Poems Teachers Ask For, Book Two
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Law and Liberty
O Liberty, thou child of Law,God's seal is on thy brow!O Law, her Mother first and last,God's very self art thou!Two flowers alike, yet not alike,On the same stem that grow,Two friends who cannot live apart,Yet seem each other's foe.One, the smooth river's mirrored flowWhich decks the world with green;And one, the bank of sturdy rockWhich hems the river in.O Daughter of the timeless Past,O Hope the Prophets saw,God give us Law in LibertyAnd Liberty in Law!E.J. Cutler.His Mother's Song
Beneath the hot midsummer sunThe men had marched all day,And now beside a rippling streamUpon the grass they lay.Tiring of games and idle jestAs swept the hours along,They cried to one who mused apart,"Come, friend, give us a song.""I fear I can not please," he said;"The only songs I knowAre those my mother used to singFor me long years ago.""Sing one of those," a rough voice cried."There's none but true men here;To every mother's son of usA mother's songs are dear."Then sweetly rose the singer's voiceAmid unwonted calm:"Am I a soldier of the Cross,A follower of the Lamb?And shall I fear to own His cause?"The very stream was stilled,And hearts that never throbbed with fear,With tender thoughts were filled.Ended the song, the singer said,As to his feet he rose,"Thanks to you all, my friends; goodnight.God grant us sweet repose.""Sing us one more," the captain begged.The soldier bent his head,Then, glancing round, with smiling lips,"You'll join with me?" he said."We'll sing that old familiar airSweet as the bugle call,'All hail the power of Jesus' name!Let angels prostrate fall.'"Ah, wondrous was the old tune's spell.As on the soldiers sang;Man after man fell into line,And loud the voices rang.The songs are done, the camp is still,Naught but the stream is heard;But, ah! the depths of every soulBy those old hymns are stirred,And up from many a bearded lip,In whispers soft and low,Rises the prayer that mother taughtHer boy long years ago.When Father Carves the Duck
We all look on with anxious eyesWhen Father carves the duck,And Mother almost always sighsWhen Father carves the duck;Then all of us prepare to riseAnd hold our bibs before our eyes,And be prepared for some surpriseWhen Father carves the duck.He braces up and grabs the fork,Whene'er he carves the duck,And won't allow a soul to talkUntil he carves the duck.The fork is jabbed into the sides,Across the breast the knife he slides,While every careful person hidesFrom flying chips of duck.The platter's always sure to slipWhen Father carves the duck,And how it makes the dishes skip—Potatoes fly amuck.The squash and cabbage leap in space,We get some gravy in our face,And Father mutters Hindoo graceWhene'er he carves a duck.We then have learned to walk aroundThe dining room and pluckFrom off the window-sills and wallsOur share of Father's duck.While Father growls and blows and jaws,And swears the knife was full of flaws,And Mother laughs at him becauseHe couldn't carve a duck.E.V. Wright.Papa's Letter
I was sitting in my study,Writing letters when I heard,"Please, dear mamma, Mary told meMamma mustn't be 'isturbed."But I'se tired of the kitty,Want some ozzer fing to do.Witing letters, is 'ou, mamma?Tan't I wite a letter too?""Not now, darling, mamma's busy;Run and play with kitty, now.""No, no, mamma, me wite letter;Tan if 'ou will show me how."I would paint my darling's portraitAs his sweet eyes searched my face—Hair of gold and eyes of azure,Form of childish, witching grace.But the eager face was clouded,As I slowly shook my head,Till I said, "I'll make a letterOf you, darling boy, instead."So I parted back the tressesFrom his forehead high and white,And a stamp in sport I pasted'Mid its waves of golden light.Then I said, "Now, little letter,Go away and bear good news."And I smiled as down the staircaseClattered loud the little shoes.Leaving me, the darling hurriedDown to Mary in his glee,"Mamma's witing lots of letters;I'se a letter, Mary—see!"No one heard the little prattler,As once more he climbed the stair,Reached his little cap and tippet,Standing on the entry stair.No one heard the front door open,No one saw the golden hair,As it floated o'er his shouldersIn the crisp October air.Down the street the baby hastenedTill he reached the office door."I'se a letter, Mr. Postman;Is there room for any more?"'Cause dis letter's doin' to papa,Papa lives with God, 'ou know,Mamma sent me for a letter,Does 'ou fink 'at I tan go?"But the clerk in wonder answered,"Not to-day, my little man.""Den I'll find anozzer office,'Cause I must go if I tan."Fain the clerk would have detained him,But the pleading face was gone,And the little feet were hastening—By the busy crowd swept on.Suddenly the crowd was parted,People fled to left and right,As a pair of maddened horsesAt the moment dashed in sight.No one saw the baby figure—No one saw the golden hair,Till a voice of frightened sweetnessRang out on the autumn air.'Twas too late—a moment onlyStood the beauteous vision there,Then the little face lay lifeless,Covered o'er with golden hair.Reverently they raised my darling,Brushed away the curls of gold,Saw the stamp upon the forehead,Growing now so icy cold.Not a mark the face disfigured,Showing where a hoof had trod;But the little life was ended—"Papa's letter" was with God.Who Stole the Bird's Nest?
"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!Will you listen to me?Who stole four eggs I laid,And the nice nest I made?""Not I," said the cow, "Moo-oo!Such a thing I'd never do;I gave you a wisp of hay,But didn't take your nest away.Not I," said the cow, "Moo-oo!Such a thing I'd never do.""To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!Will you listen to me?Who stole four eggs I laid,And the nice nest I made?""Not I," said the dog, "Bow-wow!I wouldn't be so mean, anyhow!I gave the hairs the nest to make,But the nest I did not take.Not I," said the dog, "Bow-wow!I'm not so mean, anyhow.""To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!Will you listen to me?Who stole four eggs I laid,And the nice nest I made?""Not I," said the sheep, "oh, no!I wouldn't treat a poor bird so.I gave the wool the nest to line,But the nest was none of mine.Baa! Baa!" said the sheep; "oh, no!I wouldn't treat a poor bird so.""Caw! Caw!" cried the crow;"I should like to knowWhat thief took awayA bird's nest to-day?""I would not rob a bird,"Said little Mary Green;"I think I never heardOf anything so mean.""It is very cruel, too,"Said little Alice Neal;"I wonder if he knewHow sad the bird would feel?"A little boy hung down his head,And went and hid behind the bed,For he stole that pretty nestFrom poor little yellow-breast;And he felt so full of shame,He didn't like to tell his name.Lydia Maria Child.Over the Hill from the Poor-House
I, who was always counted, they say,Rather a bad stick anyway,Splintered all over with dodges and tricks,Known as "the worst of the Deacon's six";I, the truant, saucy and bold,The one black sheep in my father's fold,"Once on a time," as the stories say,Went over the hill on a winter's day—Over the hill to the poor-house.Tom could save what twenty could earn;But givin' was somethin' he ne'er would learn;Isaac could half o' the Scriptur's speak—Committed a hundred verses a week;Never forgot, an' never slipped;But "Honor thy father and mother," he skipped;So over the hill to the poor-house!As for Susan, her heart was kindAn' good—what there was of it, mind;Nothin' too big, an' nothin' too nice,Nothin' she wouldn't sacrificeFor one she loved; an' that 'ere oneWas herself, when all was said an' done;An' Charley an' 'Becca meant well, no doubt,But anyone could pull 'em about;An' all o' our folks ranked well, you see,Save one poor fellow, an' that was me;An' when, one dark an' rainy night,A neighbor's horse went out o' sight,They hitched on me, as the guilty chapThat carried one end o' the halter-strap.An' I think, myself, that view of the caseWasn't altogether out o' place;My mother denied it, as mothers do,But I am inclined to believe 'twas true.Though for me one thing might be said—That I, as well as the horse, was led;And the worst of whisky spurred me on,Or else the deed would have never been done.But the keenest grief I ever feltWas when my mother beside me knelt,An' cried, an' prayed, till I melted down,As I wouldn't for half the horses in town.I kissed her fondly, then an' there,An' swore henceforth to be honest and square.I served my sentence—a bitter pillSome fellows should take who never will;And then I decided to go "out West,"Concludin' 'twould suit my health the best;Where, how I prospered, I never could tell,But Fortune seemed to like me well;An' somehow every vein I struckWas always bubbling over with luck.An', better than that, I was steady an' true,An' put my good resolutions through.But I wrote to a trusty old neighbor, an' said,"You tell 'em, old fellow, that I am dead,An' died a Christian; 'twill please 'em more,Than if I had lived the same as before."But when this neighbor he wrote to me,"Your mother's in the poor-house," says he,I had a resurrection straightway,An' started for her that very day.And when I arrived where I was grown,I took good care that I shouldn't be known;But I bought the old cottage, through and through,Of someone Charley had sold it to;And held back neither work nor goldTo fix it up as it was of old.The same big fire-place, wide and high,Flung up its cinders toward the sky;The old clock ticked on the corner-shelf—I wound it an' set it a-goin' myself;An' if everything wasn't just the same,Neither I nor money was to blame;Then—over the hill to the poor-house!One blowin', blusterin' winter's day,With a team an' cutter I started away;My fiery nags was as black as coal;(They some'at resembled the horse I stole;)I hitched, an' entered the poor-house door—A poor old woman was scrubbin' the floor;She rose to her feet in great surprise,And looked, quite startled, into my eyes;I saw the whole of her trouble's traceIn the lines that marred her dear old face;"Mother!" I shouted, "your sorrows is done!You're adopted along o' your horse thief son,Come over the hill from the poor-house!"She didn't faint; she knelt by my side,An' thanked the Lord, till I fairly cried.An' maybe our ride wasn't pleasant an' gay,An' maybe she wasn't wrapped up that day;An' maybe our cottage wasn't warm an' bright,An' maybe it wasn't a pleasant sight,To see her a-gettin' the evenin's tea,An' frequently stoppin' an' kissin' me;An' maybe we didn't live happy for years,In spite of my brothers' and sisters' sneers,Who often said, as I have heard,That they wouldn't own a prison-bird;(Though they're gettin' over that, I guess,For all of 'em owe me more or less;)But I've learned one thing; an' it cheers a manIn always a-doin' the best he can;That whether on the big book, a blotGets over a fellow's name or not,Whenever he does a deed that's white,It's credited to him fair and right.An' when you hear the great bugle's notes,An' the Lord divides his sheep and goats,However they may settle my case,Wherever they may fix my place,My good old Christian mother, you'll see,Will be sure to stand right up for me,With over the hill from the poor-house!Will Carleton."'Specially Jim"
I was mighty good-lookin' when I was young,Peart an' black-eyed an' slim,With fellers a-courtin' me Sunday nights,'Specially Jim.The likeliest one of 'em all was he,Chipper an' han'som' an' trim,But I tossed up my head an' made fun o' the crowds'Specially Jim!I said I hadn't no 'pinion o' men,An' I wouldn't take stock in him!But they kep' up a-comin' in spite o' my talk,'Specially Jim!I got so tired o' havin' 'em roun'('Specially Jim!)I made up my mind I'd settle downAn' take up with him.So we was married one Sunday in church,'Twas crowded full to the brim;'Twas the only way to get rid of 'em all,'Specially Jim.O'Grady's Goat
O'Grady lived in Shanty row,The neighbors often saidThey wished that Tim would move awayOr that his goat was dead.He kept the neighborhood in fear,And the children always vexed;They couldn't tell jist whin or whereThe goat would pop up next.Ould Missis Casey stood wan dayThe dirty clothes to rubUpon the washboard, when she divedHeadforemosht o'er the tub;She lit upon her back an' yelled,As she was lying flat:"Go git your goon an' kill the bashte."O'Grady's goat doon that.Pat Doolan's woife hung out the washUpon the line to dry.She wint to take it in at night,But stopped to have a cry.The sleeves av two red flannel shirts,That once were worn by Pat,Were chewed off almost to the neck.O'Grady's goat doon that.They had a party at McCune's,An' they wor having foon,Whin suddinly there was a crashAn' ivrybody roon.The iseter soup fell on the floorAn' nearly drowned the cat;The stove was knocked to smithereens.O'Grady's goat doon that.Moike Dyle was coortin' Biddy Shea,Both standin' at the gate,An' they wor just about to kissAich oother sly and shwate.They coom togither loike two rams.An' mashed their noses flat.They niver shpake whin they goes by.O'Grady's goat doon that.O'Hoolerhan brought home a kegAv dannymite wan dayTo blow a cistern in his yardAn' hid the stuff away.But suddinly an airthquake coom,O'Hoolerhan, house an' hat,An' ivrything in sight wint up.O'Grady's goat doon that.An' there was Dooley's Savhin's Bank,That held the byes' sphare cash.One day the news came doon the sthreetThe bank had gone to smash.An' ivrybody 'round was dumWid anger and wid fear,Fer on the dhoor they red the whords,"O'Grady's goat sthruck here."The folks in Grady's naborhoodAll live in fear and fright;They think it's certain death to goAround there after night.An' in their shlape they see a ghostUpon the air afloat,An' wake thimselves by shoutin' out:"Luck out for Grady's goat."Will S. Hays.The Burial of Moses
"And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against Bethpeor;but no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day."By Nebo's lonely mountain,On this side Jordan's wave,In a vale in the land of MoabThere lies a lonely grave,And no man knows that sepulchre,And no man saw it e'er,For the angels of God upturn'd the sodAnd laid the dead man there.That was the grandest funeralThat ever pass'd on earth;But no man heard the trampling,Or saw the train go forth—Noiselessly as the daylightComes back when night is done,And the crimson streak on ocean's cheekGrows into the great sun.Noiselessly as the springtimeHer crown of verdure weaves,And all the trees on all the hillsOpen their thousand leaves;So without sound of music,Or voice of them that wept,Silently down from the mountain's crownThe great procession swept.Perchance the bald old eagleOn gray Beth-peor's height,Out of his lonely eyrieLook'd on the wondrous sight;Perchance the lion, stalking,Still shuns that hallow'd spot,For beast and bird have seen and heardThat which man knoweth not.But when the warrior dieth,His comrades in the war,With arms reversed and muffled drum,Follow his funeral car;They show the banners taken,They tell his battles won,And after him lead his masterless steed,While peals the minute gun.Amid the noblest of the landWe lay the sage to rest,And give the bard an honor'd place,With costly marble drest,In the great minster transeptWhere lights like glories fall,And the organ rings, and the sweet choir singsAlong the emblazon'd wall.This was the truest warriorThat ever buckled sword,This was the most gifted poetThat ever breathed a word;And never earth's philosopherTraced with his golden pen,On the deathless page, truths half so sageAs he wrote down for men.And had he not high honor,—The hillside for a pall,To lie in state while angels waitWith stars for tapers tall,And the dark rock-pines like tossing plumes,Over his bier to wave,And God's own hand, in that lonely land,To lay him in the grave?In that strange grave without a name,Whence his uncoffin'd clayShall break again, O wondrous thought!Before the judgment day,And stand with glory wrapt aroundOn the hills he never trod,And speak of the strife that won our lifeWith the Incarnate Son of God.O lonely grave in Moab's landO dark Beth-peor's hill,Speak to these curious hearts of ours,And teach them to be still.God hath His mysteries of grace,Ways that we cannot tell;He hides them deep like the hidden sleepOf him He loved so well.Cecil F. Alexander.Nobody's Child
Alone in the dreary, pitiless street,With my torn old dress, and bare, cold feet,All day have I wandered to and fro,Hungry and shivering, and nowhere to go;The night's coming on in darkness and dread,And the chill sleet beating upon my bare head.Oh! why does the wind blow upon me so wild?Is it because I am nobody's child?Just over the way there's a flood of light,And warmth, and beauty, and all things bright;Beautiful children, in robes so fair,Are caroling songs in their rapture there.I wonder if they, in their blissful glee,Would pity a poor little beggar like me,Wandering alone in the merciless street,Naked and shivering, and nothing to eat?Oh! what shall I do when the night comes downIn its terrible blackness all over the town?Shall I lay me down 'neath the angry sky,On the cold, hard pavement, alone to die,When the beautiful children their prayers have said,And their mammas have tucked them up snugly in bed?For no dear mother on me ever smiled.Why is it, I wonder, I'm nobody's child?No father, no mother, no sister, not oneIn all the world loves me—e'en the little dogs runWhen I wander too near them; 'tis wondrous to seeHow everything shrinks from a beggar like me!Perhaps 'tis a dream; but sometimes, when I lieGazing far up in the dark blue sky,Watching for hours some large bright star,I fancy the beautiful gates are ajar,And a host of white-robed, nameless thingsCome fluttering o'er me on gilded wings;A hand that is strangely soft and fairCaresses gently my tangled hair,And a voice like the carol of some wild bird—The sweetest voice that was ever heard—Calls me many a dear, pet name,Till my heart and spirit are all aflame.They tell me of such unbounded love,And bid me come to their home above;And then with such pitiful, sad surpriseThey look at me with their sweet, tender eyes,And it seems to me, out of the dreary nightI am going up to that world of light,And away from the hunger and storm so wild;I am sure I shall then be somebody's child.Phila H. Case.A Christmas Long Ago
Like a dream, it all comes o'er me as I hear the Christmas bells;Like a dream it floats before me, while the Christmas anthem swells;Like a dream it bears me onward in the silent, mystic flow,To a dear old sunny Christmas in the happy long ago.And my thoughts go backward, backward, and the years that interveneAre but as the mists and shadows when the sunlight comes between;And all earthly wealth and splendor seem but as a fleeting show,As there comes to me the picture of a Christmas long ago.I can see the great, wide hearthstone and the holly hung about;I can see the smiling faces, I can hear the children shout;I can feel the joy and gladness that the old room seem to fill,E'en the shadows on the ceiling—I can see them dancing still.I can see the little stockings hung about the chimney yet;I can feel my young heart thrilling lest the old man should forget.Ah! that fancy! Were the world mine, I would give it, if I might,To believe in old St. Nicholas, and be a child to-night.Just to hang my little stocking where it used to hang, and feelFor one moment all the old thoughts and the old hopes o'er me steal.But, oh! loved and loving faces, in the firelight's dancing glow,There will never come another like that Christmas long ago!For the old home is deserted, and the ashes long have lainIn the great, old-fashioned fireplace that will never shine again.Friendly hands that then clasped ours now are folded 'neath the snow;Gone the dear ones who were with us on that Christmas long ago.Let the children have their Christmas—let them have it while they may;Life is short and childhood's fleeting, and there'll surely come a dayWhen St. Nicholas will sadly pass on by the close-shut door,Missing all the merry faces that had greeted him of yore;When no childish step shall echo through the quiet, silent room;When no childish smile shall brighten, and no laughter lift the gloom;When the shadows that fall 'round us in the fire-light's fitful glowShall be ghosts of those who sat there in the Christmas long ago.Nearer Home
One sweetly solemn thoughtComes to me o'er and o'er,—I am nearer home to-dayThan I've ever been before;—Nearer my Father's houseWhere the many mansions be,Nearer the great white throne,Nearer the jasper sea;—Nearer the bound of lifeWhere we lay our burdens down;Nearer leaving the cross,Nearer gaining the crown.But lying darkly between,Winding down through the night,Is the dim and unknown streamThat leads at last to the light.Closer and closer my stepsCome to the dark abysm;Closer death to my lipsPresses the awful chrism.Father, perfect my trust;Strengthen the might of my faith;Let me feel as I would when I standOn the rock of the shore of death,—Feel as I would when my feetAre slipping o'er the brink;For it may be I am nearer home,Nearer now than I think.Phoebe Cary.The Minuet
Grandma told me all about it,Told me so I could not doubt it,How she danced, my grandma danced, long ago!How she held her pretty head,How her dainty skirts she spread,How she turned her little toes,Smiling little human rose!Grandma's hair was bright and shining,Dimpled cheeks, too! ah! how funny!Bless me, now she wears a cap,My grandma does, and takes a nap every single day;Yet she danced the minuet long ago;Now she sits there rocking, rocking,Always knitting grandpa's stocking—Every girl was taught to knit long ago—But her figure is so neat,And her ways so staid and sweet,I can almost see her now,Bending to her partner's bow, long ago.Grandma says our modern jumping,Rushing, whirling, dashing, bumping,Would have shocked the gentle people long ago.No, they moved with stately grace,Everything in proper place,Gliding slowly forward, thenSlowly courtesying back again.Modern ways are quite alarming, grandma says,But boys were charming—Girls and boys I mean, of course—long ago,Sweetly modest, bravely shy!What if all of us should try just to feelLike those who met in the stately minuet, long ago.With the minuet in fashion,Who could fly into a passion?All would wear the calm they wore long ago,And if in years to come, perchance,I tell my grandchild of our dance,I should really like to say,We did it in some such way, long ago.Mary Mapes Dodge.The Vagabonds
We are two travellers, Roger and I.Roger's my dog—Come here, you scamp!Jump for the gentleman—mind your eye!Over the table—look out for the lamp!—The rogue is growing a little old;Five years we've tramped through wind and weather,And slept outdoors when nights were cold,And ate, and drank—and starved together.We've learned what comfort is, I tell you:A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin,A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow,The paw he holds up there has been frozen),Plenty of catgut for my fiddle,(This outdoor business is bad for strings),Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle,And Roger and I set up for kings!No, thank you, Sir, I never drink.Roger and I are exceedingly moral.Aren't we, Roger? see him wink.Well, something hot then, we won't quarrel.He's thirsty, too—see him nod his head?What a pity, Sir, that dogs can't talk;He understands every word that's said,And he knows good milk from water and chalk.The truth is, Sir, now I reflect,I've been so sadly given to grog,I wonder I've not lost the respect(Here's to you, Sir!) even of my dog.But he sticks by through thick and thin;And this old coat with its empty pocketsAnd rags that smell of tobacco and gin,He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets.There isn't another creature livingWould do it, and prove, through every disaster,So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving,To such a miserable, thankless master.No, Sir! see him wag his tail and grin—By George! it makes my old eyes water—That is, there's something in this ginThat chokes a fellow, but no matter!We'll have some music, if you're willing.And Roger (hem! what a plague a cough is, Sir!)Shall march a little.—Start, you villain!Paws up! eyes front! salute your officer!'Bout face! attention! take your rifle!(Some dogs have arms, you see.) Now holdYour cap while the gentleman gives a trifleTo aid a poor old patriot soldier!March! Halt! Now show how the Rebel shakes,When he stands up to hear his sentence;Now tell me how many drams it takesTo honor a jolly new acquaintance.Five yelps—that's five; he's mighty knowing;The night's before us, fill the glasses;—Quick, Sir! I'm ill, my brain is going!—Some brandy,—thank you;—there,—it passes!Why not reform? That's easily said;But I've gone through such wretched treatment,Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread,And scarce remembering what meat meant,That my poor stomach's past reform;And there are times when, mad with thinking,I'd sell out heaven for something warmTo prop a horrible inward sinking.Is there a way to forget to think?At your age, Sir, home, fortune, friends,A dear girl's love,—but I took to drink;—The same old story; you know how it ends.If you could have seen these classic features,—You needn't laugh, Sir; I was not thenSuch a burning libel on God's creatures;I was one of your handsome men—If you had seen her, so fair, so young,Whose head was happy on this breast;If you could have heard the songs I sungWhen the wine went round, you wouldn't have guess'dThat ever I, Sir, should be strayingFrom door to door, with fiddle and dog,Ragged and penniless, and playingTo you to-night for a glass of grog.She's married since,—a parson's wife,'Twas better for her that we should part;Better the soberest, prosiest lifeThan a blasted home and a broken heart.I have seen her—once; I was weak and spentOn the dusty road; a carriage stopped,But little she dreamed as on she went,Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped.You've set me talking, Sir; I'm sorry;It makes me wild to think of the change!What do you care for a beggar's story?Is it amusing? you find it strange?I had a mother so proud of me!'Twas well she died before—Do you knowIf the happy spirits in heaven can seeThe ruin and wretchedness here below?Another glass, and strong, to deadenThis pain; then Roger and I will start.I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden,Aching thing, in place of a heart?He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if he could,No doubt, remembering things that were,—A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food,And himself a sober, respectable cur.I'm better now; that glass was warming—You rascal! limber your lazy feet!We must be fiddling and performingFor supper and bed, or starve in the street.—Not a very gay life to lead, you think.But soon we shall go where lodgings are free,And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink;—The sooner, the better for Roger and me.J.T. Trowbridge.