Part 2

This beautifully touching poem is the creation of Mr. J. L. McCreery, a native of Iowa, and at one time editor of the Delaware County Journal, of that state. The poem was written in 1863 and was first published in Arthur’s Home Magazine in July of that year. The authorship of the poem was for many years erroneously attributed to Lord Lytton, the English poet. A thorough investigation carried on by Lippincott’s a few years ago fully established the authorship. The poem has been printed in every state of the Union, in England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, Canada, and even in Australia. It has gone into dozens of school books and been incorporated in scores of miscellaneous collections of poetry. It has been quoted in full or in part at least five times on the floor of Congress. Mr. McCreery has for the past few years been a resident of the national capital and his best poems have been collected into a volume entitled “Songs of Toil and Triumph.”

There is no death, the stars go down To rise upon some other shore, And bright in heaven’s jeweled crown They shine forever more.

There is no death! the forest leaves Convert to life the viewless air; The rocks disorganize to feed The hungry moss they bear.

There is no death! the dust we tread Shall change, beneath the summer showers, To golden grain, or mellow fruit, Or rainbow-tinted flowers.

There is no death! the leaves may fall, The flowers may fade and pass away.— They only wait, through wintry hours, The warm, sweet breath of May.

There is no death! the choicest gifts That heaven hath kindly lent to earth Are ever first to seek again The country of their birth.

And all things that for growth of joy Are worthy of our love or care, Whose loss has left us desolate, Are safely garnered there.

Though life become a dreary waste, We know its fairest, sweetest flowers, Transplanted into paradise, Adorn immortal bowers.

The voice of bird-like melody That we have missed and mourned so long Now mingles with the angel choir In everlasting song.

There is no death! although we grieve When beautiful, familiar forms That we have learned to love are torn From our embracing arms.

Although with bowed and breaking heart, With sable garb and silent tread, We bear their senseless dust to rest, And say that they are “dead.”

They are not dead! they have but passed Beyond the mists that blind us here Into the new and larger life Of that serener sphere.

They have but dropped their robe of clay To put their shining raiment on; They have not wandered far away— They are not “lost” or “gone.”

Though disenthralled and glorified, They still are here and love us yet; The dear ones they have left behind They never can forget.

And sometimes, when our hearts grow faint Amid temptations fierce and deep, Or when the wildly raging waves Of grief or passion sweep,

We feel upon our fevered brow Their gentle touch, their breath of balm; Their arms enfold us, and our hearts Grow comforted and calm.

And ever near us, though unseen, The dear, immortal spirits tread; For all the boundless universe Is life—there are no dead.

THE FOOL’S PRAYER. BY E. R. SILL.

Edward Rowland Sill was born at Windsor, Conn., April 29, 1841; died in Cleveland, O., Feb. 27, 1887. He was graduated from Yale in 1861; studied biology at Harvard, did literary work in New York City, taught school in California and Ohio, and was for eight years professor of English language and literature in the University of California. His poems were privately printed under the title “The Hermitage and Other Poems.”

The royal feast was done; the king Sought some new sport to banish care, And to his jester cried: “Sir Fool, Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!”

The jester doffed his cap and bells, And stood the mocking court before; They could not see the bitter smile Behind the painted grin he wore,

He bowed his head, and bent his knee Upon the monarch’s silken stool; His pleading voice arose: “O Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool!

“No pity, Lord, could change the heart From red with wrong to white as wool; The rod must heal the sin; but, Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool!

“’Tis not by guilt the onward sweep Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay; ’Tis by our follies that so long We hold the earth from heaven away.

“These clumsy feet, still in the mire, Go crushing blossoms without end; These hard, well meaning hands we thrust Among the heart-strings of a friend.

“The ill-timed truth we might have kept— Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung! The word we had not sense to say— Who knows how grandly it had rung!

“Our faults no tenderness should ask, The chastening stripes must cleanse them all; But for our blunders—O, in shame Before the eyes of heaven we fall.

“Earth bears no balsam for mistakes; Men crown the knave and scourge the tool That did his will; but thou, O Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool!”

The room was hushed; in silence rose The king, and sought his gardens cool, And walked apart, and murmured low, “Be merciful to me, a fool!”

ROCK ME TO SLEEP. BY ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.

This is one of the songs which, as Longfellow said, gush from the heart of “some humbler poet.” In this country, at least, it has been extremely popular, having been set to music and sung in innumerable households. Elizabeth Akers Allen was born in 1832, and still lives at Tuckahoe, N.Y. She wrote poetry from the age of 15, and has published many volumes. The poem here published first appeared in 1859. A new volume of her verse is just announced in Boston.

Backward, turn backward, O Time in your flight, Make me a child again just for tonight; Mother, come back from the echoless shore, Take me again to your heart as of yore; Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair; Over my slumbers your loving watch keep; Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.

Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years, I am so weary of toil and of tears— Toil without recompense, tears all in vain— Take them, and give me my childhood again! I have grown weary of dust and decay— Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away; Weary of sowing for others to reap; Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.

Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue, Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you! Many a summer the grass has grown green, Blossomed, and faded our faces between! Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain Long I tonight for your presence again. Come from the silence so long and so deep— Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.

Over my heart in the days that are flown No love like mother love ever has shone; No other worship abides and endures— Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours; None like a mother can charm away pain From the sick soul and world weary brain. Slumber’s soft calms o’er the heavy lids creep— Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.

Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold, Fall on your shoulders again as of old; Let it drop over my forehead tonight, Shading my faint eyes away from the light; For with its sunny edged shadows once more Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore; Lovingly, softly its bright billows sweep; Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.

Mother, dear mother, the years have been long Since I last hushed to your lullaby song; Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem Womanhood’s years have been only a dream. Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace, With your light lashes just sweeping my face, Never hereafter to wake or to weep— Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. BY LORD BYRON.

Lord Byron was born in London in 1788. His first volume of verses, entitled “Hours of Idleness,” was printed in 1807. “Manfred” and “The Lament of Tasso” were written in 1817. From 1818 to his death Byron was occupied on “Don Juan.” In 1823 he went to Greece, and with advice and money aided in the Greek struggle for independence. He died in Greece in 1824.

“_And it came to pass_, _that night_, _that the angel of the Lord went out and smote in the camp of the Assyrians an hundred four score and five thousand_: _and when they arose early in the morning_, _behold_, _they were all dead corpses_.”—II. Kings, xix., 35.

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen; Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay wither’d and strown.

For the angel of death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass’d; And the eyes of the sleepers wax’d deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved—and forever grew still.

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, But through it there roll’d not the breath of his pride; And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock beating surf.

And there lay the rider, distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

THE DEATH BED. BY THOMAS HOOD.

Thomas Hood was born in London in 1799, and early in life turned his attention to literary pursuits. At the age of 22 he became sub-editor of the London Magazine, which gave him acquaintance with all the literary men of the age, and an intimacy with Charles Lamb, which continued until his death. He was a voluminous writer, both in poetry and prose, contributing to various magazines. In 1844 Hood’s Magazine was started, for which he furnished most of the material until near his death. His best work was done during his last sickness, when, on a bed of suffering, he contributed to Punch those touching verses which have rendered his name immortal: “The Song of the Shirt” and “The Bridge of Sighs.” He died May 3, 1845.

We watched her sleeping through the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept surging to and fro. So silently we seemed to speak, So slowly moved about, As we had lent her half our powers To eke her being out. Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied, We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died. For when the morn came dim and sad, And chill with early showers, Her quiet eyelids closed, she had Another morn than ours.

VIRTUE IMMORTAL. BY GEORGE HERBERT.

George Herbert was born at Montgomery Castle in Wales in 1593. He graduated from Trinity College, Cambridge, and in 1619 he was made a public orator. Charles I., with whom he was in great favor, gave him the rectory of Bemerton, which has the reputation of being the smallest church in England. It was here that Herbert wrote his religious poems, “The Temple: Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations.” He died at Bemerton in 1633.

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright; The bridal of the earth and sky; The dew shall weep thy fall tonight, For thou must die.

Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die.

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie, Thy music shows ye have your closes, And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like seasoned timber never gives, But, though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives.

TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS. BY RICHARD LOVELACE.

Richard Lovelace was an English cavalier, born in 1618, a period which produced many poets. He was educated both at the Charterhouse and at Oxford. He was twice imprisoned on account of the active part he took in the affairs of the times. After the execution of Charles, he was set free from prison only to find that his estates had been confiscated. He died in great poverty in London, in 1658. After his death his poems were collected under the name of “Lucasta, Posthume Poems.” The name of the lady to whom the poems were written was Lucy Sacheverell, whom he called his “Lux Castra.”

Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind, That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind, To war and arms I fly.

True, a new mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such As you, too, shall adore; I could not love thee, Dear, so much, Loved I not Honor more.

CHERRY RIPE. BY THOMAS CAMPION.

There is a garden in her face Where roses and white lilies blow, A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow; There cherries grow that none may buy, Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do enclose. Of orient pearl a double row, Which, when her lovely laughter shows, They look like rose-buds fill’d with snow; Yet them no peer nor prince may buy, Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still; Her brows like bended bows do stand, Threat’ning with piercing frowns to kill All that approach with eye or hand These sacred cherries to come nigh, Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.

TO THINE OWN SELF BE TRUE. BY PAKENHAM BEATTY.

Pakenham Beatty was born in 1855. He has written several volumes—“To My Lady,” 1878; “Three Women of the People,” 1881; and “Marcia, a Tragedy,” 1884.

By thine own soul’s law learn to live, And if men thwart thee take no heed, And if men hate thee have no care; Sing thou thy song and do thy deed. Hope thou thy hope and pray thy prayer, And claim no crown they will not give, Nor bays they grudge thee for thy hair.

Keep thou thy soul-worn steadfast oath, And to thy heart be true thy heart; What thy soul teaches learn to know, And play out thine appointed part, And thou shalt reap as thou shalt sow, Nor helped nor hindered in thy growth, To thy full stature thou shalt grow.

Fix on the future’s goal thy face, And let thy feet be lured to stray Nowhither, but be swift to run, And nowhere tarry by the way, Until at last the end is won And thou mayst look back from thy place And see thy long day’s journey done.

O, CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! BY WALT WHITMAN.

Walt Whitman was born on Long Island, N. Y., in 1819. His father was a carpenter. After the family removed to Brooklyn Walt became apprenticed to a newspaper, and at 12 began to write bits of verse, some of which were published in the New York Mirror. He made a series of long tramping tours through the country, returning finally to newspaper work in Brooklyn. He became known to the public as a poet through his “Leaves of Grass,” published in 1885. The volume was declared immoral by some, and the author severely criticised. “Leaves of Grass” has been republished a number of times in the United States, England, and Scotland, and among Whitman’s other works are “Drum Taps,” “As Strong as a Bird on Pinions Free,” “Two Rivulets,” “Specimen Days and Collect,” “November Boughs,” and “Sands at Seventy.” He died in 1892.

O, Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

But, O, heart! heart! heart! O, the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

O, Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

Here, Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head! It is some dream that on the deck, You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will, His ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;

Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells! But I with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

BABYHOOD. BY JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND.

Josiah Gilbert Holland was born in Belchertown, Mass., July 24, 1819; died in New York City Oct. 12, 1881. He was the son of a mechanic and inventor. He attended a district school, taught district schools, studied medicine, and in 1844 was graduated from the Berkshire medical college, which exists no longer, at Pittsfield. He practiced medicine for three years, ran a weekly paper six months, became superintendent of schools in Vicksburg, Miss., formed a literary, reportorial, and editorial connection with the Springfield Republican in 1850, which lasted until 1866, he having in the meantime acquired a financial interest in the paper. Some of his best works appeared first in the Republican. In 1870, with Roswell Smith, he founded Scribner’s Magazine. He wrote histories, stories, essays, letters, lectures, and poems.

What is the little one thinking about? Very wonderful things, no doubt! Unwritten history! Unfathomed mystery! Yet chuckles and crows and nods and winks, As if his head were as full of kinks And curious riddles as any sphinx! Warped by colic and wet by tears, Punctured by pins and tortured by fears Our little nephew will lose two years; And he’ll never know Where the summers go— He need not laugh, for he’ll find it so.

Who can tell what a baby thinks? Who can follow the gossamer links By which the manikin feels his way Out from the shore of the great unknown, Blind and wailing, and alone, Into the light of day? Out from the shore of the unknown sea, Tossing in pitiful agony— Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls, Specked with the barks of little souls— Barks that were launched on the other side, And slipped from heaven on an ebbing tide!

What does he think of his mother’s eyes? What does he think of his mother’s hair? What of the cradle roof that flies Forward and backward through the air? What does he think of his mother’s breast, Bare and beautiful, smooth and white, Seeking it ever with fresh delight— Cup of his life and couch of his rest? What does he think when her quick embrace Presses his hand and buries his face Deep where the heart throbs sink and swell With a tenderness she can never tell, Though she murmur the words Of all the birds— Words she has learned to murmur well? Now he thinks he’ll go to sleep! I can see the shadow creep Over his eyes in soft eclipse, Over his brow and over his lips, Out to his little finger tips! Softly sinking, down he goes! Down he goes! down he goes! See! he is hushed in sweet repose!

REMEMBRANCE. BY EMILY BRONTË.

This poem, as well as all of Emily Bronte’s verses, is tinged with the deepest melancholy—the sorrow which both Charlotte and Emily Bronte experienced, and which has set them apart in the world of letters from those who do not feel so deeply the emotions of which they write.

Cold in the earth—and the deep snow piled above thee, Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave! Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee, Sever’d at last by Time’s all severing wave?

Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover Over the mountains, on that northern shore, Resting their wings where heath and fern leaves cover Thy noble heart for ever, ever more?

Sweet love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee, While the world’s tide is bearing me along; Other desires and other hopes beset me, Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!

No later light has lighten’d up my heaven, No second morn has ever shown for me; All my life’s bliss from thy dear life was given, All my life’s bliss is in the grave with thee.

But when the days of golden dreams had perish’d, And even despair was powerless to destroy; Then did I learn how existence could be cherish’d Strengthen’d, and fed without the aid of joy.

Then did I check the tears of useless passion— Wean’d my young soul from yearning after thine; Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten Down to that tomb already more than mine.

And, even yet, I dare not let it languish, Dare not indulge in memory’s rapturous pain; Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish, How could I seek the empty world again?

PSALM XLVI.

God is our refuge and strength, A very present help in trouble, Therefore will not we fear, though the earth be removed, And though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea; Though the waters thereof roar and be troubled, Though the mountains shake with the swelling thereof, There is a river, the streams whereof shall make glad the city of God, The holy place of the tabernacles of the most High. God is in the midst of her; she shall not be moved; God shall help her, and that right early. The heathen raged, the kingdoms were moved; He uttered his voice, the earth melted. The Lord of Hosts is with us; The God of Jacob is our refuge. Come, behold the works of the Lord, What desolations he hath made in the earth, He maketh wars to cease unto the end of the earth; He breaketh the bow, and cutteth the spear in sunder; He burneth the chariot in the fire. Be still and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the heathen, I will be exalted in the earth. The Lord of Hosts is with us; The God of Jacob is our refuge.

FOR ALL THESE. BY JULIET WILBOR TOMPKINS.

I thank thee, Lord, that I am straight and strong, With wit to work and hope to keep me brave; That two score years, unfathomed, still belong To the allotted life thy bounty gave.

I thank thee that the sight of sunlit lands And dipping hills, the breath of evening grass— That wet, dark rocks and flowers in my hands Can give me daily gladness as I pass.

I thank thee that I love the things of earth— Ripe fruits and laughter lying down to sleep, The shine of lighted towns, the graver worth Of beating human hearts that laugh and weep.

I thank thee that as yet I need not know, Yet need not fear, the mystery of the end; But more than all, and though all these should go— Dear Lord, this on my knees!—I thank thee for my friend.

RUTHLESS TIME. BY WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. (From “Troilus and Cressida.”)