PART V.

On and On

JUNE.

“June” (by James Russell Lowell, 1819-91), is a fragment from “The Vision of Sir Launfal.” It finds a place in this volume because it is the most perfect description of a charming day ever written.

What is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days; Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, And over it softly her warm ear lays: Whether we look, or whether we listen, We hear life murmur, or see it glisten; Every clod feels a stir of might, An instinct within it that reaches and towers, And, groping blindly above it for light, Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; The flush of life may well be seen Thrilling back over hills and valleys; The cowslip startles in meadows green. The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, And there’s never a leaf nor a blade too mean To be some happy creature’s palace; The little bird sits at his door in the sun, Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, And lets his illumined being o’errun With the deluge of summer it receives; His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings; He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,-- In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

A PSALM OF LIFE.

WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST.

“A Psalm of Life,” by Henry W. Longfellow (1807-82), is like a treasure laid up in heaven. It should be learned for its future value to the child, not necessarily because the child likes it. Its value will dawn on him.

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream!-- For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world’s broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act,--act in the living Present! Heart within, and God o’erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o’er life’s solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labour and to wait.

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

BARNACLES.

“Barnacles” (by Sidney Lanier, 1842-81), is a poem that I teach in connection with my lessons on natural history. We have a good specimen of a barnacle, and the children see them on the shells on the coast. The ethical point is invaluable.

My soul is sailing through the sea, But the Past is heavy and hindereth me. The Past hath crusted cumbrous shells That hold the flesh of cold sea-mells About my soul. The huge waves wash, the high waves roll, Each barnacle clingeth and worketh dole And hindereth me from sailing!

Old Past, let go, and drop i’ the sea Till fathomless waters cover thee! For I am living, but thou art dead; Thou drawest back, I strive ahead The Day to find. Thy shells unbind! Night comes behind; I needs must hurry with the wind And trim me best for sailing.

SIDNEY LANIER.

A HAPPY LIFE.

How happy is he born and taught That serveth not another’s will; Whose armour is his honest thought, And simple truth his utmost skill!

Whose passions not his master’s are, Whose soul is still prepared for death, Not tied unto the world with care Of public fame, or private breath.

SIR HENRY WOTTON.

HOME, SWEET HOME!

“Home, Sweet Home” (John Howard Payne, 1791-1852) is a poem that reaches into the heart. What is home? A place where we experience independence, safety, privacy, and where we can dispense hospitality. “The family is the true unit.”

’Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home; A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there, Which, seek through the world, is ne’er met with elsewhere. Home! Home! sweet, sweet Home! There’s no place like Home! there’s no place like Home!

An exile from Home, splendour dazzles in vain; O, give me my lowly thatched cottage again! The birds singing gaily, that came at my call,-- Give me them,--and the peace of mind, dearer than all! Home! Home! sweet, sweet Home! There’s no place like Home! there’s no place like Home!

How sweet ’tis to sit ’neath a fond father’s smile, And the cares of a mother to soothe and beguile! Let others delight ’mid new pleasures to roam, But give me, oh, give me, the pleasures of Home! Home! Home! sweet, sweet Home! There’s no place like Home! there’s no place like Home!

To thee I’ll return, overburdened with care; The heart’s dearest solace will smile on me there; No more from that cottage again will I roam; Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like Home. Home! Home! sweet, sweet Home! There’s no place like Home! there’s no place like Home!

JOHN HOWARD PAYNE.

FROM CASA GUIDI WINDOWS.

JULIET OF NATIONS.

I heard last night a little child go singing ’Neath Casa Guidi windows, by the church, _O bella libertà, O bella!_--stringing The same words still on notes he went in search So high for, you concluded the upspringing Of such a nimble bird to sky from perch Must leave the whole bush in a tremble green, And that the heart of Italy must beat, While such a voice had leave to rise serene ’Twixt church and palace of a Florence street; A little child, too, who not long had been By mother’s finger steadied on his feet, And still _O bella libertà_ he sang.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE!

“Woodman, Spare That Tree” (by George Pope Morris, 1802-64) is included in this collection because I have loved it all my life, and I never knew any one who could or would offer a criticism upon it. Its value lies in its recognition of childhood’s pleasures.

Woodman, spare that tree! Touch not a single bough! In youth it sheltered me, And I’ll protect it now. ’Twas my forefather’s hand That placed it near his cot; There, woodman, let it stand, Thy ax shall harm it not.

That old familiar tree, Whose glory and renown Are spread o’er land and sea-- And wouldst thou hew it down? Woodman, forbear thy stroke! Cut not its earth-bound ties; Oh, spare that agèd oak Now towering to the skies!

When but an idle boy, I sought its grateful shade; In all their gushing joy Here, too, my sisters played. My mother kissed me here; My father pressed my hand-- Forgive this foolish tear, But let that old oak stand.

My heart-strings round thee cling, Close as thy bark, old friend! Here shall the wild-bird sing, And still thy branches bend. Old tree! the storm still brave! And, woodman, leave the spot; While I’ve a hand to save, Thy ax shall harm it not.

GEORGE POPE MORRIS.

ABIDE WITH ME.

“Abide With Me” (Henry Francis Lyte, 1793-1847) appeals to our natural longing for the unchanging and to our love of security.

Abide with me! fast falls the eventide; The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide! When other helpers fail, and comforts flee, Help of the helpless, O abide with me.

Swift to its close ebbs out life’s little day; Earth’s joys grow dim, its glories pass away; Change and decay in all around I see: O Thou who changest not, abide with me!

HENRY FRANCIS LYTE.

LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT

“Lead, Kindly Light,” by John Henry Newman (1801-90), was written when Cardinal Newman was in the stress and strain of perplexity and mental distress and bodily pain. The poem has been a star in the darkness to thousands. It was the favourite poem of President McKinley.

Lead, kindly Light, amid th’ encircling gloom, Lead Thou me on, The night is dark, and I am far from home, Lead Thou me on. Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see The distant scene; one step enough for me.

I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou Shouldst lead me on; I loved to choose and see my path; but now Lead Thou me on. I loved the garish day; and, spite of fears, Pride ruled my will: remember not past years.

So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still Will lead me on O’er moor and fen, o’er crag and torrent, till The night is gone, And with the morn those angel faces smile, Which I have loved long since, and lost a while.

JOHN HENRY NEWMAN.

THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.

’Tis the last rose of summer Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone; No flower of her kindred, No rose-bud is nigh, To reflect back her blushes, Or give sigh for sigh.

I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one! To pine on the stem; Since the lovely are sleeping, Go, sleep thou with them. Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o’er the bed Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow, When friendships decay, And from Love’s shining circle The gems drop away. When true hearts lie withered, And fond ones are flown, O! who would inhabit This bleak world alone?

THOMAS MOORE.

ANNIE LAURIE.

“Annie Laurie” finds a place in this collection because it is the most popular song on earth. Written by William Douglas, (----).

Maxwelton braes are bonnie Where early fa’s the dew, And it’s there that Annie Laurie Gie’d me her promise true-- Gie’d me her promise true, Which ne’er forgot will be; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I’d lay me doune and dee.

Her brow is like the snawdrift, Her throat is like the swan, Her face it is the fairest That e’er the sun shone on-- That e’er the sun shone on; And dark blue is her e’e; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I’d lay me doune and dee.

Like dew on the gowan lying Is the fa’ o’ her fairy feet; Like the winds in summer sighing, Her voice is low and sweet-- Her voice is low and sweet; And she’s a’ the world to me; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I’d lay me doune and dee.

WILLIAM DOUGLAS.

THE SHIP OF STATE.

A president of a well-known college writes me that “The Ship of State” was his favourite poem when he was a boy, and did more than any other to shape his course in life. Longfellow (1807-82).

Sail on, sail on, O Ship of State! Sail on, O Union, strong and great! Humanity, with all its fears, With all the hopes of future years, Is hanging breathless on thy fate! We know what Master laid thy keel, What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, Who made each mast, and sail, and rope; What anvils rang, what hammers beat, In what a forge and what a heat Were forged the anchors of thy hope! Fear not each sudden sound and shock-- ’Tis of the wave, and not the rock; ’Tis but the flapping of the sail, And not a rent made by the gale! In spite of rock, and tempest roar, In spite of false lights on the shore, Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea! Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee. Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, Our faith, triumphant o’er our fears, Are all with thee, are all with thee!

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

The Constitution and Laws are here personified, and addressed as “The Ship of State.”

AMERICA.

“America” (Samuel Francis Smith, 1808-95) is a good poem to learn as a poem, regardless of the fact that every American who can sing it ought to know it, that he may join in the chorus when patriotic celebrations call for it. My boys love to repeat the entire poem, but I often find masses of people trying to sing it, knowing only one stanza. It is our national anthem, and a part of our education to know every word of it.

My country, ’tis of thee, Sweet land of liberty, Of thee I sing; Land where my fathers died, Land of the Pilgrims’ pride; From every mountain side, Let freedom ring.

My native country, thee-- Land of the noble free-- Thy name I love; I love thy rocks and rills, Thy woods and templed hills; My heart with rapture thrills, Like that above.

Let music swell the breeze, And ring from all the trees Sweet freedom’s song; Let mortal tongues awake; Let all that breathe partake; Let rocks their silence break-- The sound prolong.

Our fathers’ God, to Thee, Author of liberty, To Thee we sing: Long may our land be bright With freedom’s holy light: Protect us by Thy might, Great God, our King.

S.F. SMITH.

THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIMS.

“The Landing of the Pilgrims,” by Felicia Hemans (1749-1835), is a poem that children want when they study the early history of America.

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 the 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.

Amid the storm they sang, And the stars heard, and the sea, And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem 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, Amid 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 have left unstained what there they found, Freedom to worship God.

FELICIA HEMANS.

THE LOTOS-EATERS.

The main idea in “The Lotos-Eaters” is, are we justified in running away from unpleasant duties? Or, is insensibility justifiable?

Laddie, do you recollect learning this poem after we had read the story of “Odysseus”? “The struggle of the soul urged to action, but held back by the spirit of self-indulgence.” These were the points we discussed. Alfred Tennyson (1809-92).

“Courage!” he said, and pointed toward the land, “This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon.” In the afternoon they came unto a land In which it seemed always afternoon. All round the coast the languid air did swoon, Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. Full-faced above the valley stood the moon; And like a downward smoke, the slender stream Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem.

A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke, Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go; And some thro’ wavering lights and shadows broke, Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. They saw the gleaming river seaward flow From the inner land: far off, three mountain-tops, Three silent pinnacles of agèd snow, Stood sunset-flush’d: and, dew’d with showery drops, Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse.

The charmèd sunset linger’d low adown In the red West: thro’ mountain clefts the dale Was seen far inland, and the yellow down Border’d with palm, and many a winding vale And meadow, set with slender galingale; A land where all things always seem’d the same! And round about the keel with faces pale, Dark faces pale against that rosy flame, The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came.

Branches they bore of that enchanted stem, Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave To each, but whoso did receive of them, And taste, to him the gushing of the wave Far, far away did seem to mourn and rave On alien shores; and if his fellow spake, His voice was thin, as voices from the grave; And deep-asleep he seem’d, yet all awake, And music in his ears his beating heart did make.

They sat them down upon the yellow sand, Between the sun and moon upon the shore; And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland, Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore Most weary seem’d the sea, weary the oar, Weary the wandering fields of barren foam. Then some one said, “We will return no more;” And all at once they sang, “Our island home Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam.”

ALFRED TENNYSON.

MOLY.

“Moly” (mo’ly), by Edith M. Thomas (1850-), in the best possible presentation of the value of integrity. This poem ranks with “Sir Galahad,” if not above it. It is a stroke of genius, and every American ought to be proud of it. Every time my boys read “Odysseus” or the story of Ulysses with me we read or learn “Moly.” The plant moly grows in the United States as well as in Europe.

Traveller, pluck a stem of moly, If thou touch at Circe’s isle,-- Hermes’ moly, growing solely To undo enchanter’s wile! When she proffers thee her chalice,-- Wine and spices mixed with malice,-- When she smites thee with her staff To transform thee, do thou laugh! Safe thou art if thou but bear The least leaf of moly rare. Close it grows beside her portal, Springing from a stock immortal, Yes! and often has the Witch Sought to tear it from its niche; But to thwart her cruel will The wise God renews it still. Though it grows in soil perverse, Heaven hath been its jealous nurse, And a flower of snowy mark Springs from root and sheathing dark; Kingly safeguard, only herb That can brutish passion curb! Some do think its name should be Shield-Heart, White Integrity. Traveller, pluck a stem of moly, If thou touch at Circe’s isle,-- Hermes’ moly, growing solely To undo enchanter’s wile!

EDITH M. THOMAS.

CUPID DROWNED.

“Cupid Drowned” (1784-1859), “Cupid Stung” (1779-1852), and “Cupid and My Campasbe” (1558-1606) are three dainty poems recommended by Mrs. Margaret Mooney, of the Albany Teachers’ College, in her “Foundation Studies in Literature.” Children are always delighted with them.

T’other day as I was twining Roses, for a crown to dine in, What, of all things, ’mid the heap, Should I light on, fast asleep, But the little desperate elf, The tiny traitor, Love, himself! By the wings I picked him up Like a bee, and in a cup Of my wine I plunged and sank him, Then what d’ye think I did?--I drank him. Faith, I thought him dead. Not he! There he lives with tenfold glee; And now this moment with his wings I feel him tickling my heart-strings.

LEIGH HUNT.

CUPID STUNG.

Cupid once upon a bed Of roses laid his weary head; Luckless urchin, not to see Within the leaves a slumbering bee. The bee awak’d--with anger wild The bee awak’d, and stung the child. Loud and piteous are his cries; To Venus quick he runs, he flies; “Oh, Mother! I am wounded through-- I die with pain--in sooth I do! Stung by some little angry thing, Some serpent on a tiny wing-- A bee it was--for once, I know, I heard a rustic call it so.” Thus he spoke, and she the while Heard him with a soothing smile; Then said, “My infant, if so much Thou feel the little wild bee’s touch, How must the heart, ah, Cupid! be, The hapless heart that’s stung by thee!”

THOMAS MOORE.

CUPID AND MY CAMPASBE.

Cupid and my Campasbe played At cards for kisses. Cupid paid. He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows, His mother’s doves and team of sparrows. Loses them, too; then down he throws The coral of his lips, the rose Growing on his cheek, but none knows how; With them the crystal of his brow, And then the dimple of his chin. All these did my Campasbe win. At last he set her both his eyes; She won and Cupid blind did rise. Oh, Love, hath she done this to thee! What shall, alas, become of me!

JOHN LYLY.

A BALLAD FOR A BOY.

Violo Roseboro, one of our good authors, brought to me “A Ballad for a Boy,” saying: “I believe it is one of the poems that every child ought to know.” It is included in this compilation out of respect to her opinion and also because the boys to whom I have read it said it was “great,” The lesson in it is certainly fine. Men who are true men want to settle their own disputes by a hand-to-hand fight, but they will always help each other when a third party or the elements interfere. Humanity is greater than human interests.

When George the Third was reigning, a hundred years ago, He ordered Captain Farmer to chase the foreign foe, “You’re not afraid of shot,” said he, “you’re not afraid of wreck, So cruise about the west of France in the frigate called _Quebec_.

“Quebec was once a Frenchman’s town, but twenty years ago King George the Second sent a man called General Wolfe, you know, To clamber up a precipice and look into Quebec, As you’d look down a hatchway when standing on the deck.

“If Wolfe could beat the Frenchmen then, so you can beat them now. Before he got inside the town he died, I must allow. But since the town was won for us it is a lucky name, And you’ll remember Wolfe’s good work, and you shall do the same.”

Then Farmer said, “I’ll try, sir,” and Farmer bowed so low That George could see his pigtail tied in a velvet bow. George gave him his commission, and that it might be safer, Signed “King of Britain, King of France,” and sealed it with a wafer.

Then proud was Captain Farmer in a frigate of his own, And grander on his quarter-deck than George upon his throne. He’d two guns in his cabin, and on the spar-deck ten, And twenty on the gun-deck, and more than ten-score men.

And as a huntsman scours the brakes with sixteen brace of dogs, With two-and-thirty cannon the ship explored the fogs. From Cape la Hogue to Ushant, from Rochefort to Belleisle, She hunted game till reef and mud were rubbing on her keel.

The fogs are dried, the frigate’s side is bright with melting tar, The lad up in the foretop sees square white sails afar; The east wind drives three square-sailed masts from out the Breton bay, And “Clear for action!” Farmer shouts, and reefers yell “Hooray!”

The Frenchmen’s captain had a name I wish I could pronounce; A Breton gentleman was he, and wholly free from bounce, One like those famous fellows who died by guillotine For honour and the fleur-de-lys, and Antoinette the Queen.

The Catholic for Louis, the Protestant for George, Each captain drew as bright a sword as saintly smiths could forge; And both were simple seamen, but both could understand How each was bound to win or die for flag and native land.

The French ship was _La Surveillante_, which means the watchful maid; She folded up her head-dress and began to cannonade. Her hull was clean, and ours was foul; we had to spread more sail. On canvas, stays, and topsail yards her bullets came like hail.

Sore smitten were both captains, and many lads beside, And still to cut our rigging the foreign gunners tried. A sail-clad spar came flapping down athwart a blazing gun; We could not quench the rushing flames, and so the Frenchman won.

Our quarter-deck was crowded, the waist was all aglow; Men hung upon the taffrail half scorched, but loth to go; Our captain sat where once he stood, and would not quit his chair. He bade his comrades leap for life, and leave him bleeding there.

The guns were hushed on either side, the Frenchmen lowered boats, They flung us planks and hen-coops, and everything that floats. They risked their lives, good fellows! to bring their rivals aid. Twas by the conflagration the peace was strangely made.

_La Surveillante_ was like a sieve; the victors had no rest; They had to dodge the east wind to reach the port of Brest. And where the waves leapt lower and the riddled ship went slower, In triumph, yet in funeral guise, came fisher-boats to tow her.

They dealt with us as brethren, they mourned for Farmer dead; And as the wounded captives passed each Breton bowed the head. Then spoke the French Lieutenant, “Twas fire that won, not we. You never struck your flag to us; you’ll go to England free.”

Twas the sixth day of October, seventeen hundred seventy-nine, A year when nations ventured against us to combine, _Quebec_ was burned and Farmer slain, by us remembered not; But thanks be to the French book wherein they’re not forgot.

Now you, if you’ve to fight the French, my youngster, bear in mind Those seamen of King Louis so chivalrous and kind; Think of the Breton gentlemen who took our lads to Brest, And treat some rescued Breton as a comrade and a guest.

THE SKELETON IN ARMOUR.

“The Skeleton in Armour” (Longfellow, 1807-82) is a “boy’s poem.” It it pure literature and good history.

“Speak! speak! thou fearful guest! Who, with thy hollow breast Still in rude armour drest, Comest to daunt me! Wrapt not in Eastern balms, But with thy fleshless palms Stretched, as if asking alms, Why dost thou haunt me?”

Then from those cavernous eyes Pale flashes seemed to rise, As when the Northern skies Gleam in December; And, like the water’s flow Under December’s snow, Came a dull voice of woe From the heart’s chamber.

“I was a Viking old! My deeds, though manifold, No Skald in song has told, No Saga taught thee! Take heed that in thy verse Thou dost the tale rehearse, Else dread a dead man’s curse; For this I sought thee.

“Far in the Northern Land, By the wild Baltic’s strand, I, with my childish hand, Tamed the gerfalcon; And, with my skates fast-bound, Skimmed the half-frozen Sound, That the poor whimpering hound Trembled to walk on.

“Oft to his frozen lair Tracked I the grizzly bear, While from my path the hare Fled like a shadow; Oft through the forest dark Followed the were-wolf’s bark, Until the soaring lark Sang from the meadow.

“But when I older grew, Joining a corsair’s crew, O’er the dark sea I flew With the marauders. Wild was the life we led; Many the souls that sped, Many the hearts that bled, By our stern orders.

“Many a wassail-bout Wore the long Winter out; Often our midnight shout Set the cocks crowing, As we the Berserk’s tale Measured in cups of ale, Draining the oaken pail Filled to overflowing.

“Once as I told in glee Tales of the stormy sea, Soft eyes did gaze on me, Burning yet tender; And as the white stars shine On the dark Norway pine, On that dark heart of mine Fell their soft splendour.

“I wooed the blue-eyed maid, Yielding, yet half afraid, And in the forest’s shade Our vows were plighted. Under its loosened vest Fluttered her little breast, Like birds within their nest By the hawk frighted.

“Bright in her father’s hall Shields gleamed upon the wall, Loud sang the minstrels all, Chanting his glory; When of old Hildebrand I asked his daughter’s hand, Mute did the minstrels stand To hear my story.

“While the brown ale he quaffed, Loud then the champion laughed, And as the wind-gusts waft The sea-foam brightly, So the loud laugh of scorn, Out of those lips unshorn, From the deep drinking-horn Blew the foam lightly.

“She was a Prince’s child, I but a Viking wild, And though she blushed and smiled, I was discarded! Should not the dove so white Follow the sea-mew’s flight? Why did they leave that night Her nest unguarded?

“Scarce had I put to sea, Bearing the maid with me,-- Fairest of all was she Among the Norsemen!-- When on the white sea-strand, Waving his armed hand, Saw we old Hildebrand, With twenty horsemen.

“Then launched they to the blast, Bent like a reed each mast, Yet we were gaining fast, When the wind failed us; And with a sudden flaw Came round the gusty Skaw, So that our foe we saw Laugh as he hailed us.

“And as to catch the gale Round veered the flapping sail, ‘Death!’ was the helmsman’s hail, ‘Death without quarter!’ Midships with iron keel Struck we her ribs of steel; Down her black hulk did reel Through the black water!

“As with his wings aslant, Sails the fierce cormorant, Seeking some rocky haunt, With his prey laden, So toward the open main, Beating to sea again, Through the wild hurricane, Bore I the maiden.

“Three weeks we westward bore, And when the storm was o’er, Cloud-like we saw the shore Stretching to leeward; There for my lady’s bower Built I the lofty tower Which to this very hour Stands looking seaward.

“There lived we many years; Time dried the maiden’s tears; She had forgot her fears, She was a mother; Death closed her mild blue eyes; Under that tower she lies; Ne’er shall the sun arise On such another.

“Still grew my bosom then, Still as a stagnant fen! Hateful to me were men, The sunlight hateful! In the vast forest here, Clad in my warlike gear, Fell I upon my spear, Oh, death was grateful!

“Thus, seamed with many scars, Bursting these prison bars, Up to its native stars My soul ascended! There from the flowing bowl Deep drinks the warrior’s soul, _Skoal_! to the Northland! _skoal_!” Thus the tale ended.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

THE REVENGE.

A BALLAD OF THE FLEET

Tennyson’s (1807-92) “The _Revenge_” finds a welcome here because it is a favourite with teachers of elocution and their audiences. It teaches us to hold life cheap when the nation’s safety is at stake.

At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay, And a pinnace, like a fluttered bird, came flying from away: “Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fifty-three!” Then sware Lord Thomas Howard: “’Fore God, I am no coward; But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear, And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick. We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty-three?”

Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: “I know you are no coward; You fly them for a moment, to fight with them again. But I’ve ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore. I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord Howard, To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain.”

So Lord Howard passed away with five ships of war that day, Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven; But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the land Very carefully and slow, Men of Bideford in Devon, And we laid them on the ballast down below; For we brought them all aboard, And they blest him in their pain that they were not left to Spain, To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the Lord.

He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight, And he sail’d away from Flores till the Spaniard came in sight, With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather bow. “Shall we fight or shall we fly? Good Sir Richard, tell us now, For to fight is but to die!

“There’ll be little of us left by the time this sun be set” And Sir Richard said again: “We be all good Englishmen. Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the devil, For I never turn’d my back upon Don or devil yet.”

Sir Richard spoke and he laugh’d, and we roar’d a hurrah, and so The little _Revenge_ ran on sheer into the heart of the foe, With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick below; For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were seen, And the little _Revenge_ ran on thro’ the long sea-lane between.

Thousands of their soldiers looked down from their decks and laugh’d, Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little craft Running on and on, till delay’d By their mountain-like _San Philip_ that, of fifteen hundred tons, And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning tiers of guns, Took the breath from our sails, and we stay’d.

And while now the great _San Philip_ hung above us like a cloud Whence the thunderbolt will fall Long and loud. Four galleons drew away From the Spanish fleet that day, And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay, And the battle-thunder broke from them all.

But anon the great _San Philip_, she bethought herself and went, Having that within her womb that had left her ill content; And the rest they came aboard us, and they fought us hand to hand, For a dozen times they came with their pikes and musqueteers, And a dozen times we shook ’em off as a dog that shakes his ears When he leaps from the water to the land.

And the sun went down, and the stars came out far over the summer sea, But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-three; Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built galleons came, Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle-thunder and flame; Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her dead and her shame. For some were sunk and many were shatter’d, and so could fight us no more-- God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world before?

For he said, “Fight on! fight on!” Tho’ his vessel was all but a wreck; And it chanced that, when half of the short summer night was gone, With a grisly wound to be drest he had left the deck, But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead, And himself he was wounded again in the side and the head, And he said, “Fight on! Fight on!”

And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far over the summer sea, And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us all in a ring; But they dared not touch us again, for they fear’d that we still could sting, So they watched what the end would be. And we had not fought them in vain, But in perilous plight were we, Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain, And half of the rest of us maim’d for life In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife; And the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark and cold, And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder was all of it spent; And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side; But Sir Richard cried in his English pride: “We have fought such a fight for a day and a night As may never be fought again! We have won great glory, my men! And a day less or more At sea or ashore, We die--does it matter when? Sink me the ship, Master Gunner--sink her, split her in twain! Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain!”

And the gunner said. “Ay, ay,” but the seamen made reply: “We have children, we have wives, And the Lord hath spared our lives. We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us go; We shall live to fight again, and to strike another blow.” And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe. And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore him then, Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard caught at last, And they praised him to his face with their courtly foreign grace; But he rose upon their decks, and he cried: “I have fought for Queen and Faith like a valiant man and true; I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do. With a joyful spirit I, Sir Richard Grenville, die!” And he fell upon their decks, and he died.

And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and true, And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheap That he dared her with one little ship and his English few. Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they knew, But they sank his body with honour down into the deep, And they mann’d the _Revenge_ with a swarthier alien crew, And away she sail’d with her loss and long’d for her own; When a wind from the lands they had ruin’d awoke from sleep, And the water began to heave and the weather to moan, And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew, And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earthquake grew, Till it smote on their hulls, and their sails, and their masts, and their flags, And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shatter’d navy of Spain, And the little _Revenge_ herself went down by the island crags, To be lost evermore in the main.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

SIR GALAHAD.

Sir Galahad is the most moral and upright of all the Knights of the Round Table. The strong lines of the poem (Tennyson, 1809-92) are the strong lines of human destiny--

“My strength is as the strength of ten Because my heart is pure.”

My good blade carves the casques of men, My tough lance thrusteth sure, My strength is as the strength of ten, Because my heart is pure. The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, The hard brands shiver on the steel, The splintered spear-shafts crack and fly, The horse and rider reel: They reel, they roll in clanging lists, And when the tide of combat stands, Perfume and flowers fall in showers, That lightly rain from ladies’ hands.

How sweet are looks that ladies bend On whom their favours fall! For them I battle till the end, To save from shame and thrall: But all my heart is drawn above, My knees are bow’d in crypt and shrine: I never felt the kiss of love, Nor maiden’s hand in mine. More bounteous aspects on me beam, Me mightier transports move and thrill; So keep I fair thro’ faith and prayer A virgin heart in work and will.

When down the stormy crescent goes, A light before me swims, Between dark stems the forest glows, I hear a noise of hymns: Then by some secret shrine I ride; I hear a voice, but none are there; The stalls are void, the doors are wide, The tapers burning fair. Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, The silver vessels sparkle clean, The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, And solemn chaunts resound between.

Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres I find a magic bark; I leap on board: no helmsman steers, I float till all is dark. A gentle sound, an awful light! Three angels bear the holy Grail: With folded feet, in stoles of white, On sleeping wings they sail. Ah, blessèd vision! blood of God! My spirit beats her mortal bars, As down dark tides the glory slides, And star-like mingles with the stars.

When on my goodly charger borne Thro’ dreaming towns I go, The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, The streets are dumb with snow. The tempest crackles on the leads, And, ringing, springs from brand and mail; But o’er the dark a glory spreads, And gilds the driving hail. I leave the plain, I climb the height; No branchy thicket shelter yields; But blessèd forms in whistling storms Fly o’er waste fens and windy fields.

A maiden knight--to me is given Such hope, I know not fear; I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven That often meet me here. I muse on joy that will not cease, Pure spaces cloth’d in living beams, Pure lilies of eternal peace, Whose odours haunt my dreams; And, stricken by an angel’s hand, This mortal armour that I wear, This weight and size, this heart and eyes, Are touch’d, are turn’d to finest air.

The clouds are broken in the sky, And thro’ the mountain-walls A rolling organ-harmony Swells up, and shakes and falls. Then move the trees, the copses nod, Wings flutter, voices hover clear: “O just and faithful knight of God! Ride on! the prize is near.” So pass I hostel, hall, and grange; By bridge and ford, by park and pale, All-arm’d I ride, whate’er betide, Until I find the holy Grail.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

A NAME IN THE SAND.

“A Name in the Sand,” by Hannah Flagg Gould (1789-1865), is a poem to correct our ready overestimate of our own importance.

Alone I walked the ocean strand; A pearly shell was in my hand: I stooped and wrote upon the sand My name--the year--the day. As onward from the spot I passed, One lingering look behind I cast; A wave came rolling high and fast, And washed my lines away.

And so, methought, ’twill shortly be With every mark on earth from me: A wave of dark oblivion’s sea Will sweep across the place Where I have trod the sandy shore Of time, and been, to be no more, Of me--my day--the name I bore, To leave nor track nor trace.

And yet, with Him who counts the sands And holds the waters in His hands, I know a lasting record stands Inscribed against my name, Of all this mortal part has wrought, Of all this thinking soul has thought, And from these fleeting moments caught For glory or for shame.

HANNAH FLAGG GOULD.