Poems Teachers Ask For, Book Two
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Betty and the Bear
In a pioneer's cabin out West, so they say,A great big black grizzly trotted one day,And seated himself on the hearths and beganTo lap the contents of a two gallon panOf milk and potatoes,—an excellent meal,—And then looked, about to see what he could steal.The lord of the mansion awoke from his sleep,And, hearing a racket, he ventured to peepJust out in the kitchen, to see what was there,And was scared to behold a great grizzly bear.So he screamed in alarm to his slumbering frau,"Thar's a bar in the kitchen as big's a cow!""A what?" "Why, a bar!" "Well murder him, then!""Yes, Betty, I will, if you'll first venture in."So Betty leaped up, and the poker she seized.While her man shut the door, and against it he squeezed,As Betty then laid on the grizzly her blows.Now on his forehead, and now on his nose,Her man through the key-hole kept shouting within,"Well done, my brave Betty, now hit him agin,Now poke with the poker, and' poke his eyes out."So, with rapping and poking, poor Betty aloneAt last laid Sir Bruin as dead as a stone.Now when the old man saw the bear was no more,He ventured to poke his nose out of the door,And there was the grizzly stretched on the floor,Then off to the neighbors he hastened, to tellAll the wonderful things that that morning befell;And he published the marvellous story afar,How "me and my Betty jist slaughtered a bar!O yes, come and see, all the neighbors they seed it,Come and see what we did, me and Betty, we did it."The Graves of a Household
They grew in beauty, side by side,They filled one home with glee;–Their graves are severed, far and wide,By mount, and stream and sea.The same fond mother bent at nightO'er each fair sleeping brow;She had each folded flower in sight—Where are those dreamers now?One, 'midst the forest of the West,By a dark stream is laid—The Indian knows his place of restFar in the cedar shade.The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one—He lies where pearls lie deep;He was the loved of all, yet noneO'er his low bed may weep.One sleeps where southern vines are drestAbove the noble slain:He wrapped his colors round his breastOn a blood-red field of Spain.And one—o'er her the myrtle showersIts leaves, by soft winds fanned;She faded 'midst Italian flowers—The last of that bright band.And parted thus they rest, who play'dBeneath the same green tree;Whose voices mingled as they pray'dAround the parent knee.They that with smiles lit up the hall,And cheer'd with song the hearth!—Alas! for love, if thou wert all,And naught beyond, O earth!Felicia Dorothea Hemans.The Babie
Nae shoon to hide her tiny taes,Nae stockings on her feet;Her supple ankles white as snow,Or early blossoms sweet.Her simple dress of sprinkled pink,Her double, dimpled chin;Her pucker'd lip and bonny mou',With nae ane tooth between.Her een sae like her mither's een,Twa gentle, liquid things;Her face is like an angel's face—We're glad she has nae wings.Hugh Miller.A Legend of the Northland
Away, away in the Northland,Where the hours of the day are few,And the nights are so long in winter,They cannot sleep them through;Where they harness the swift reindeerTo the sledges, when it snows;And the children look like bears' cubsIn their funny, furry clothes:They tell them a curious story—I don't believe 't is true;And yet you may learn a lessonIf I tell the tale to youOnce, when the good Saint PeterLived in the world below,And walked about it, preaching,Just as he did, you know;He came to the door of a cottage,In traveling round the earth,Where a little woman was making cakes,And baking them on the hearth;And being faint with fasting,For the day was almost done,He asked her, from her store of cakes,To give him a single one.So she made a very little cake,But as it baking lay,She looked at it, and thought it seemedToo large to give away.Therefore she kneaded another,And still a smaller one;But it looked, when she turned it over,As large as the first had done.Then she took a tiny scrap of dough,And rolled, and rolled it flat;And baked it thin as a wafer—But she couldn't part with that.For she said, "My cakes that seem too smallWhen I eat of them myself,Are yet too large to give away,"So she put them on the shelf.Then good Saint Peter grew angry,For he was hungry and faint;And surely such a womanWas enough to provoke a saint.And he said, "You are far too selfishTo dwell in a human form,To have both food and shelter,And fire to keep you warm."Now, you shall build as the birds do,And shall get your scanty foodBy boring, and boring, and boring,All day in the hard dry wood,"Then up she went through the chimney,Never speaking a word,And out of the top flew a woodpecker.For she was changed to a bird.She had a scarlet cap on her head,And that was left the same,Bat all the rest of her clothes were burnedBlack as a coal in the flame.And every country school boyHas seen her in the wood;Where she lives in the woods till this very day,Boring and boring for food.And this is the lesson she teaches:Live not for yourself alone,Lest the needs you will not pityShall one day be your own.Give plenty of what is given to you,Listen to pity's call;Don't think the little you give is great,And the much you get is small.Now, my little boy, remember that,And try to be kind and good,When you see the woodpecker's sooty dress,And see her scarlet hood.You mayn't be changed to a bird, though you liveAs selfishly as you can;But you will be changed to a smaller thing—A mean and selfish man.Phoebe Cary.How Did You Die?
Did you tackle the trouble that came your wayWith a resolute heart and cheerful?Or hide year face from the light of dayWith a craven soul and fearful?Oh, a trouble's a ton, or a trouble's an ounce,Or a trouble is what you make it,And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts,But only how did you take it?You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that?Come up with a smiling face,Its nothing against you to fall down flat,But to lie there—that's disgrace.The harder you're thrown, why, the higher the bounce;Be proud of your blackened eye!It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts;It's how did you fight—and why?And though you be done to the death, what then?If you battled the best you could,If you played your part in the world of men,Why, the Critic will call it good.Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce,And whether he's slow or spry,It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts,But only how did you die?Edmund Vance Cooke.The Children
When the lessons and tasks are all ended,And the school for the day is dismissed,And the little ones gather around me,To bid me good-night and be kissed,—Oh, the little white arms that encircleMy neck in a tender embrace!Oh, the smiles that are halos of Heaven,Shedding sunshine and love on my face!And when they, are gone, I sit dreamingOf my childhood, too lovely to last;Of love that my heart will rememberWhen it wakes to the pulse of the past;Ere the world and its wickedness made meA partner of sorrow and sin;When the glory of God was about me,And the glory of gladness within.Oh, my heart grows as weak as a woman'sAnd the fountains of feeling will flow,When I think of the paths, steep and stonyWhere the feet of the dear ones must go.Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them,Of the tempests of fate blowing wild—Oh, there's nothing on earth half so holyAs the innocent heart of a child!They are idols of hearts and of households,They are angels of God in disguise.His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses,His glory still beams in their eyes:Oh, those truants from earth and from heaven,They have made me more manly and mild!And I know how Jesus could likenThe Kingdom of God to a child.Seek not a life for the dear onesAll radiant, as others have done.But that life may have just enough shadowTo temper the glare of the sun;I would pray God to guard them from evil,But my prayer would bound back to myself.Ah! A seraph may pray for a sinner,But the sinner must pray for himself.The twig is so easily bended,I have banished the rule of the rod;I have taught them the goodness of Knowledge,They have taught me the goodness of God.My heart is a dungeon of darkness,Where I shut them from breaking a rule;My frown is sufficient correction,My love is the law of the school.I shall leave the old house in the autumnTo traverse the threshold no more,Ah! how I shall sigh for the dear onesThat meet me each morn at the door.I shall miss the good-nights and the kisses,And the gush of their innocent glee;The group on the green and the flowersThat are brought every morning to me.I shall miss them at morn and at evening.Their song in the school and the street,I shall miss the low hum of their voicesAnd the tramp of their delicate feet.When the lessons and tasks are all ended,And death says the school is dismissed,May the little ones gather around meTo bid me good-night and be kissed.Charles M. Dickinson.The King and the Child
The sunlight shone on walls of stone,And towers sublime and tall,King Alfred sat upon his throneWithin his council hall.And glancing o'er the splendid throng,With grave and solemn face,To where his noble vassals stood,He saw a vacant place."Where is the Earl of Holderness?"With anxious look, he said."Alas, O King!" a courtier cried,"The noble Earl is dead!"Before the monarch could expressThe sorrow that he felt,A soldier, with a war-worn face,Approached the throne, and knelt."My sword," he said, "has ever been,O King, at thy command,And many a proud and haughty DaneHas fallen by my hand."I've fought beside thee in the field,And 'neath the greenwood tree;It is but fair for thee to giveYon vacant place to me.""It is not just," a statesman cried,"This soldier's prayer to hear,My wisdom has done more for theeThan either sword or spear."The victories of thy council hallHave made thee more renownThan all the triumphs of the fieldHave given to thy crown."My name is known in every land,My talents have been thine,Bestow this Earldom, then, on me,For it is justly mine."Yet, while before the monarch's throneThese men contending stood,A woman crossed the floor, who woreThe weeds of widowhood.And slowly to King Alfred's feetA fair-haired boy she led—"O King, this is the rightful heirOf Holderness," she said."Helpless, he comes to claim his own,Let no man do him wrong,For he is weak and fatherless,And thou art just and strong.""What strength or power," the statesman cried,"Could such a judgement bring?Can such a feeble child as thisDo aught for thee, O King?"When thou hast need of brawny armsTo draw thy deadly bows,When thou art wanting crafty menTo crush thy mortal foes."With earnest voice the fair young boyReplied: "I cannot fight,But I can pray to God, O King,And God can give thee might!"The King bent down and kissed the child,The courtiers turned away,"The heritage is thine," he said,"Let none thy right gainsay."Our swords may cleave the casques of men,Our blood may stain the sod,But what are human strength and powerWithout the help of God?"Eugene J. Hall.Try, Try Again
'Tis a lesson you should heed,Try, try again;If at first you don't succeed,Try, try again;Then your courage shall appear,For if you will persevere,You will conquer, never fear,Try, try again.Once or twice though you should fail,Try, try again;If at last you would prevail,Try, try again;If we strive 'tis no disgraceTho' we may not win the race,What should you do in that case?Try, try again.If you find your task is hard,Try, try again;Time will bring you your reward,Try, try again;All that other folks can do,Why, with patience, may not you?Only keep this rule in view,Try, try again.Indian Names
Ye say they all have passed away—that noble race and brave,That their light canoes have vanished from off the crested wave;That,'mid the forests where they roamed, there rings no hunter's shout,But their name is on your waters—ye may not wash it out.'Tis where Ontario's billow like ocean's surge is curled,Where strong Niagara's thunders wake the echo of the world;Where red Missouri bringeth rich tribute from the west,And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps on green Virginia's breast.Ye say their cone-like cabins, that clustered o'er the vale,Have fled away like withered leaves, before the autumn's gale;But their memory liveth on your hills, their baptism on your shore,Your everlasting rivers speak their dialect of yore.Old Massachusetts wears it upon her lordly crown,And broad Ohio bears it amid his young renown;Connecticut hath wreathed it where her quiet foliage waves,And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse through all her ancient caves.Wachusett hides its lingering voice within his rocky heart,And Alleghany graves its tone throughout his lofty chart;Monadnock on his forehead hoar doth seal the sacred trust;Your mountains build their monument, though ye destroy their dust.Ye call those red-browed brethren the insects of an hour,Crushed like the noteless worm amid the regions of their power;Ye drive them from their fathers' lands, ye break of faith the seal,But can ye from the court of heaven exclude their last appeal?Ye see their unresisting tribes, with toilsome steps and slow,On through the trackless desert pass, a caravan of woe.Think ye the Eternal Ear is deaf? His sleepless vision dim?Think ye the soul's blood may not cry from that far land to Him?Lydia H. Sigourney.More Cruel Than War
(During the Civil War, a Southern prisoner at Camp Chase in Ohio lay sick in the hospital. He confided to a friend, Colonel Hawkins of Tennessee, that he was grieving because his fiancee, a Nashville girl, had not written to him. The soldier died soon afterward, Colonel Hawkins having promised to open and answer any mail that came for him. This poem is in reply to a letter from his friend's fiancee, in which she curtly broke the engagement.)
Your letter, lady, came too late,For heaven had claimed its own;Ah, sudden change—from prison barsUnto the great white throne;And yet I think he would have stayed,To live for his disdain,Could he have read the careless wordsWhich you have sent in vain.So full of patience did he wait,Through many a weary hour,That o'er his simple soldier-faithNot even death had power;And you—did others whisper lowTheir homage in your ear,As though among their shallow throngHis spirit had a peer?I would that you were by me now,To draw the sheet asideAnd see how pure the look he woreThe moment when he died.The sorrow that you gave to himHad left its weary trace,As 'twere the shadow of the crossUpon his pallid face."Her love," he said, "could change for meThe winter's cold to spring."Ah, trust of fickle maiden's love,Thou art a bitter thing!For when these valleys, bright in May,Once more with blossoms wave,The northern violets shall blowAbove his humble grave.Your dole of scanty words had beenBut one more pang to bearFor him who kissed unto the lastYour tress of golden hair;I did not put it where he said,For when the angels come,I would not have them find the signOf falsehood in the tomb.I've read your letter, and I knowThe wiles that you have wroughtTo win that trusting heart of his,And gained it—cruel thought!What lavish wealth men sometimes giveFor what is worthless all!What manly bosoms beat for themIn folly's falsest thrall!You shall not pity him, for nowHis sorrow has an end;Yet would that you could stand with meBeside my fallen friend!And I forgive you for his sake,As he—if he be forgiven—May e'en be pleading grace for youBefore the court of Heaven.To-night the cold winds whistle by,As I my vigil keepWithin the prison dead-house, whereFew mourners come to weep.A rude plank coffin holds his form;Yet death exalts his face,And I would rather see him thusThan clasped in your embrace.To-night your home may shine with lightAnd ring with merry song,And you be smiling as your soulHad done no deadly wrong;Your hand so fair that none would thinkIt penned these words of pain;Your skin so white—would God your heartWere half as free from stain.I'd rather be my comrade deadThan you in life supreme;For yours the sinner's waking dread,And his the martyr's dream!Whom serve we in this life we serveIn that which is to come;He chose his way, you—yours; let GodPronounce the fitting doom.W.S. Hawkins.Columbus
A harbor in a sunny, southern city;Ships at their anchor, riding in the lee;A little lad, with steadfast eyes, and dreamy,Who ever watched the waters lovingly.A group of sailors, quaintly garbed and bearded;Strange tales, that snared the fancy of the child:Of far-off lands, strange beasts, and birds, and people,Of storm and sea-fight, danger-filled and wild.And ever in the boyish soul was ringingThe urging, surging challenge of the sea,To dare,—as these men dared, its wrath and danger,To learn,—as they, its charm and mystery.Columbus, by the sunny, southern harbor,You dreamed the dreams that manhood years made true;Thank God for men—their deeds have crowned the ages—Who once were little dreamy lads like you.Helen L. Smith.The September Gale
I'm not a chicken; I have seenFull many a chill September,And though I was a youngster then,That gale I well remember;The day before, my kite-string snapped,And I, my kite pursuing,The wind whisked off my palm-leaf hat;—For me two storms were brewing!It came as quarrels sometimes do,When married folks get clashing;There was a heavy sigh or two,Before the fire was flashing,—A little stir among the clouds,Before they rent asunder,—A little rocking of the trees,And then came on the thunder.Lord! how the ponds and rivers boiled,And how the shingles rattled!And oaks were scattered on the ground,As if the Titans battled;And all above was in a howl,And all below a clatter,—The earth was like a frying-pan.Or some such hissing matter.It chanced to be our washing-day,And all our things were drying:The storm came roaring through the lines,And set them all a-flying;I saw the shirts and petticoatsGo riding off like witches;I lost, ah! bitterly I wept,—I lost my Sunday breeches!I saw them straddling through the air,Alas! too late to win them;I saw them chase the clouds, as ifThe devil had been in them;They were my darlings and my pride,My boyhood's only riches,—"Farewell, farewell," I faintly cried,—"My breeches! O my breeches!"That night I saw them in my dreams,How changed from what I knew them!The dews had steeped their faded threads,The winds had whistled through them!I saw the wide and ghastly rentsWhere demon claws had torn them;A hole was in their amplest part,As if an imp had worn them.I have had many happy yearsAnd tailors kind and clever,But those young pantaloons have goneForever and forever!And not till fate has cut the lastOf all my earthly stitches,This aching heart shall cease to mournMy loved, my long-lost breeches!O.W. HolmesWhen My Ship Comes In
Somewhere, out on the blue sea sailing,Where the winds dance and spin;Beyond the reach of my eager hailing,Over the breakers' din;Out where the dark storm-clouds are lifting,Out where the blinding fog is drifting,Out where the treacherous sand is shifting,My ship is coming in.O, I have watched till my eyes were aching,Day after weary day;O, I have hoped till my heart was breakingWhile the long nights ebbed away;Could I but know where the waves had tossed her,Could I but know what storms had crossed her,Could I but know where the winds had lost her,Out in the twilight gray!But though the storms her course have altered,Surely the port she'll win,Never my faith in my ship has faltered,I know she is coming in.For through the restless ways of her roaming,Through the mad rush of the wild waves foaming,Through the white crest of the billows combing,My ship is coming in.Beating the tides where the gulls are flying,Swiftly she's coming in:Shallows and deeps and rocks defying,Bravely she's coming in.Precious the love she will bring to bless me,Snowy the arms she will bring to caress me,In the proud purple of kings she will dress me—My ship that is coming in.White in the sunshine her sails will be gleaming,See, where my ship comes in;At masthead and peak her colors streaming,Proudly she's sailing in;Love, hope and joy on her decks are cheering,Music will welcome her glad appearing,And my heart will sing at her stately nearing,When my ship comes in.Robert Jones Burdette.Solitude
Laugh, and the world laughs with you,Weep, and you weep alone;For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,But has trouble enough of its own.Sing, and the hills will answer,Sigh, it is lost on the air;The echoes bound to a joyful sound,But shirk from voicing care.Rejoice and men will seek you;Grieve, and they turn and go;They want full measure of all your pleasure,But they do not need your woe.Be glad, and your friends are many;Be sad, and you lose them all,There are none to decline your nectar'd wine,But alone you must drink life's gall.Feast, and your halls are crowded;Fast, and the world goes by;Succeed and give, and it helps you live,But no man can help you die.There is room in the halls of pleasureFor a large and lordly train,But one by one we must all file onThrough the narrow aisle of pain.Ella Wheeler Wilcox.Sin of the Coppenter Man
The coppenter man said a wicked word,When he hitted his thumb one day,En I know what it was, because I heard,En it's somethin' I dassent say.He growed us a house with rooms inside it,En the rooms is full of floorsIt's my papa's house, en when he buyed it,It was nothin' but just outdoors.En they planted stones in a hole for seeds,En that's how the house began,But I guess the stones would have just growed weeds,Except for the coppenter man.En the coppenter man took a board and saidHe'd skin it and make some curls,En I hung 'em onto my ears en head,En they make me look like girls.En he squinted along one side, he did,En he squinted the other side twice,En then he told me, "You squint it, kid,"'Cause the coppenter man's reel nice.But the coppenter man said a wicked word,When he hitted 'his thumb that day;He said it out loud, too, 'cause I heard,En it's something I dassent say.En the coppenter man said it wasn't bad,When you hitted your thumb, kerspat!En there'd be no coppenter men to be had,If it wasn't for words like that.Edmund Vance Cooke.The Bells of Ostend
No, I never, till life and its shadows shall end,Can forget the sweet sound of the bells of Ostend!The day set in darkness, the wind it blew loud,And rung as it passed through each murmuring shroud.My forehead was wet with the foam of the spray,My heart sighed in secret for those far away;When slowly the morning advanced from the east,The toil and the noise of the tempest had ceased;The peal from a land I ne'er saw, seemed to say,"Let the stranger forget every sorrow to-day!"Yet the short-lived emotion was mingled with pain,I thought of those eyes I should ne'er see again;I thought of the kiss, the last kiss which I gave,And a tear of regret fell unseen on the wave;I thought of the schemes fond affection had planned,Of the trees, of the towers, of my own native land.But still the sweet sounds, as they swelled to the air,Seemed tidings of pleasure, though mournful to bear,And I never, till life and its shadows shall end,Can forget the sweet sound of the bells of Ostend!W.L. Bowles.You Put No Flowers on My Papa's Grave
With sable-draped banners and slow measured tread,The flower laden ranks pass the gates of the dead;And seeking each mound where a comrade's form restsLeave tear-bedewed garlands to bloom, on his breast.Ended at last is the labor of love;Once more through the gateway the saddened lines move—A wailing of anguish, a sobbing of grief,Falls low on the ear of the battle-scarred chief;Close crouched by the portals, a sunny-haired childBesought him in accents with grief rendered wild:"Oh! sir, he was good, and they say he died brave—Why, why, did you pass by my dear papa's grave?I know he was poor, but as kind and as trueAs ever marched into the battle with you;His grave is so humble, no stone marks the spot,You may not have seen it. Oh, say you did not!For my poor heart will break if you knew he was there,And thought him too lowly your offerings to share.He didn't die lowly—he poured his heart's bloodIn rich crimson streams, from the top-crowning sodOf the breastworks which stood in front of the fight—And died shouting, 'Onward! for God and the right!'O'er all his dead comrades your bright garlands wave,But you haven't put one on my papa's grave.If mamma were here—but she lies by his side,Her wearied heart broke when our dear papa died!""Battalion! file left! countermarch!" cried the chief,"This young orphaned maid hath full cause for her grief."Then up in his arms from the hot, dusty street,He lifted the maiden, while in through the gateThe long line repasses, and many an eyePays fresh tribute of tears to the lone orphan's sigh."This way, it is—here, sir, right under this tree;They lie close together, with just room for me.""Halt! Cover with roses each lowly green mound;A love pure as this makes these graves hallowed ground.""Oh! thank you, kind sir! I ne'er can repayThe kindness you've shown little Daisy to-day;But I'll pray for you here, each day while I live,'Tis all that a poor soldier's orphan can give.I shall see papa soon and dear mamma, too—I dreamed so last night, and I know 'twill come true;And they will both bless you, I know, when I sayHow you folded your arms round their dear one to-day;How you cheered her sad heart and soothed it to rest,And hushed its wild throbs on your strong, noble breast;And when the kind angels shall call you to comeWe'll welcome you there to our beautiful homeWhere death never comes his black banners to wave,And the beautiful flowers ne'er weep o'er a grave."C.E.L. Holmes.