Chapter 19

Suppose that some boys have a horse, And some a coach and pair, Will it tire you less while walking To say, "It isn't fair"? And wouldn't it be nobler To keep your temper sweet, And in your heart be thankful You can walk upon your feet?

And suppose the world don't please you, Nor the way some people do, Do you think the whole creation Will be altered just for you? And isn't it, my boy or girl, The wisest, bravest plan, Whatever comes, or doesn't come, To do the best you can?

_Phoebe Cary._

I Like Little Pussy

I like little Pussy, Her coat is so warm; And if I don't hurt her She'll do me no harm. So I'll not pull her tail, Nor drive her away, But Pussy and I Very gently will play; She shall sit by my side, And I'll give her some food; And she'll love me because I am gentle and good.

I'll pat little Pussy, And then she will purr, And thus show her thanks For my kindness to her; I'll not pinch her ears, Nor tread on her paw, Lest I should provoke her To use her sharp claw; I never will vex her, Nor make her displeased, For Pussy don't like To be worried or teased.

_Jane Taylor._

Thanksgiving-Day

Over the river and through the wood, To Grandfather's house we go; The horse knows the way To carry the sleigh Through the white and drifted snow.

Over the river and through the wood,-- Oh, how the wind does blow! It stings the toes, And bites the nose, As over the ground we go.

Over the river and through the wood, Trot fast, my dapple gray! Spring over the ground, Like a hunting hound, For this is Thanksgiving-Day.

Over the river and through the wood, And straight through the barnyard gate! We seem to go Extremely slow,-- It is so hard to wait!

Over the river and through the wood; Now Grandmother's cap I spy! Hurrah for the fun! Is the pudding done? Hurrah for the pumpkin pie!

_Lydia Maria Child._

Daffodils

I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay; Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they Outdid the sparkling waves in glee; A poet could not but be gay In such a jocund company; I gazed--and gazed--but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought.

For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.

_William Wordsworth._

To a Butterfly

I've watched you now a full half-hour, Self-poised upon that yellow flower; And, little Butterfly! indeed I know not if you sleep or feed. More motionless! and then How motionless!--not frozen seas What joy awaits you, when the breeze Hath found you out among the trees, And calls you forth again; This plot of orchard-ground is ours; My trees they are, my Sister's flowers; Here rest your wings when they are weary; Here lodge as in a sanctuary! Come often to us, fear no wrong; Sit near us on the bough! We'll talk of sunshine and of song, And summer days when we were young; Sweet childish days, that were as long As twenty days are now.

_William Wordsworth._

To The Fringed Gentian

Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven's own blue, That openest when the quiet light Succeeds the keen and frosty night,

Thou comest not when violets lean O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen, Or columbines, in purple dressed, Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.

Thou waitest late and com'st alone, When woods are bare and birds are flown, And frosts and shortening days portend The aged Year is near his end.

Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye Look through its fringes to the sky, Blue--blue--as if that sky let fall A flower from its cerulean wall.

I would that thus, when I shall see The hour of death draw near to me, Hope, blossoming within my heart, May look to heaven as I depart.

_William Cullen Bryant._

The Song of the Camp

"Give us a song!" the soldiers cried, The outer trenches guarding, When the heated guns of the camps allied Grew weary of bombarding.

The dark Redan, in silent scoff, Lay, grim and threatening, under; And the tawny mound of the Malakoff No longer belched its thunder.

There was a pause. A guardsman said, "We storm the forts to-morrow; Sing while we may, another day Will bring enough of sorrow."

They lay along the battery's side Below the smoking cannon: Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde, And from the banks of Shannon.

They sang of love, and not of fame; Forgot was Britain's glory: Each heart recalled a different name, But all sang "Annie Laurie."

Voice after voice caught up the song, Until its tender passion Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,-- Their battle-eve confession.

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, But, as the song grew louder, Something upon the soldier's cheek Washed off the stains of powder.

Beyond the darkening ocean burned The bloody sunset's embers, While the Crimean valleys learned How English love remembers.

And once again a fire of hell Rained on the Russian quarters, With scream of shot, and burst of shell, And bellowing of the mortars!

And Irish Nora's eyes are dim For a singer, dumb and gory; And English Mary mourns for him Who sang of "Annie Laurie."

Sleep, soldiers! still in honored rest Your truth and valor wearing: The bravest are the tenderest,-- The loving are the daring.

_Bayard Taylor._

She Walks in Beauty

She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!

_Lord Byron._

The Builders

All are architects of Fate, Working in these walls of Time; Some with massive deeds and great, Some with ornaments of rhyme.

Nothing useless is, or low; Each thing in its place is best; And what seems but idle show Strengthens and supports the rest.

For the structure that we raise, Time is with materials filled; Our to-days and yesterdays Are the blocks with which we build.

Truly shape and fashion these; Leave no yawning gaps between; Think not, because no man sees, Such things will remain unseen.

In the elder days of Art, Builders wrought with greatest care Each minute and unseen part; For the Gods see everywhere.

Let us do our work as well, Both the unseen and the seen! Make the house, where Gods may dwell, Beautiful, entire, and clean.

Else our lives are incomplete, Standing in these walls of Time, Broken stairways, where the feet Stumble as they seek to climb.

Build to-day, then, strong and sure, With a firm and ample base; And ascending and secure Shall to-morrow find its place.

Thus alone can we attain To those turrets, where the eye Sees the world as one vast plain, And one boundless reach of sky.

_Henry W. Longfellow._

The Brown Thrush

There's a merry brown thrush sitting up in the tree, He's singing to me! He's singing to me! And what does he say, little girl, little boy? "Oh, the world's running over with joy! Don't you hear? don't you see? Hush! Look! In my tree, I'm as happy as happy can be!"

And the brown thrush keeps singing, "A nest do you see, And five eggs hid by me in the juniper tree? Don't meddle! don't touch! little girl, little boy, Or the world will lose some of its joy! Now I'm glad! now I'm free! And I always shall be, If you never bring sorrow to me."

So the merry brown thrush sings away in the tree, To you and to me, to you and to me; And he sings all the day, little girl, little boy, "Oh, the world's running over with joy; But long it won't be, Don't you know? don't you see? Unless we are as good as can be!"

_Lucy Larcom._

The Quality of Mercy

(_From, "The Merchant of Venice"_)

The quality of mercy is not strain'd. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath. It is twice bless'd: It blesseth him that gives and him that takes. 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes The throned monarch better than his crown. His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, The attribute to awe and majesty, Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; But mercy is above this sceptred sway; It is enthroned in the hearts of kings; It is an attribute to God himself; And earthly power doth then show likest God's When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, Though justice be thy plea, consider this, That, in the course of justice, none of us Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy; And that same prayer doth teach us all to render The deeds of mercy.

_William Shakespeare._

Don't Give Up

If you've tried and have not won, Never stop for crying; All's that's great and good is done Just by patient trying.

Though young birds, in flying, fall, Still their wings grow stronger; And the next time they can keep Up a little longer.

Though the sturdy oak has known Many a blast that bowed her, She has risen again, and grown Loftier and prouder.

If by easy work you beat, Who the more will prize you? Gaining victory from defeat,-- That's the test that tries you!

_Phoebe Cary._

Incident of the French Camp

You know we French stormed Ratisbon: A mile or so away On a little mound, Napoleon Stood on our storming-day; With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, Legs wide, arms locked behind, As if to balance the prone brow, Oppressive with its mind. Just as perhaps he mused, "My plans That soar, to earth may fall, Let once my army-leader Lannes Waver at yonder wall,"-- Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew A rider, bound on bound Full-galloping; nor bridle drew Until he reached the mound.

Then off there flung in smiling joy, And held himself erect By just his horse's mane, a boy: You hardly could suspect-- (So tight he kept his lips compressed, Scarce any blood came through) You looked twice ere you saw his breast Was all but shot in two.

"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace We've got you Ratisbon! The Marshall's in the market-place, And you'll be there anon To see your flag-bird flap his vans Where I, to heart's desire, Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his plans Soared up again like fire.

The chief's eye flashed; but presently Softened itself, as sheathes A film the mother-eagle's eye When her bruised eaglet breathes; "You're wounded!" "Nay," his soldier's pride Touched to the quick, he said: "I'm killed, Sire!" And his chief beside, Smiling, the boy fell dead.

_Robert Browning._

The Bugle Song

(_From "The Princess"_)

The splendor falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story: The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going! O sweet and far from cliff and scar[A] The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever. Blow bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

_Alfred, Lord Tennyson._

[Footnote A: Scar, a deep bank.]

A Child's Thought of God

They say that God lives very high; But if you look above the pines You cannot see our God; and why?

And if you dig down in the mines, You never see him in the gold, Though from Him all that's glory shines.

God is so good, He wears a fold Of heaven and earth across His face, Like secrets kept for love untold.

But still I feel that His embrace Slides down by thrills through all things made, Through sight and sound of every place;

As if my tender mother laid On my shut lips her kisses' pressure, Half waking me at night, and said, "Who kissed you through the dark, dear guesser?"

_Elizabeth Barrett Browning._

The Blue and The Gray

By the flow of the inland river, Where the fleets of iron have fled, Where the blades of grave grass quiver, Asleep are the ranks of the dead; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day-- Under the one, the Blue; Under the other, the Gray.

These in the robings of glory, Those in the gloom of defeat, All, with the battle blood gory, In the dusk of eternity meet; Under the sod and the dew,-- Waiting the judgment day-- Under the laurel, the Blue; Under the willow, the Gray.

From the silence of sorrowful hours The desolate mourners go, Lovingly laden with flowers Alike for the friend and the foe; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day-- Under the roses, the Blue; Under the lilies, the Gray.

So with an equal splendor The morning sun-rays fall, With a touch impartially tender, On the blossoms blooming for all; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day-- 'Broidered with gold, the Blue; Mellowed with gold, the Gray.

So, when the summer calleth, On forest and field of grain With an equal murmur falleth The cooling drip of the rain; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day-- Wet with the rain, the Blue; Wet with the rain, the Gray.

Sadly, but not with upbraiding, The generous deed was done; In the storm of the years that are fading. No braver battle was won; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day-- Under the blossoms, the Blue; Under the garlands, the Gray.

No more shall the war-cry sever, Or the winding rivers be red; They banish our anger forever When they laurel the graves of our dead! Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day-- Love and tears for the Blue; Tears and love for the Gray.

_Francis Miles Finch._

Good Night and Good Morning

A fair little girl sat under a tree, Sewing as long as her eyes could see, Then smoothed her work, and folded it right, And said, "Dear work, good night, good night!"

Such a number of rooks came over her head, Crying "Caw, caw," on their way to bed; She said, as she watched their curious flight, "Little black things, good night, good night!"

The horses neighed, and the oxen lowed, The sheep's "bleat, bleat" came over the road, And all seemed to say, with a quiet delight, "Good little girl, good night, good night!"

She did not say to the sun "Good night," Tho' she saw him there like a ball of light; For she knew he had God's own time to keep All over the world, and never could sleep.

The tall pink foxglove bowed his head, The violets curtseyed and went to bed; And good little Lucy tied up her hair, And said, on her knees, her favorite prayer.

And, while on her pillow she softly lay, She knew nothing more till again it was day; And all things said to the beautiful sun, "Good morning, good morning, our work is begun!"

_Lord Houghton._

Lady Moon

"Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving?" "Over the sea." "Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving?" "All that love me."

"Are you not tired with rolling and never Resting to sleep? Why look so pale and so sad, as for ever Wishing to weep?"

"Ask me not this, little child, if you love me; You are too bold I must obey my dear Father above me, And do as I'm told."

"Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving?" "Over the sea." "Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving?" "All that love me."

_Lord Houghton._

Breathes There the Man With Soul So Dead?

_(From "The Lay of the Last Minstrel")_

Breathes there the man with soul so dead Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land? Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned From wandering on a foreign strand? If such there breathe, go, mark him well; For him no minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim,-- Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonored and unsung.

_Sir Walter Scott._

Pippa's Song

The year's at the spring, And day's at the morn; Morning's at seven; The hillside's dew-pearled; The lark's on the wing; The snail's on the thorn; God's in His heaven-- All's right with the world!

_Robert Browning._

Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star

Twinkle, twinkle, little star; How I wonder what you are! Up above the world so high, Like a diamond in the sky.

When the glorious sun is set, When the grass with dew is wet, Then you show your little light, Twinkle, twinkle, all the night.

In the dark blue sky you keep, And often through my curtains peep; For you never shut your eye Till the sun is in the sky.

As your bright and tiny spark Lights the traveler in the dark, Though I know not what you are, Twinkle, twinkle, little star.

_Jane Taylor._

Crossing the Bar

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 crost the bar.

_Alfred, Lord Tennyson._

The Tree

The Tree's early leaf buds were bursting their brown; "Shall I take them away?" said the Frost, sweeping down. "No, leave them alone Till the blossoms have grown," Prayed the Tree, while he trembled from rootlet to crown.

The Tree bore his blossoms, and all the birds sung: "Shall I take them away?" said the Wind, as he swung, "No, leave them alone Till the blossoms have grown," Said the Tree, while his leaflets quivering hung.

The Tree bore his fruit in the midsummer glow: Said the child, "May I gather thy berries now?" "Yes, all thou canst see: Take them; all are for thee," Said the Tree, while he bent down his laden boughs low.

_Bjorrstjerne Bjornson._

The Fountain

Into the sunshine, Full of the light, Leaping and flashing From morn till night;

Into the moonlight, Whiter than snow, Waving so flower-like When the winds blow;

Into the starlight Rushing in spray, Happy at midnight, Happy by day;

Ever in motion, Blithesome and cheery, Still climbing heavenward, Never aweary;

Glad of all weathers, Still seeming best, Upward or downward, Motion thy rest;

Full of a nature Nothing can tame, Changed every moment, Ever the same;

Ceaseless aspiring, Ceaseless content, Darkness or sunshine Thy element;

Glorious fountain, Let my heart be Fresh, changeful, constant, Upward, like thee!

_James Russell Lowell._

The Leak in the Dike

The good dame looked from her cottage At the close of the pleasant day, And cheerily called to her little son, Outside the door at play: "Come, Peter, come! I want you to go, While there is light to see. To the hut of the blind old man who lives Across the dike, for me; And take these cakes I made for him-- They are hot and smoking yet; You have time enough to go and come Before the sun is set."

Then the good-wife turned to her labor, Humming a simple song, And thought of her husband, working hard At the sluices all day long; And set the turf a-blazing, And brought the coarse black bread, That he might find a fire at night And find the table spread.

And Peter left the brother With whom all day he had played, And the sister who had watched their sports In the willow's tender shade; And told them they'd see him back before They saw a star in sight, Though he wouldn't be afraid to go In the very darkest night! For he was a brave, bright fellow, With eye and conscience clear; He could do whatever a boy might do, And he had not learned to fear. Why, he wouldn't have robbed a bird's nest, Nor brought a stork to harm, Though never a law in Holland Had stood to stay his arm!

And now with his face all glowing, And eyes as bright as the day With the thoughts of his pleasant errand, He trudged along the way; And soon his joyous prattle Made glad a lonesome place-- Alas! if only the blind old man, Could have seen that happy face! Yet he somehow caught the brightness Which his voice and presence lent; And he felt the sunshine come and go As Peter came and went.

And now, as the day was sinking, And the winds began to rise, The mother looked from her door again, Shading her anxious eyes, And saw the shadows deepen And birds to their homes come back, But never a sign of Peter Along the level track. But she said, "He will come at morning, So I need not fret nor grieve-- Though it isn't like my boy at all To stay without my leave."

But where was the child delaying? On the homeward way was he, Across the dike while the sun was up An hour above the sea. He was stopping now to gather flowers, Now listening to the sound, As the angry waters dashed themselves Against their narrow bound. "Ah! well for us," said Peter, "That the gates are good and strong, And my father tends them carefully, Or they would not hold you long! You're a wicked sea," said Peter," "I know why you fret and chafe; You would like to spoil our lands and homes, But our sluices keep you safe!

But hark! Through the noise of waters Comes a low, clear, trickling sound; And the child's face pales with terror, And his blossoms drop to the ground, He is up the bank in a moment, And, stealing through the sand, He sees a stream not yet so large As his slender, childish hand. 'Tis a leak in the dike! He is but a boy, Unused to fearful scenes; But, young as he is, he has learned to know The dreadful thing that means. A leak in the dike! The stoutest heart Grows faint that cry to hear, And the bravest man in all the land Turns white with mortal fear; For he knows the smallest leak may grow To a flood in a single night; And he knows the strength of the cruel sea When loosed in its angry might.

And the boy! He has seen the danger And shouting a wild alarm, He forces back the weight of the sea With the strength of his single arm! He listens for the joyful sound Of a footstep passing nigh; And lays his ear to the ground, to catch The answer to his cry. And he hears the rough winds blowing, And the waters rise and fall, But never an answer comes to him Save the echo of his call.