Poems Teachers Ask For, Book Two
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The Boy Who Didn't Pass
A sad-faced little fellow sits alone in deep disgrace,There's a lump arising in his throat, tears streaming down his face;He wandered from his playmates, for he doesn't want to hearTheir shouts of merry laughter, since the world has lost its cheer;He has sipped the cup of sorrow, he has drained the bitter glass,And his heart is fairly breaking; he's the boy who didn't pass.In the apple tree the robin sings a cheery little song,But he doesn't seem to hear it, showing plainly something's wrong;Comes his faithful little spaniel for a romp and bit of play,But the troubled little fellow sternly bids him go away.All alone he sits in sorrow, with his hair a tangled mass,And his eyes are red with weeping; he's the boy who didn't pass.How he hates himself for failing, he can hear his playmates jeer,For they've left him with the dullards—gone ahead a half a year,And he tried so hard to conquer, oh, he tried to do his best,But now he knows, he's weaker, yes, and duller than the rest.He's ashamed to tell his mother, for he thinks she'll hate him, too—The little boy who didn't pass, who failed of getting through.Oh, you who boast a laughing son, and speak of him as bright,And you who love a little girl who comes to you at nightWith smiling eyes, with dancing feet, with honors from her school,Turn to that lonely little boy who thinks he is a fool,And take him kindly by the hand, the dullest in his class,He is the one who most needs love, the boy who didn't pass.The Station-Master's Story
Yes, it's a quiet station, but it suits me well enough;I want a bit of the smooth now, for I've had my share o' rough.This berth that the company gave me, they gave as the work was light;I was never fit for the signals after one awful night,I'd been in the box from a younker, and I'd never felt the strainOf the lives at my right hand's mercy in every passing train.One day there was something happened, and it made my nerves go queer,And it's all through that as you find me the station-master here.I was on at the box down yonder—that's where we turn the mails,And specials, and fast expresses, on to the center rails;The side's for the other traffic—the luggage and local slows.It was rare hard work at Christmas, when double the traffic grows.I've been in the box down yonder nigh sixteen hours a day,Till my eyes grew dim and heavy, and my thoughts went all astray;But I've worked the points half-sleeping—and once I slept outright,Till the roar of the Limited woke me, and I nearly died with fright.Then I thought of the lives in peril, and what might have been their fateHad I sprung to the points that evening a tenth of a tick too late;And a cold and ghastly shiver ran icily through my frameAs I fancied the public clamor, the trial, and bitter shame.I could see the bloody wreckage—I could see the mangled slain—And the picture was seared for ever, blood-red, on my heated brain.That moment my nerve was shattered, for I couldn't shut out the thoughtOf the lives I held in my keeping, and the ruin that might be wrought.That night in our little cottage, as I kissed our sleeping child,My wife looked up from her sewing, and told me, as she smiled,That Johnny had made his mind up—he'd be a pointsman, too."He says when he's big, like daddy, he'll work in the box with you."I frowned, for my heart was heavy, and my wife she saw the look;Lord bless you! my little Alice could read me like a book.I'd to tell her of what had happened, and I said that I must leave,For a pointsman's arm ain't trusty when terror lurks in his sleeve.But she cheered me up in a minute, and that night, ere we went to sleep,She made me give her a promise, which I swore that I'd always keep—It was always to do my duty. "Do that, and then, come what will,You'll have no worry." said Alice, "if things go well or ill.There's something that always tells us the thing that we ought to do"—My wife was a bit religious, and in with the chapel crew.But I knew she was talking reason, and I said to myself, says I,"I won't give in like a coward, it's a scare that'll soon go by."Now, the very next day the missus had to go to the market town;She'd the Christmas things to see to, and she wanted to buy a gown.She'd be gone for a spell, for the Parley didn't come back till eight,And I knew, on a Christmas Eve, too, the trains would be extra late.So she settled to leave me Johnny, and then she could turn the key—For she'd have some parcels to carry, and the boy would be safe with me.He was five, was our little Johnny, and quiet, and nice, and good—He was mad to go with daddy, and I'd often promised he should.It was noon when the missus started,—her train went by my box;She could see, as she passed my window, her darling's curly locks,I lifted him up to mammy, and he kissed his little hand,Then sat, like a mouse, in the corner, and thought it was fairyland.But somehow I fell a-thinking of a scene that would not fade,Of how I had slept on duty, until I grew afraid;For the thought would weigh upon me, one day I might come to lieIn a felon's cell for the slaughter of those I had doomed to die.The fit that had come upon me, like a hideous nightmare seemed,Till I rubbed my eyes and started like a sleeper who has dreamed.For a time the box had vanished—I'd worked like a mere machine—My mind had been on the wander, and I'd neither heard nor seen,With a start I thought of Johnny, and I turned the boy to seek,Then I uttered a groan of anguish, for my lips refused to speak;There had flashed such a scene of horror swift on my startled sightThat it curdled my blood in terror and sent my red lips white.It was all in one awful moment—I saw that the boy was lost:He had gone for a toy, I fancied, some child from a train had tossed;The local was easing slowly to stop at the station here,And the limited mail was coming, and I had the line to clear.I could hear the roar of the engine, I could almost feel its breath,And right on the center metals stood my boy in the jaws of death;On came the fierce fiend, tearing straight for the center line,And the hand that must wreck or save it, O merciful God, was mine!'Twas a hundred lives or Johnny's. O Heaven! what could I do?—Up to God's ear that moment a wild, fierce question flew—"What shall I do, O Heaven?" and sudden and loud and clearOn the wind came the words, "Your duty," borne to my listening ear.Then I set my teeth, and my breathing was fierce and short and quick."My boy!" I cried, but he heard not; and then I went blind and sick;The hot black smoke of the engine came with a rush before,I turned the mail to the center, and by it flew with a roar.Then I sank on my knees in horror, and hid my ashen face—I had given my child to Heaven; his life was a hundred's grace.Had I held my hand a moment, I had hurled the flying mailTo shatter the creeping local that stood on the other rail!Where is my boy, my darling? O God! let me hide my eyes.How can I look—his father—on that which there mangled lies?That voice!—O merciful Heaven!—'tis the child's, and he calls my name!I hear, but I cannot see him, for my eyes are filled with flame.I knew no more that night, sir, for I fell, as I heard the boy;The place reeled round, and I fainted,—swooned with the sudden joy.But I heard on the Christmas morning, when I woke in my own warm bedWith Alice's arms around me, and a strange wild dream in my head,That she'd come by the early local, being anxious about the lad,And had seen him there on the metals, and the sight nigh drove her mad—She had seen him just as the engine of the Limited closed my view,And she leapt on the line and saved him just as the mail dashed through.She was back in the train in a second, and both were safe and sound;The moment they stopped at the station she ran here, and I was foundWith my eyes like a madman's glaring, and my face a ghastly white:I heard the boy, and I fainted, and I hadn't my wits that night.Who told me to do my duty? What voice was that on the wind?Was it fancy that brought it to me? or were there God's lips behind?If I hadn't 'a' done my duty—had I ventured to disobey—My bonny boy and his mother might have died by my hand that day.George R. Sims.Hark, Hark! the Lark
(From "Cymbeline")Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,And Phoebus 'gins arise,His steeds to water at those springsOn chaliced flowers that lies;And winking Mary-buds beginTo ope their golden eyes:With every thing that pretty is,My lady sweet, arise!Arise, arise!William Shakespeare.Tommy's Prayer
In a dark and dismal alley where the sunshine never came,Dwelt a little lad named Tommy, sickly, delicate, and lame;He had never yet been healthy, but had lain since he was bornDragging out his weak existence well nigh hopeless and forlorn.He was six, was little Tommy, 'twas just five years agoSince his drunken mother dropped him, and the babe was crippled so.He had never known the comfort of a mother's tender care,But her cruel blows and curses made his pain still worse to bear.There he lay within the cellar, from the morning till the night,Starved, neglected, cursed, ill-treated, nought to make his dull lifebright;Not a single friend to love him, not a loving thing to love—For he knew not of a Saviour, or a heaven up above.'Twas a quiet, summer evening, and the alley, too, was still;Tommy's little heart was sinking, and he felt so lonely, till,Floating up the quiet alley, wafted inwards from the street,Came the sound of some one singing, sounding, oh! so clear and sweet.Eagerly did Tommy listen as the singing came—Oh! that he could see the singer! How he wished he wasn't lame.Then he called and shouted loudly, till the singer heard the sound,And on noting whence it issued, soon the little cripple found.'Twas a maiden rough and rugged, hair unkempt, and naked feet,All her garments torn and ragged, her appearance far from neat;"So yer called me," said the maiden, "wonder wot yer wants o' me;Most folks call me Singing Jessie; wot may your name chance to be?""My name's Tommy; I'm a cripple, and I want to hear you sing,For it makes me feel so happy—sing me something, anything,"Jessie laughed, and answered smiling, "I can't stay here very long,But I'll sing a hymn to please you, wot I calls the 'Glory Song.'"Then she sang to him of heaven, pearly gates, and streets of gold,Where the happy angel children are not starved or nipped with cold;But where happiness and gladness never can decrease or end,And where kind and loving Jesus is their Sovereign and their Friend.Oh! how Tommy's eyes did glisten as he drank in every wordAs it fell from "Singing Jessie"—was it true, what he had heard?And so anxiously he asked her, "Is there really such a place?"And a tear began to trickle down his pallid little face."Tommy, you're a little heathen; why, it's up beyond the sky,And if yer will love the Saviour, yer shall go there when yer die.""Then," said Tommy, "tell me, Jessie, how can I the Saviour love,When I'm down in this 'ere cellar, and He's up in heaven above?"So the little ragged maiden who had heard at Sunday SchoolAll about the way to heaven, and the Christian's golden rule,Taught the little cripple Tommy how to love, and how to pray,Then she sang a "Song of Jesus," kissed his cheek and went away.Tommy lay within the cellar which had grown so dark and cold,Thinking all about the children in the streets of shining gold;And he heeded not the darkness of that damp and chilly room,For the joy in Tommy's bosom could disperse the deepest gloom."Oh! if I could only see it," thought the cripple, as he lay,"Jessie said that Jesus listens and I think I'll try and pray";So he put his hands together, and he closed his little eyes,And in accents weak, yet earnest, sent this message to the skies:—"Gentle Jesus, please forgive me as I didn't know afore,That yer cared for little cripples who is weak and very poor,And I never heard of heaven till that Jessie came to-dayAnd told me all about it, so I wants to try and pray."Yer can see me, can't yer, Jesus? Jessie told me that yer could,And I somehow must believe it, for it seems so prime and good;And she told me if I loved you, I should see yer when I die,In the bright and happy heaven that is up beyond the sky."Lord, I'm only just a cripple, and I'm no use here below,For I heard my mother whisper, she'd be glad if I could go;And I'm cold and hungry sometimes; and I feel so lonely, too,Can't yer take me, gentle Jesus, up to heaven along o' you?"Oh! I'd be so good and patient, and I'd never cry or fret,And your kindness to me, Jesus, I would surely not forget;I would love you all I know of, and would never make a noise—Can't you find me just a corner, where I'll watch the other boys?"Oh! I think yer'll do it, Jesus, something seems to tell me so,For I feel so glad and happy, and I do so want to go,How I long to see yer, Jesus, and the children all so bright!Come and fetch me, won't yer, Jesus? Come and fetch me home tonight!"Tommy ceased his supplication, he had told his soul's desire,And he waited for the answer till his head began to tire;Then he turned towards his corner and lay huddled in a heap,Closed his little eyes so gently, and was quickly fast asleep.Oh, I wish that every scoffer could have seen his little faceAs he lay there in the corner, in that damp, and noisome place;For his countenance was shining like an angel's, fair and bright,And it seemed to fill the cellar with a holy, heavenly light.He had only heard of Jesus from a ragged singing girl,He might well have wondered, pondered, till his brain began to whirl;But he took it as she told it, and believed it then and there,Simply trusting in the Saviour, and his kind and tender care.In the morning, when the mother came to wake her crippled boy,She discovered that his features wore a look of sweetest joy,And she shook him somewhat roughly, but the cripple's face was cold—He had gone to join the children in the streets of shining gold.Tommy's prayer had soon been answered, and the Angel Death had comeTo remove him from his cellar, to his bright and heavenly homeWhere sweet comfort, joy, and gladness never can decrease or end,And where Jesus reigns eternally, his Sovereign and his Friend.John F. Nicholls.The Two Pictures
It was a bright and lovely summer's morn,Fair bloomed the flowers, the birds sang softly sweet,The air was redolent with perfumed balm,And Nature scattered, with unsparing hand,Her loveliest graces over hill and dale.An artist, weary of his narrow roomWithin the city's pent and heated walls,Had wandered long amid the ripening fields,Until, remembering his neglected themes,He thought to turn his truant steps toward home.These led him through a rustic, winding lane,Lined with green hedge-rows spangled close with flowers,And overarched by trees of noblest growth.But when at last he reached the farther endOf this sweet labyrinth, he there beheldA vision of such pure, pathetic grace,That weariness and haste were both obscured,It was a child—a young and lovely childWith eyes of heavenly hue, bright golden hair,And dimpled hands clasped in a morning prayer,Kneeling beside its youthful mother's knee.Upon that baby brow of spotless snow,No single trace of guilt, or pain, or woe,No line of bitter grief or dark despair,Of envy, hatred, malice, worldly care,Had ever yet been written. With bated breath,And hand uplifted as in warning, swift,The artist seized his pencil, and there tracedIn soft and tender lines that image fair:Then, when 'twas finished, wrote beneath one word,A word of holiest import—Innocence.Years fled and brought with them a subtle change,Scattering Time's snow upon the artist's brow,But leaving there the laurel wreath of fame,While all men spake in words of praise his name;For he had traced full many a noble workUpon the canvas that had touched men's souls,And drawn them from the baser things of earth,Toward the light and purity of heaven.One day, in tossing o'er his folio's leaves,He chanced upon the picture of the child,Which he had sketched that bright morn long before,And then forgotten. Now, as he paused to gaze,A ray of inspiration seemed to dartStraight from those eyes to his. He took the sketch,Placed it before his easel, and with careThat seemed but pleasure, painted a fair theme,Touching and still re-touching each bright lineament,Until all seemed to glow with life divine—'Twas innocence personified. But stillThe artist could not pause. He needs must haveA meet companion for his fairest theme;And so he sought the wretched haunts of sin,Through miry courts of misery and guilt,Seeking a face which at the last was found.Within a prison cell there crouched a man—Nay, rather say a fiend—with countenance seamedAnd marred by all the horrid lines of sin;Each mark of degradation might be traced,And every scene of horror he had known,And every wicked deed that he had done,Were visibly written on his lineaments;Even the last, worst deed of all, that left him here,A parricide within a murderer's cell.Here then the artist found him; and with handMade skillful by its oft-repeated toil,Transferred unto his canvas that vile face,And also wrote beneath it just one word,A word of darkest import—it was Vice.Then with some inspiration not his own,Thinking, perchance, to touch that guilty heart,And wake it to repentance e'er too late,The artist told the tale of that bright morn,Placed the two pictured faces side by side,And brought the wretch before them. With a shriekThat echoed through those vaulted corridors,Like to the cries that issue from the lipsOf souls forever doomed to woe,Prostrate upon the stony floor he fell,And hid his face and groaned aloud in anguish."I was that child once—I, yes, even I—In the gracious years forever fled,That innocent and happy little child!These very hands were raised to God in prayer,That now are reddened with a mother's blood.Great Heaven! can such things be? Almighty power,Send forth Thy dart and strike me where I lie!"He rose, laid hold upon the artist's armAnd grasped it with demoniac power,The while he cried: "Go forth, I say, go forthAnd tell my history to the tempted youth.I looked upon the wine when it was red,I heeded not my mother's piteous prayers,I heeded not the warnings of my friends,But tasted of the wine when it was red,Until it left a demon in my heartThat led me onward, step by step, to this,This horrible place from which my body goesUnto the gallows, and my soul to hell!"He ceased as last. The artist turned and fled;But even as he went, unto his earsWere borne the awful echoes of despair,Which the lost wretch flung on the empty air,Cursing the demon that had brought him there.The Two Kinds of People
There are two kinds of people on earth to-day;Just two kinds of people, no more, I say.Not the sinner and saint, for it's well understood,The good are half bad and the bad are half good.Not the rich and the poor, for to rate a man's wealth,You must first know the state of his conscience and health.Not the humble and proud, for in life's little span,Who puts on vain airs is not counted a man.Not the happy and sad, for the swift flying yearsBring each man his laughter and each man his tears.No; the two kinds of people on earth I mean,Are the people who lift and the people who lean.Wherever you go, you will find the earth's massesAre always divided in just these two classes.And, oddly enough, you will find, too, I ween,There's only one lifter to twenty who lean.In which class are you? Are you easing the loadOf overtaxed lifters, who toil down the road?Or are you a leaner, who lets others shareYour portion of labor, and worry and care?Ella Wheeler Wilcox.The Sin of Omission
It isn't the thing you do, dear,It's the thing you leave undoneThat gives you a bit of a heartacheAt the setting of the sun.The tender word forgotten;The letter you did not write;The flowers you did not send, dear,Are your haunting ghosts at night.The stone you might have liftedOut of a brother's way;The bit of hearthstone counselYou were hurried too much to say;The loving touch of the hand, dear,The gentle, winning toneWhich you had no time nor thought forWith troubles enough of your own.Those little acts of kindnessSo easily out of mind,Those chances to be angelsWhich we poor mortals find—They come in night and silence,Each sad, reproachful wraith,When hope is faint and flaggingAnd a chill has fallen on faith.For life is all too short, dear,And sorrow is all too great,To suffer our slow compassionThat tarries until too late;And it isn't the thing you do, dear,It's the thing you leave undoneWhich gives you a bit of a heartacheAt the setting of the sun,Margaret E. Sangster.The Bible My Mother Gave Me
Give me that grand old volume, the gift of a mother's love,Tho' the spirit that first taught me has winged its flight above.Yet, with no legacy but this, she has left me wealth untold,Yea, mightier than earth's riches, or the wealth of Ophir's gold.When a child, I've kneeled beside her, in our dear old cottage home,And listened to her reading from that prized and cherished tome,As with low and gentle cadence, and a meek and reverent mien,God's word fell from her trembling lips, like a presence felt and seen.Solemn and sweet the counsels that spring from its open page,Written with all the fervor and zeal of the prophet age;Full of the inspiration of the holy bards who trod,Caring not for the scoffer's scorn, if they gained a soul to God.Men who in mind were godlike, and have left on its blazoned scrollFood for all coming ages in its manna of the soul;Who, through long days of anguish, and nights devoid of ease,Still wrote with the burning pen of faith its higher mysteries.I can list that good man yonder, in the gray church by the brook,Take up that marvelous tale of love, of the story and the Book,How through the twilight glimmer, from the earliest dawn of time,It was handed down as an heirloom, in almost every clime.How through strong persecution and the struggle of evil daysThe precious light of the truth ne'er died, but was fanned to a beacon blaze.How in far-off lands, where the cypress bends o'er the laurel bough,It was hid like some precious treasure, and they bled for its truth, as now.He tells how there stood around it a phalanx none could break,Though steel and fire and lash swept on, and the cruel wave lapt the stake;How dungeon doors and prison bars had never damped the flame,But raised up converts to the creed whence Christian comfort came.That housed in caves and caverns—how it stirs our Scottish blood!—The Convenanters, sword in hand, poured forth the crimson flood;And eloquent grows the preacher, as the Sabbath sunshine falls,Thro' cobwebbed and checkered pane, a halo on the walls!That still 'mid sore disaster, in the heat and strife of doubt,Some bear the Gospel oriflamme, and one by one march out,Till forth from heathen kingdoms, and isles beyond the sea,The glorious tidings of the Book spread Christ's salvation free.So I cling to my mother's Bible, in its torn and tattered boards,As one of the greatest gems of art, and the king of all other hoards,As in life the true consoler, and in death ere the Judgment call,The guide that will lead to the shining shore, where the Father waits for all.Lincoln, the Man of the People
This poem was read by Edwin Markham at the dedication of the Lincoln Memorial at Washington, D.C., May 30, 1922. Before reading, he said: "No oration, no poem, can rise to the high level of this historic hour. Nevertheless, I venture to inscribe this revised version of my Lincoln poem to this stupendous Lincoln Memorial, to this far-shining monument of remembrance, erected in immortal marble to the honor of our deathless martyr—the consecrated statesman, the ideal American, the ever-beloved friend of humanity."
When the Norn Mother saw the Whirlwind HourGreatening and darkening as it hurried on,She left the Heaven of Heroes and came downTo make a man to meet the mortal need,She took the tried clay of the common road—Clay warm yet with the genial heat of Earth,Dasht through it all a strain of prophecy;Tempered the heap with thrill of human tears;Then mixt a laughter with the serious stuff.Into the shape she breathed a flame to lightThat tender, tragic, ever-changing face;And laid on him a sense of the Mystic Powers,Moving—all husht—behind the mortal veil.Here was a man to hold against the world,A man to match the mountains and the sea.The color of the ground was in him, the red earth;The smack and tang of elemental things;The rectitude and patience of the cliff;The good-will of the rain that loves all leaves;The friendly welcome of the wayside well;The courage of the bird that dares the sea;The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn;The pity of the snow that hides all scars;The secrecy of streams that make their wayUnder the mountain to the rifted rock;The tolerance and equity of lightThat gives as freely to the shrinking flowerAs to the great oak flaring to the wind—To the grave's low hill as to the MatterhornThat shoulders out the sky. Sprung from the West,He drank the valorous youth of a new world.The strength of virgin forests braced his mind,The hush of spacious prairies stilled his soul.His words were oaks in acorns; and his thoughtsWere roots that firmly gript the granite truth.Up from log cabin to the Capitol,One fire was on his spirit, one resolve—To send the keen ax to the root of wrong,Clearing a free way for the feet of God,The eyes of conscience testing every stroke,To make his deed the measure of a man.He built the rail-pile as he built the State,Pouring his splendid strength through every blow;The grip that swung the ax in IllinoisWas on the pen that set a people free.So came the Captain with the mighty heart;And when the judgment thunders split the house,Wrenching the rafters from their ancient rest,He held the ridgepole up, and spikt againThe rafters of the Home. He held his place—Held the long purpose like a growing tree—Held on through blame and faltered not at praise.And when he fell in whirlwind, he went downAs when a lordly cedar, green with boughs,Goes down with a great shout upon the hills,And leaves a lonesome place against the sky.Edwin Markham.