Chapter 9

The Day’s at the Morn

LOCHINVAR.

“Lochinvar” and “Lord Ullin’s Daughter,” the first by Scott (1771-1832) and the second by Campbell (1777-1844), are companions in sentiment and equally popular with boys who love to win anything desirable by heroic effort.

Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west. Through all the wide Border his steed was the best, And save his good broadsword he weapons had none; He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone, He swam the Eske River where ford there was none; But ere he alighted at Netherby gate The bride had consented, the gallant came late: For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, Among bridesmen and kinsmen and brothers and all: Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word), “Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?”

“I long woo’d your daughter, my suit you denied;-- Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide-- And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.”

The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up; He quaffed of the wine, and he threw down the cup. She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar,-- “Now tread we a measure!” said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace; While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume, And the bridemaidens whispered, “’Twere better by far To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.”

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood near; So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung! “She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They’ll have fleet steeds that follow,” quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting ’mong Græmes of the Netherby clan; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran: There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

LORD ULLIN’S DAUGHTER.

A chieftain, to the Highlands bound, Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry! And I’ll give thee a silver pound, To row us o’er the ferry.”

“Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water?” “O, I’m the chief of Ulva’s isle, And this Lord Ullin’s daughter.

“And fast before her father’s men Three days we’ve fled together, For should he find us in the glen, My blood would stain the heather.

“His horsemen hard behind us ride; Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover?”

Outspoke the hardy Highland wight, “I’ll go, my chief--I’m ready; It is not for your silver bright, But for your winsome lady:

“And by my word! the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry; So though the waves are raging white, I’ll row you o’er the ferry.”

By this the storm grew loud apace, The water-wraith was shrieking; And in the scowl of heaven each face Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind, And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armèd men, Their trampling sounded nearer.

“O haste thee, haste!” the lady cries, “Though tempests round us gather; I’ll meet the raging of the skies, But not an angry father.”

The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her,-- When, oh! too strong for human hand, The tempest gathered o’er her.

And still they row’d amid the roar Of waters fast prevailing: Lord Ullin reach’d that fatal shore, His wrath was changed to wailing.

For sore dismay’d through storm and shade, His child he did discover:-- One lovely hand she stretch’d for aid, And one was round her lover.

“Come back! come back!” he cried in grief, “Across this stormy water: And I’ll forgive your Highland chief, My daughter!--oh my daughter!”

’Twas vain the loud waves lashed the shore, Return or aid preventing;-- The waters wild went o’er his child,-- And he was left lamenting.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

“The Charge of the Light Brigade” (1809-92) unlike “Casabianca” shows obedience under stern necessity. Obedience is the salvation of any army. John Burroughs says: “I never hear that poem but what it thrills me through and through.”

Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. “Forward, the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns!” he said: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.

“Forward, the Light Brigade!” Was there a man dismay’d? Not tho’ the soldier knew Some one had blunder’d: Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why. Theirs but to do and die: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volley’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 Hell Rode the six hundred.

Flash’d all their sabers bare, Flash’d as they turn’d in air Sab’ring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wonder’d: Plunged in the battery-smoke Right thro’ the line they broke; Cossack and Russian Reel’d from the saber-stroke Shatter’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 them Volleyed and thundered: Stormed at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell, They that had fought so well Came through 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? Oh, the wild charge they made! All the world wondered. Honour the charge they made! Honour the Light Brigade-- Noble six hundred!

ALFRED TENNYSON.

THE TOURNAMENT.

There are several of Sidney Lanier’s (1842-81) poems that children love to learn. “Tampa Robins,” “The Tournament” (Joust 1.), “Barnacles,” “The Song of the Chattahoochee,” and “The First Steamboat Up the Alabama” are among them. At our “poetry contests” the children have plainly demonstrated that this great poet has reached his hand down to the youngest. The time will doubtless come when it will be a part of education to be acquainted with Lanier, as it is now to be acquainted with Longfellow or Tennyson.

I.

Bright shone the lists, blue bent the skies, And the knights still hurried amain To the tournament under the ladies’ eyes, Where the jousters were Heart and Brain.

II.

Flourished the trumpets, entered Heart, A youth in crimson and gold; Flourished again; Brain stood apart, Steel-armoured, dark and cold.

III.

Heart’s palfrey caracoled gaily round, Heart tra-li-ra’d merrily; But Brain sat still, with never a sound, So cynical-calm was he.

IV.

Heart’s helmet-crest bore favours three From his lady’s white hand caught; While Brain wore a plumeless casque; not he Or favour gave or sought.

V.

The trumpet blew; Heart shot a glance To catch his lady’s eye. But Brain gazed straight ahead, his lance To aim more faithfully.

VI.

They charged, they struck; both fell, both bled; Brain rose again, ungloved; Heart, dying, smiled and faintly said, “My love to my beloved.”

SIDNEY LANIER.

THE WIND AND THE MOON.

Little Laddie, do you remember learning “The Wind and the Moon”? You were eight or nine years old, and you shut your eyes and puffed out your cheeks when you came to the line “He blew and He blew.” The saucy wind made a great racket and the calm moon never noticed it. That gave you a great deal of pleasure, didn’t it? We did not care much for the noisy, conceited wind. (1824-.)

Said the Wind to the Moon, “I will blow you out, You stare In the air Like a ghost in a chair, Always looking what I am about-- I hate to be watched; I’ll blow you out.”

The Wind blew hard, and out went the Moon. So, deep On a heap Of clouds to sleep, Down lay the Wind, and slumbered soon, Muttering low, “I’ve done for that Moon.”

He turned in his bed; she was there again! On high In the sky, With her one ghost eye, The Moon shone white and alive and plain. Said the Wind, “I will blow you out again.”

The Wind blew hard, and the Moon grew dim. “With my sledge, And my wedge, I have knocked off her edge! If only I blow right fierce and grim, The creature will soon be dimmer than dim.”

He blew and he blew, and she thinned to a thread. “One puff More’s enough To blow her to snuff! One good puff more where the last was bred, And glimmer, glimmer, glum will go the thread.”

He blew a great blast, and the thread was gone In the air Nowhere Was a moonbeam bare; Far off and harmless the shy stars shone-- Sure and certain the Moon was gone!

The Wind he took to his revels once more; On down, In town, Like a merry-mad clown, He leaped and hallooed with whistle and roar-- “What’s that?” The glimmering thread once more!

He flew in a rage--he danced and blew; But in vain Was the pain Of his bursting brain; For still the broader the Moon-scrap grew, The broader he swelled his big cheeks and blew.

Slowly she grew--till she filled the night, And shone On her throne In the sky alone, A matchless, wonderful silvery light, Radiant and lovely, the queen of the night.

Said the Wind: “What a marvel of power am I With my breath, Good faith! I blew her to death-- First blew her away right out of the sky-- Then blew her in; what strength have I!”

But the Moon she knew nothing about the affair; For high In the sky, With her one white eye, Motionless, miles above the air, She had never heard the great Wind blare.

GEORGE MACDONALD.

JESUS THE CARPENTER.

“Jesus the Carpenter”--“same trade as me”--strikes a high note in favour of honest toil. (1848-.)

“Isn’t this Joseph’s son?”--ay, it is He; Joseph the carpenter--same trade as me-- I thought as I’d find it--I knew it was here-- But my sight’s getting queer.

I don’t know right where as His shed must ha’ stood-- But often, as I’ve been a-planing my wood, I’ve took off my hat, just with thinking of He At the same work as me.

He warn’t that set up that He couldn’t stoop down And work in the country for folks in the town; And I’ll warrant He felt a bit pride, like I’ve done, At a good job begun.

The parson he knows that I’ll not make too free, But on Sunday I feels as pleased as can be, When I wears my clean smock, and sits in a pew, And has taught a few.

I think of as how not the parson hissen, As is teacher and father and shepherd o’ men, Not he knows as much of the Lord in that shed, Where He earned His own bread.

And when I goes home to my missus, says she, “Are ye wanting your key?” For she knows my queer ways, and my love for the shed (We’ve been forty years wed).

So I comes right away by mysen, with the book, And I turns the old pages and has a good look For the text as I’ve found, as tells me as He Were the same trade as me.

Why don’t I mark it? Ah, many say so, But I think I’d as lief, with your leaves, let it go: It do seem that nice when I fall on it sudden-- Unexpected, you know!

CATHERINE C. LIDDELL.

LETTY’S GLOBE.

“Letty’s Globe” gives us the picture of a little golden-haired girl who covers all Europe with her dainty hands and tresses while giving a kiss to England, her own dear native land. (1808-79.)

When Letty had scarce pass’d her third glad year, And her young, artless words began to flow, One day we gave the child a colour’d sphere Of the wide earth, that she might mark and know, By tint and outline, all its sea and land. She patted all the world; old empires peep’d Between her baby fingers; her soft hand Was welcome at all frontiers. How she leap’d, And laugh’d and prattled in her world-wide bliss! But when we turn’d her sweet unlearned eye On our own isle, she rais’d a joyous cry, “Oh! yes, I see it! Letty’s home is there!” And, while she hid all England with a kiss, Bright over Europe fell her golden hair!

CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER.

A DREAM.

Once a dream did wave a shade O’er my angel-guarded bed, That an emmet lost its way When on grass methought I lay.

Troubled, ’wildered, and forlorn, Dark, benighted, travel-worn, Over many a tangled spray, All heart-broke, I heard her say:

“Oh, my children! do they cry? Do they hear their father sigh? Now they look abroad to see. Now return and weep for me.”

Pitying, I dropped a tear; But I saw a glow-worm near, Who replied, “What wailing wight Calls the watchman of the night?

“I am set to light the ground While the beetle goes his round. Follow now the beetle’s hum-- Little wanderer, hie thee home!”

WILLIAM BLAKE.

HEAVEN IS NOT REACHED AT A SINGLE BOUND.

(A FRAGMENT.)

“We build the ladder by which we climb” is a line worthy of any poet. J.G. Holland (1819-81) has immortalised himself in this line, at least.

Heaven is not reached at a single bound, But we build the ladder by which we rise From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies, And we mount to its summit round by round.

I count this thing to be grandly true: That a noble deed is a step toward God,-- Lifting the soul from the common clod To a purer air and a broader view.

J.G. HOLLAND.

THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM.

Have you been to Woodstock, near Oxford, England? If so, you have seen the palace of the Duke of Marlborough, who won the battle of Blenheim. The main point of the poem is the doubtful honour in killing in our great wars. Southey, the poet, lived from 1774 to 1843.

It was a summer’s evening, Old Kaspar’s work was done, And he before his cottage door Was sitting in the sun; And by him sported on the green His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin Roll something large and round, Which he, beside the rivulet, In playing there, had found. He came to ask what he had found, That was so large, and smooth, and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy, Who stood expectant by; And then the old man shook his head, And, with a natural sigh, “’Tis some poor fellow’s skull,” said he, “Who fell in the great victory!

“I find them in the garden, For there’s many hereabout; And often when I go to plow, The plowshare turns them out; For many thousand men,” said he, “Were slain in that great victory!”

“Now tell us what ’twas all about,” Young Peterkin he cries; And little Wilhelmine looks up With wonder-waiting eyes; “Now tell us all about the war, And what they killed each other for.”

“It was the English,” Kaspar cried, “Who put the French to rout; But what they killed each other for I could not well make out. But everybody said,” quoth he, “That ’twas a famous victory!

“My father lived at Blenheim then, Yon little stream hard by: They burned his dwelling to the ground And he was forced to fly; So with his wife and child he fled, Nor had he where to rest his head.

“With fire and sword the country round Was wasted far and wide; And many a childing mother then And new-born baby died. But things like that, you know, must be At every famous victory.

“They say it was a shocking sight After the field was won; For many thousand bodies here Lay rotting in the sun. But things like that, you know, must be After a famous victory.

“Great praise the Duke of Marlborough won, And our good Prince Eugene.” “Why, ’twas a very wicked thing!” Said little Wilhelmine. “Nay, nay, my little girl,” quoth he, “It was a famous victory!

“And everybody praised the Duke Who this great fight did win.” “But what good came of it at last?” Quoth little Peterkin. “Why, that I cannot tell,” said he, “But ’twas a famous victory.”

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

FIDELITY.

“Fidelity,” by William Wordsworth (1770-1850), is placed here out of respect to a boy of eleven years who liked the poem well enough to recite it frequently. The scene is laid on Helvellyn, to me the most impressive mountain of the Lake District of England. Wordsworth is a part of this country. I once heard John Burroughs say: “I went to the Lake District to see what kind of a country it could be that would produce a Wordsworth.”

A barking sound the Shepherd hears, A cry as of a dog or fox; He halts--and searches with his eyes Among the scattered rocks; And now at distance can discern A stirring in a brake of fern; And instantly a Dog is seen, Glancing through that covert green.

The Dog is not of mountain breed; Its motions, too, are wild and shy; With something, as the Shepherd thinks, Unusual in its cry: Nor is there any one in sight All round, in hollow or on height; Nor shout, nor whistle strikes his ear; What is the Creature doing here?

It was a cove, a huge recess, That keeps, till June, December’s snow. A lofty precipice in front, A silent tarn below! Far in the bosom of Helvellyn, Remote from public road or dwelling, Pathway, or cultivated land; From trace of human foot or hand.

There sometimes doth a leaping fish Send through the tarn a lonely cheer; The crags repeat the raven’s croak, In symphony austere; Thither the rainbow comes--the cloud-- And mists that spread the flying shroud; And sunbeams; and the sounding blast, That, if it could, would hurry past, But that enormous barrier binds it fast.

Not free from boding thoughts, a while The Shepherd stood: then makes his way Toward the Dog, o’er rocks and stones, As quickly as he may; Nor far had gone, before he found A human skeleton on the ground; The appalled discoverer with a sigh Looks round, to learn the history.

From those abrupt and perilous rocks The Man had fallen, that place of fear! At length upon the Shepherd’s mind It breaks, and all is clear: He instantly recalled the name, And who he was, and whence he came; Remembered, too, the very day On which the traveller passed this way.

But hear a wonder, for whose sake This lamentable tale I tell! A lasting monument of words This wonder merits well. The Dog, which still was hovering nigh, Repeating the same timid cry, This Dog had been through three months space A dweller in that savage place.

Yes, proof was plain that, since the day When this ill-fated traveller died, The Dog had watched about the spot, Or by his master’s side: How nourished here through such long time He knows, who gave that love sublime; And gave that strength of feeling, great Above all human estimate.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS.

People are more and more coming to recognise the fact that each individual soul has a right to its own stages of development. “The Chambered Nautilus” is for that reason beloved of the masses. It is one of the grandest poems ever written. “Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul!” This line alone would make the poem immortal. (1809-94.)

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, Sailed the unshadowed main,-- The venturous bark that flings On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings In 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 toil That 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 born Than 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.

CROSSING THE BAR

Tennyson’s (1809-92) “Crossing the Bar” is one of the noblest death-songs ever written. I include it in this volume out of respect to a young Philadelphia publisher who recited it one stormy night before the passengers of a ship when I was crossing the Atlantic, and also because so many young people have the good taste to love it. It has been said that next to Browning’s “Prospice” it is the greatest death-song ever written.

Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar, When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep, Too full for sound and foam, When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark;

For tho’ from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have cross’d the bar.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

THE OVERLAND-MAIL.

“The Overland-Mail” is a most desirable poem for children to learn. When one boy learns it the others want to follow. It takes as a hero the man who gives common service--the one who does not lead or command, but follows the line of duty. (1865-.)

In the name of the Empress of India, make way, O Lords of the Jungle wherever you roam, The woods are astir at the close of the day-- We exiles are waiting for letters from Home-- Let the robber retreat; let the tiger turn tail, In the name of the Empress the Overland-Mail!

With a jingle of bells as the dusk gathers in, He turns to the foot-path that leads up the hill-- The bags on his back, and a cloth round his chin, And, tucked in his belt, the Post-Office bill;-- “Despatched on this date, as received by the rail, _Per_ runner, two bags of the Overland-Mail.”

Is the torrent in spate? He must ford it or swim. Has the rain wrecked the road? He must climb by the cliff. Does the tempest cry “Halt”? What are tempests to him? The service admits not a “but” or an “if”; While the breath’s in his mouth, he must bear without fail, In the name of the Empress the Overland-Mail.

From aloe to rose-oak, from rose-oak to fir, From level to upland, from upland to crest, From rice-field to rock-ridge, from rock-ridge to spur, Fly the soft-sandalled feet, strains the brawny brown chest. From rail to ravine--to the peak from the vale-- Up, up through the night goes the Overland-Mail.

There’s a speck on the hillside, a dot on the road-- A jingle of bells on the foot-path below-- There’s a scuffle above in the monkeys’ abode-- The world is awake, and the clouds are aglow-- For the great Sun himself must attend to the hail;-- In the name of the Empress the Overland-Mail.

RUDYARD KIPLING.

GATHERING SONG OF DONALD DHU.

Jon, do you remember when you used to spout “Pibroch of Donald Dhu”? I think you were ten years old. Sir Walter Scott’s men all have a genius for standing up to their guns, and boys gather up the man’s genius when reciting his verse. (1771-1832.)

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, Pibroch of Donuil, Wake thy wild voice anew, Summon Clan Conuil. Come away, come away, Hark to the summons! Come in your war-array, Gentles and commons.

Come from deep glen, and From mountain so rocky, The war-pipe and pennon Are at Inverlochy. Come every hill-plaid, and True heart that wears one, Come every steel blade, and Strong hand that bears one.

Leave untended the herd, The flock without shelter; Leave the corpse uninterr’d, The bride at the altar; Leave the deer, leave the steer, Leave nets and barges: Come with your fighting gear, Broadswords and targes.

Come as the winds come, when Forests are rended; Come as the waves come, when Navies are stranded: Faster come, faster come, Faster and faster, Chief, vassal, page, and groom, Tenant and master.

Fast they come, fast they come; See how they gather! Wide waves the eagle plume Blended with heather, Cast your plaids, draw your blades, Forward each man set! Pibroch of Donuil Dhu Knell for the onset!

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

MARCO BOZZARIS.

“Marco Bozzaris,” by Fitz-Greene Halleck (1790-1867), was in my old school-reader. Boys and girls liked it then and they like it now. This is another of the poems that was not born to die.

At midnight, in his guarded tent, The Turk was dreaming of the hour When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, Should tremble at his power: In dreams, through camp and court, he bore The trophies of a conqueror; In dreams his song of triumph heard; Then wore his monarch’s signet ring: Then pressed that monarch’s throne--a king; As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, As Eden’s garden bird.

At midnight, in the forest shades, Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band, True as the steel of their tried blades, Heroes in heart and hand. There had the Persian’s thousands stood, There had the glad earth drunk their blood On old Platæa’s day; And now there breathed that haunted air The sons of sires who conquered there, With arm to strike and soul to dare, As quick, as far as they.

An hour passed on--the Turk awoke; That bright dream was his last; He woke--to hear his sentries shriek, “To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!” He woke--to die midst flame, and smoke, And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke, And death-shots falling thick and fast As lightnings from the mountain-cloud; And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, Bozzaris cheer his band: “Strike--till the last armed foe expires; Strike--for your altars and your fires; Strike--for the green graves of your sires; God--and your native land!”

They fought--like brave men, long and well; They piled that ground with Moslem slain, They conquered--but Bozzaris fell, Bleeding at every vein. His few surviving comrades saw His smile when rang their proud hurrah, And the red field was won; Then saw in death his eyelids close Calmly, as to a night’s repose, Like flowers at set of sun.

Come to the bridal-chamber, Death! Come to the mother’s, when she feels, For the first time, her first-born’s breath; Come when the blessed seals That close the pestilence are broke, And crowded cities wail its stroke; Come in consumption’s ghastly form, The earthquake shock, the ocean storm; Come when the heart beats high and warm With banquet-song, and dance, and wine; And thou art terrible--the tear, The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, And all we know, or dream, or fear Of agony, are thine.

But to the hero, when his sword Has won the battle for the free, Thy voice sounds like a prophet’s word; And in its hollow tones are heard The thanks of millions yet to be. Come, when his task of fame is wrought-- Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought-- Come in her crowning hour--and then Thy sunken eye’s unearthly light To him is welcome as the sight Of sky and stars to prisoned men; Thy grasp is welcome as the hand Of brother in a foreign land; Thy summons welcome as the cry That told the Indian isles were nigh To the world-seeking Genoese, When the land wind, from woods of palm, And orange-groves, and fields of balm, Blew o’er the Haytian seas.

Bozzaris! with the storied brave Greece nurtured in her glory’s time, Rest thee--there is no prouder grave, Even in her own proud clime. She wore no funeral-weeds for thee, Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume Like torn branch from death’s leafless tree In sorrow’s pomp and pageantry, The heartless luxury of the tomb; But she remembers thee as one Long loved and for a season gone; For thee her poet’s lyre is wreathed, Her marble wrought, her music breathed; For thee she rings the birthday bells; Of thee her babe’s first lisping tells; For thine her evening prayer is said At palace-couch and cottage-bed; Her soldier, closing with the foe, Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow, His plighted maiden, when she fears For him the joy of her young years, Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears; And she, the mother of thy boys, Though in her eye and faded cheek Is read the grief she will not speak, The memory of her buried joys, And even she who gave thee birth, Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth, Talk of thy doom without a sigh; For thou art Freedom’s now, and Fame’s: One of the few, the immortal names, That were not born to die.

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.

THE DEATH OF NAPOLEON.

“The Death of Napoleon,” by Isaac McClellan (1806-99), was yet another of the good old reader songs taught us by a teacher of good taste. We love those teachers more the older we grow.

Wild was the night, yet a wilder night Hung round the soldier’s pillow; In his bosom there waged a fiercer fight Than the fight on the wrathful billow.

A few fond mourners were kneeling by, The few that his stern heart cherished; They knew, by his glazed and unearthly eye, That life had nearly perished.

They knew by his awful and kingly look, By the order hastily spoken, That he dreamed of days when the nations shook, And the nations’ hosts were broken.

He dreamed that the Frenchman’s sword still slew, And triumphed the Frenchman’s eagle, And the struggling Austrian fled anew, Like the hare before the beagle.

The bearded Russian he scourged again, The Prussian’s camp was routed, And again on the hills of haughty Spain His mighty armies shouted.

Over Egypt’s sands, over Alpine snows, At the pyramids, at the mountain, Where the wave of the lordly Danube flows, And by the Italian fountain,

On the snowy cliffs where mountain streams Dash by the Switzer’s dwelling, He led again, in his dying dreams, His hosts, the proud earth quelling.

Again Marengo’s field was won, And Jena’s bloody battle; Again the world was overrun, Made pale at his cannon’s rattle.

He died at the close of that darksome day, A day that shall live in story; In the rocky land they placed his clay, “And left him alone with his glory.”

ISAAC MCCLELLAN.

HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE.

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest By all their country’s wishes blest! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallow’d mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy’s feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung, By forms unseen their dirge is sung: There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray, To bless the turf that wraps their clay; And Freedom shall a while repair To dwell a weeping hermit there!

WILLIAM COLLINS.

THE FLAG GOES BY.

“The Flag Goes By” is included out of regard to a boy of eleven years who pleased me by his great appreciation of it. It teaches the lesson of reverence to our great national symbol. It is published by permission of the author, Henry Holcomb Bennett, of Ohio. (1863-.)

Hats off! Along the street there comes A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums, A flash of colour 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 colours 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 honour and reverend awe;

Sign of a nation, great and strong Toward her people from foreign wrong: Pride and glory and honour,--all Live in the colours to stand or fall.

Hats off! Along the street there comes A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums; And loyal hearts are beating high: Hats off! The flag is passing by!

HENRY HOLCOMB BENNETT.

HOHENLINDEN.

On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay th’ untrodden snow; And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat, at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast array’d Each horseman drew his battle-blade, And furious every charger neigh’d To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven, Then rush’d the steed to battle driven, And louder than the bolts of Heaven, Far flashed the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow On Linden’s hills or stainèd snow; And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

’Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, Shout in their sulphurous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye brave Who rush to glory or the grave! Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few shall part, where many meet! The snow shall be their winding-sheet, And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier’s sepulcher.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME.

The sun shines bright in the old Kentucky home; ’Tis summer, the darkeys are gay; The corn-top’s ripe, and the meadow’s in the bloom, While the birds make music all the day. The young folks roll on the little cabin floor, All merry, all happy and bright; By-’n’-by hard times comes a-knocking at the door:-- Then my old Kentucky home, good-night!

Weep no more, my lady, O, weep no more to-day! We will sing one song for the old Kentucky home, For the old Kentucky home, far away.

They hunt no more for the ’possum and the coon, On the meadow, the hill, and the shore; They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon, On the bench by the old cabin door. The day goes by like a shadow o’er the heart, With sorrow, where all was delight; The time has come when the darkeys have to part:-- Then my old Kentucky home, good-night!

The head must bow, and the back will have to bend, Wherever the darkey may go; A few more days, and the trouble all will end, In the field where the sugar-canes grow. A few more days for to tote the weary load,-- No matter, ’twill never be light; A few more days till we totter on the road:-- Then my old Kentucky home, good-night!

Weep no more, my lady, O, weep no more to-day! We will sing one song for the old Kentucky home, For the old Kentucky home, far away.

STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER.

OLD FOLKS AT HOME.

Way down upon de Swanee Ribber, Far, far away, Dere’s wha my heart is turning ebber, Dere’s wha de old folks stay. All up and down de whole creation Sadly I roam, Still longing for de old plantation, And for de old folks at home.

All de world am sad and dreary, Eberywhere I roam; Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary, Far from de old folks at home!

All round de little farm I wandered When I was young, Den many happy days I squandered, Many de songs I sung. When I was playing wid my brudder Happy was I; Oh, take me to my kind old mudder! Dere let me live and die.

One little hut among de bushes, One dat I love, Still sadly to my memory rushes, No matter where I rove. When will I see de bees a-humming All round de comb? When will I hear de banjo tumming, Down in my good old home?

All de world am sad and dreary, Eberywhere I roam; Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary, Far from de old folks at home!

STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER.

THE WRECK OF THE “HESPERUS.”

“The Wreck of the _Hesperus_,” by Longfellow (1807-82), on “Norman’s Woe,” off the coast near Cape Ann, is a historic poem as well as an imaginative composition.

It was the schooner _Hesperus_, That sailed the wintry sea; And the skipper had taken his little daughter, To bear him company.

Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, Her cheeks like the dawn of day, And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds That ope in the month of May.

The skipper he stood beside the helm, His pipe was in his mouth, And he watched how the veering flaw did blow The smoke now west, now south.

Then up and spake an old sailor, Had sailed the Spanish Main, “I pray thee put into yonder port, For I fear a hurricane.

“Last night the moon had a golden ring, And to-night no moon we see!” The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe, And a scornful laugh laughed he.

Colder and louder blew the wind, A gale from the northeast, The snow fell hissing in the brine, And the billows frothed like yeast.

Down came the storm, and smote amain The vessel in its strength; She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, Then leaped her cable’s length.

“Come hither! come hither! my little daughter, And do not tremble so; For I can weather the roughest gale That ever wind did blow.”

He wrapped her warm in his seaman’s coat Against the stinging blast; He cut a rope from a broken spar, And bound her to the mast.

“O father! I hear the church-bells ring, O say, what may it be?” “Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!”-- And he steered for the open sea.

“O father! I hear the sound of guns, O say, what may it be?” “Some ship in distress, that cannot live In such an angry sea!”

“O father! I see a gleaming light, O say, what may it be?” But the father answered never a word, A frozen corpse was he.

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, With his face turned to the skies, The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow On his fixed and glassy eyes.

Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed That savèd she might be; And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave On the Lake of Galilee.

And fast through the midnight dark and drear, Through the whistling sleet and snow, Like a sheeted ghost the vessel swept Toward the reef of Norman’s Woe.

And ever the fitful gusts between A sound came from the land; It was the sound of the trampling surf On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.

The breakers were right beneath her bows, She drifted a dreary wreck, And a whooping billow swept the crew Like icicles from her deck.

She struck where the white and fleecy waves Looked soft as carded wool, But the cruel rocks they gored her side Like the horns of an angry bull.

Her rattling shrouds all sheathed in ice, With the masts went by the board; Like a vessel of glass she stove and sank,-- Ho! ho! the breakers roared!

At daybreak on the bleak sea-beach A fisherman stood aghast, To see the form of a maiden fair Lashed close to a drifting mast.

The salt sea was frozen on her breast, The salt tears in her eyes; And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, On the billows fall and rise.

Such was the wreck of the _Hesperus_, In the midnight and the snow! Christ save us all from a death like this, On the reef of Norman’s Woe!

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

BANNOCKBURN.

ROBERT BRUCE’S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY.

You can look down on the battle-field of Bannockburn from Stirling Castle, Scotland, near which stands a magnificent statue of Robert, the Bruce. How often have I trodden over the old battle-field. The monument of William Wallace, too, looms up on the Ochil Hills, not far away. (1759-96.)

Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led; Welcome to your gory bed, Or to victorie.

Now’s the day, and now’s the hour; See the front o’ battle lower; See approach proud Edward’s power-- Chains and slaverie!

Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha can fill a coward’s grave? Wha sae base as be a slave? Let him turn and flee!

Wha for Scotland’s King and law Freedom’s sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand, or freeman fa’? Let him follow me!

By oppression’s woes and pains! By your sons in servile chains! We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free!

Lay the proud usurpers low! Tyrants fall in every foe! Liberty’s in every blow! Let us do, or die!

ROBERT BURNS.