spectral stare, As if they already stood aghast At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock, When he came to the bridge in Concord town. He heard the bleating of the flock, And the twitter of the birds among the trees, And felt the breath of the morning breeze Blowing over the meadows brown.

* * * * *

So through the night rode Paul Revere; And so through the night went his cry of alarm To every Middlesex village and farm-- A cry of defiance and not of fear, A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo forever more! For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, Through all our history, to the last, In the hour of darkness and peril and need, The people will waken and listen to hear The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

--_Longfellow._

[21] Boston.

[22] Charlestown.

[23] _grenadiers_, British soldiers.

BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC.

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord; He is tramping out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword; His truth is marching on.

I have seen him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps; They have builded him an altar in the evening dews and damps; I have read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps: His day is marching on.

I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnished rows of steel; "As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal; Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel; Since God is marching on."

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment seat; Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer him! be jubilant, my feet! Our God is marching on.

In the beauty of the lilies, Christ was born across the sea, With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me; As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, While God is marching on.

--_Julia Ward Howe._

THE BAREFOOT BOY.[24]

Blessings on thee, little man, Barefoot boy with cheeks of tan! With thy turned up pantaloons And thy merry whistled tunes; With thy red lips, redder still, Kissed 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!

Oh, for boyhood's painless play, Sleep that wakes in laughing day, Health that mocks the doctor's rules, Knowledge never learned in schools, Of the wild bee's morning chase, Of the wild flower's time and place, How the tortoise bears his shell, How the woodchuck digs his cell,