Chapter 20

He sees no hope, no succor, His feeble voice is lost; Yet what shall he do but watch and wait, Though he perish at his post! So, faintly calling and crying Till the sun is under the sea; Crying and moaning till the stars Come out for company; He thinks of his brother and sister, Asleep in their safe warm bed; He thinks of his father and mother, Of himself as dying--and dead; And of how, when the night is over, They must come and find him at last; But he never thinks he can leave the place Where duty holds him fast.

The good dame in the cottage Is up and astir with the light, For the thought of her little Peter Has been with her all night. And now she watches the pathway, As yester eve she had done; But what does she see so strange and black Against the rising sun? Her neighbors are bearing between them Something straight to her door; Her child is coming home, but not As he ever came before!

"He is dead!" she cries, "my darling!" And the startled father hears. And comes and looks the way she looks, And fears the thing she fears; Till a glad shout from the bearers Thrills the stricken man and wife-- "Give thanks, for your son, has saved our land, And God has saved his life!" So, there in the morning sunshine They knelt about the boy; And every head was bared and bent In tearful, reverent joy.

'Tis many a year since then, but still, When the sea roars like a flood, Their boys are taught what a boy can do Who is brave and true and good; For every man in that country Takes his son by the hand, And tells him of little Peter Whose courage saved the land. They have many a valiant hero Remembered through the years; But never one whose name so oft Is named with loving tears; And his deed shall be sung by the cradle, And told to the child on the knee, So long as the dikes of Holland Divide the land from the sea!

_Phoebe Cary._

Robert of Lincoln

Merrily swinging on briar and weed, Near to the nest of his little dame, Over the mountain-side or mead, Robert of Lincoln is telling his name: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Snug and safe is that nest of ours, Hidden among the summer flowers. Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln is gaily drest, Wearing a bright black wedding coat; White are his shoulders and white his crest, Hear him call in his merry note: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Look, what a nice new coat is mine, Sure there was never a bird so fine. Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, Passing at home a patient life, Broods in the grass while her husband sings: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Brood, kind creature; you need not fear Thieves and robbers while I am here. Chee, chee, chee.

Modest and shy as a nun is she; One weak chirp is her only note. Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, Pouring boasts from his little throat: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Never was I afraid of man; Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can. Chee, chee, chee.

Six white eggs on a bed of hay, Flecked with purple, a pretty sight! There as the mother sits all day, Robert is singing with all his might: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Nice, good wife, that never goes out, Keeping the house while I frolic about. Chee, chee, chee.

Soon as the little ones chip the shell Six wide mouths are open for food; Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, Gathering seeds for the hungry brood. Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; This new life is likely to be Hard for a gay young fellow like me. Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln at length is made Sober with work, and silent with care; Off is his holiday garment laid, Half forgotten that merry air, Bob-o'-link, Bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Nobody knows but my mate and I Where our nest and our nestlings lie. Chee, chee, chee.

Summer wanes; the children are grown; Fun and frolic no more he knows; Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone; Off he flies, and we sing as he goes: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; When you can pipe that merry old strain, Robert of Lincoln, come back again. Chee, chee, chee,

_William Cullen Bryant._

Wishing

Ring-Ting! I wish I were a Primrose, A bright yellow Primrose, blowing in the spring! The stooping boughs above me, The wandering bee to love me, The fern and moss to creep across, And the Elm tree for our king!

Nay--stay! I wish I were an Elm tree, A great, lofty Elm tree, with green leaves gay! The winds would set them dancing, The sun and moonshine glance in, The birds would house among the boughs, And sweetly sing.

Oh no! I wish I were a Robin, A Robin or a little Wren, everywhere to go; Through forest, field, or garden, And ask no leave or pardon, Till winter comes with icy thumbs To ruffle up our wing!

Well--tell! Where should I fly to, Where go to sleep in the dark wood or dell? Before a day was over, Home comes the rover. For mother's kiss--sweeter this Than any other thing.

_William Allingham._

The Burial of Sir John Moore at Corunna

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning; By struggling moonbeam's misty light, And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head; And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him; But little he'll reck; if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock tolled the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down. From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory!

_Charles Wolfe._

How Many Seconds in a Minute?

How many seconds in a minute? Sixty, and no more in it.

How many minutes in an hour? Sixty for sun and shower.

How many hours in a day? Twenty-four for work and play.

How many days in a week? Seven both to hear and speak.

How many weeks in a month? Four, as the swift moon runn'th.

How many months in a year? Twelve, the almanack makes clear.

How many years in an age? One hundred, says the sage.

How many ages in time? No one knows the rhyme.

_Christina G. Rossetti._

To-day

Here hath been dawning another blue day: Think, wilt thou let it slip useless away? Out of Eternity this new day was born; Into Eternity, at night, will return. Behold it aforetime no eye ever did; So soon it forever from all eyes is hid. Here hath been dawning another blue day: Think, wilt thou let it slip useless away?

_Thomas Carlyle._

The Wind and the Moon

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 will 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 clear 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 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 halloed 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 a 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._

The Little Plant

In the heart of a seed, Buried deep, so deep, A dear little plant Lay fast asleep!

"Wake!" said the sunshine, "And creep to the light!" "Wake!" said the voice Of the raindrop bright.

The little plant heard And it rose to see What the wonderful Outside world might be.

_Kate L. Brown._

Paul Revere's Ride

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

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

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

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

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

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead In their night encampment on the hill, Wrapped in silence so deep and still That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, The watchful night wind, as it went, Creeping along from tent to tent, And seeming to whisper, "All is well!" A moment only he feels the spell Of the place and hour, and the secret dread Of the lonely belfry and the dead, For suddenly all his thoughts are bent On a shadowy something far away, Where the river widens to meet the bay, A line of black, that bends and floats On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. Now he patted his horse's side, Now gazed on the landscape far and near, Then impetuous stamped the earth, And turned and tightened his saddle girth; But mostly he watched with eager search The belfry tower of the old North Church, As it rose above the graves on the hill, Lonely and spectral, and sombre and still. And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight A second lamp in the belfry burns.

A harry of hoofs in a village street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet; That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light, The fate of a nation was riding that night; And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, Kindled the land into flame with its heat. He has left the village and mounted the steep, And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides; And under the alders, that skirt its edge, Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

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

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

It was two by the village clock When he came to the bridge in Concord town. He heard the bleating of the flock, And the twittering of birds among the trees, And felt the breath of the morning breeze Blowing over the meadows brown. And one was safe and asleep in his bed Who at the bridge would be first to fall, Who that day would be lying dead, Pierced by a British musket ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read How the British regulars fired and fled-- How the farmers gave them ball for ball, From behind each fence and farmyard wall, Chasing the red coats down the lane, Then crossing the fields to emerge again Under the trees at the turn of the road, And only pausing to fire and load.

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

_Henry W. Longfellow._

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies grow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly, Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved; and now we lie In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe! To you, from failing hands, we throw The torch. Be yours to hold it high! If ye break faith with us who die, We shall not sleep, though poppies blow In Flanders fields.

_John McCrae._

In Flanders Fields: An Answer

In Flanders fields the cannon boom And fitful flashes light the gloom, While up above, like eagles, fly The fierce destroyers of the sky; With stains the earth wherein you lie Is redder than the poppy bloom, In Flanders fields.

Sleep on, ye brave. The shrieking shell, The quaking trench, the startled yell, The fury of the battle hell Shall wake you not; for all is well. Sleep peacefully; for all is well.

Your flaming torch aloft we bear, With burning heart an oath we swear To keep the faith, to fight it through, To crush the foe, or sleep with you In Flanders fields.

_C.B. Galbreath._

Little Boy Blue

The little toy dog is covered with dust, But sturdy and stanch he stands; And the little toy soldier is red with rust, And his musket moulds in his hands. Time was when the little toy dog was new And the soldier was passing fair, And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue Kissed them and put them there.

"Now, don't you go till I come," he said, "And don't you make any noise!" So toddling off to his trundle-bed He dreamt of the pretty toys. And as he was dreaming, an angel song Awakened our Little Boy Blue,-- Oh, the years are many, the years are long, But the little toy friends are true.

Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand, Each in the same old place, Awaiting the touch of a little hand, The smile of a little face. And they wonder, as waiting these long years through, In the dust of that little chair, What has become of our little Boy Blue Since he kissed them and put them there.

_Eugene Field._

Thanatopsis

To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language; for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty, and she glides Into his darker musings with a mild And healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hoar come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;-- Go forth, under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings, while from all around-- Earth and her waters, and the depths of air,-- Comes a still voice--Yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, Where thy pale form was laid with many tears. Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being, shalt thou go To mix forever with the elements, To be a brother to the insensible rock And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone--nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world--with kings. The powerful of the earth--the wise, the good, Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills, Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun,--the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between; The venerable woods--rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,-- Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, Save his own dashings--yet, the dead are there; And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep--the dead reign there alone. So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw In silence from the living, and no friend Take note of thy departure? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glide away, the sons of men,-- The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron, and maid, And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man,-- Shall one by one be gathered to thy side, By those who in their turn shall follow them.

So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan which moves To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

_William Cullen Bryant._

The First Settler's Story

It ain't the funniest thing a man can do-- Existing in a country when it's new; Nature, who moved in first--a good long while-- Has things already somewhat her own style, And she don't want her woodland splendors battered, Her rustic furniture broke up and scattered, Her paintings, which long years ago were done By that old splendid artist-king, the sun, Torn down and dragged in civilization's gutter, Or sold to purchase settlers' bread and butter. She don't want things exposed from porch to closet, And so she kind o' nags the man who does it. She carries in her pockets bags of seeds, As general agent of the thriftiest weeds; She sends her blackbirds, in the early morn, To superintend his fields of planted corn; She gives him rain past any duck's desire-- Then maybe several weeks of quiet fire; She sails mosquitoes--leeches perched on wings-- To poison him with blood-devouring stings; She loves her ague-muscle to display, And shake him up--say every other day; With, thoughtful, conscientious care she makes Those travelin' poison-bottles, rattlesnakes; She finds time, 'mongst her other family cares, To keep in stock good wild-cats, wolves, and bears.

Well, when I first infested this retreat, Things to my view looked frightful incomplete; But I had come with heart-thrift in my song, And brought my wife and plunder right along; I hadn't a round trip ticket to go back, And if I had there wasn't no railroad track; And drivin' East was what I couldn't endure: I hadn't started on a circular tour.

My girl-wife was as brave as she was good, And helped me every blessed way she could; She seemed to take to every rough old tree, As sing'lar as when first she took to me. She kep' our little log-house neat as wax, And once I caught her fooling with my axe. She learned a hundred masculine things to do: She aimed a shot-gun pretty middlin' true, Although in spite of my express desire, She always shut her eyes before she'd fire. She hadn't the muscle (though she _had_ the heart) In out-door work to take an active part; Though in our firm of Duty and Endeavor She wasn't no silent partner whatsoever. When I was logging, burning, choppin' wood, She'd linger round and help me all she could, And keep me fresh-ambitious all the while, And lifted tons just with her voice and smile. With no desire my glory for to rob, She used to stan' around and boss the job; And when first-class success my hands befell, Would proudly say, "_We_ did that pretty well!" She _was_ delicious, both to hear and see-- That pretty wife-girl that kep' house for me.