“The Voice of Spring,” by Felicia Hemans (1749-1835), becomes attractive as years go on. The line in this poem that captivated my youthful fancy was:
“The larch has hung all his tassels forth,”
The delight with which trees hang out their new little tassels every year is one of the charms of “the pine family.” John Burroughs sent us down a tiny hemlock, that grew in our window-box at school for five years, and every spring it was a new joy on account of the fine, tender tassels. Mrs. Hemans had a vivid imagination backed up by an abundant information.
I come, I come! ye have called me long; I come o’er the mountains, with light and song. Ye may trace my step o’er the waking earth By the winds which tell of the violet’s birth, By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass, By the green leaves opening as I pass.
I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut-flowers By thousands have burst from the forest bowers, And the ancient graves and the fallen fanes Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains; But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, To speak of the ruin or the tomb!
I have looked o’er the hills of the stormy North, And the larch has hung all his tassels forth; The fisher is out on the sunny sea, And the reindeer bounds o’er the pastures free, And the pine has a fringe of softer green, And the moss looks bright, where my step has been.
I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh, And called out each voice of the deep blue sky, From the night-bird’s lay through the starry time, In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime, To the swan’s wild note by the Iceland lakes, When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks.
From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain; They are sweeping on to the silvery main, They are flashing down from the mountain brows, They are flinging spray o’er the forest boughs, They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves, And the earth resounds with the joy of waves. |
Felicia Hemans.
“The Forsaken Merman,” by Matthew Arnold (1822-88), is a poem that I do not expect children to appreciate fully, even when they care enough for it to learn it. It is too long for most children to commit to memory, and I generally assign one stanza to one pupil and another to another pupil until it is divided up among them. The poem is a masterpiece. Doubtless the poet meant to show that the forsaken merman had a greater soul to save than the woman who sought to save her soul by deserting natural duty. Salvation does not come through the faith that builds itself at the expense of love.
Come, dear children, let us away; Down and away below! Now my brothers call from the bay, Now the great winds shoreward blow, Now the salt tides seaward flow; Now the wild white horses play, Champ and chafe and toss in the spray. Children dear, let us away! This way, this way!
Call her once before you go— Call once yet! In a voice that she will know: “Margaret! Margaret!” Children’s voices should be dear (Call once more) to a mother’s ear; Children’s voices, wild with pain— Surely she will come again! Call her once and come away; This way, this way! “Mother dear, we cannot stay! The wild white horses foam and fret.” Margaret! Margaret!
Come, dear children, come away down; Call no more! One last look at the white-wall’d town, And the little gray church on the windy shore; Then come down! She will not come though you call all day; Come away, come away!
Children dear, was it yesterday We heard the sweet bells over the bay? In the caverns where we lay, Through the surf and through the swell, The far-off sound of a silver bell? Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep, Where the winds are all asleep; Where the spent lights quiver and gleam, Where the salt weed sways in the stream, Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round, Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground; Where the sea-snakes coil and twine, Dry their mail and bask in the brine; Where great whales come sailing by, Sail and sail, with unshut eye, Round the world forever and aye? When did music come this way? Children dear, was it yesterday?
Children dear, was it yesterday (Call yet once) that she went away? Once she sate with you and me, On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea, And the youngest sate on her knee. She comb’d its bright hair, and she tended it well, When down swung the sound of a far-off bell. She sigh’d, she look’d up through the clear green sea; She said: “I must go, for my kinsfolk pray In the little gray church on the shore to-day. ’Twill be Easter-time in the world—ah me! And I lose my poor soul, Merman! here with thee.” I said: “Go up, dear heart, through the waves; Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves!” She smil’d, she went up through the surf in the bay. Children dear, was it yesterday?
Children dear, were we long alone? “The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan; Long prayers,” I said, “in the world they say; Come!” I said; and we rose through the surf in the bay. We went up the beach, by the sandy down Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-wall’d town; Through the narrow pav’d streets, where all was still, To the little gray church on the windy hill. From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers, But we stood without in the cold blowing airs. We climb’d on the graves, on the stones worn with rains, And we gaz’d up the aisle through the small leaded panes. She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear: “Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here! Dear heart,” I said, “we are long alone; The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan.” But, ah, she gave me never a look, For her eyes were seal’d to the holy book! Loud prays the priest: shut stands the door. Come away, children, call no more! Come away, come down, call no more!
Down, down, down! Down to the depths of the sea! She sits at her wheel in the humming town, Singing most joyfully. Hark what she sings: “O joy, O joy, For the humming street, and the child with its toy! For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well; For the wheel where I spun, And the blessèd light of the sun!” And so she sings her fill, Singing most joyfully, Till the spindle drops from her hand, And the whizzing wheel stands still. She steals to the window, and looks at the sand, And over the sand at the sea; And her eyes are set in a stare; And anon there breaks a sigh, And anon there drops a tear, From a sorrow-clouded eye, And a heart sorrow-laden, A long, long sigh; For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden, And the gleam of her golden hair.
Come away, away, children; Come, children, come down! The hoarse wind blows colder; Lights shine in the town. She will start from her slumber When gusts shake the door; She will hear the winds howling, Will hear the waves roar. We shall see, while above us The waves roar and whirl, A ceiling of amber, A pavement of pearl. Singing: “Here came a mortal, But faithless was she! And alone dwell forever The kings of the sea.”
But, children, at midnight, When soft the winds blow, When clear falls the moonlight, When spring-tides are low; When sweet airs come seaward From heaths starr’d with broom, And high rocks throw mildly On the blanch’d sands a gloom; Up the still, glistening beaches, Up the creeks we will hie, Over banks of bright seaweed The ebb-tide leaves dry. We will gaze, from the sand-hills, At the white, sleeping town; At the church on the hill-side— And then come back down. Singing: “There dwells a lov’d one, But cruel is she! She left lonely forever The kings of the sea.” |
Matthew Arnold.
“The Banks o’ Doon,” by Robert Burns (1759-96). Bonnie Doon is in the southwestern part of Scotland. Robert Burns’s old home it close to it. The house has low walls, a thatched roof, and only two rooms. Alloway Kirk and the two bridges so famous in Robert Burns’s verse are near by. This is an enchanted land, and the Scotch people for miles around Ayr speak of the poet with sincere affection. Burns, more than any other poet, has thrown the enchantment of poetry over his own locality.
Ye banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon, How can ye blume sae fair! How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae fu’ o’ care.
Thou’lt break my heart, thou bonnie bird That sings upon the bough; Thou minds me o’ the happy days When my fause luve was true.
Thou’lt break my heart, thou bonnie bird That sings beside thy mate; For sae I sat, and sae I sang, And wist na o’ my fate.
Aft hae I rov’d by bonnie Doon, To see the woodbine twine, And ilka bird sang o’ its love, And sae did I o’ mine.
Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose Frae off its thorny tree; And my fause luver staw the rose, But left the thorn wi’ me. |
Robert Burns.
Oft in the stilly night Ere slumber’s chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me: The smiles, the tears Of boyhood’s years, The words of love then spoken; The eyes that shone, Now dimmed and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken! Thus in the stilly night Ere slumber’s chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me.
When I remember all The friends so link’d together I’ve seen around me fall Like leaves in wintry weather, I feel like one Who treads alone Some banquet-hall deserted, Whose lights are fled, Whose garlands dead, And all but he departed! Thus in the stilly night Ere slumber’s chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me. |
Thomas Moore.
If John Burroughs (1837-) had never written any other poem than “My Own Shall Come to Me,” he would have stood to all ages as one of the greatest of American poets. The poem is most characteristic of the tall, majestic, slow-going poet and naturalist. There is no greater line in Greek or English literature than
“I stand amid the eternal ways.”
Serene I fold my hands and wait, Nor care for wind, nor tide, nor sea. I rave no more ’gainst time or fate, For lo! my own shall come to me.
I stay my haste, I make delays, For what avails this eager pace? I stand amid the eternal ways, And what is mine shall know my face.
Asleep, awake, by night or day The friends I seek are seeking me; No wind can drive my bark astray, Nor change the tide of destiny.
What matter if I stand alone? I wait with joy the coming years; My heart shall reap when it has sown, And gather up its fruit of tears.
The stars come nightly to the sky; The tidal wave comes to the sea; Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high, Can keep my own away from me.
The waters know their own and draw The brook that springs in yonder heights; So flows the good with equal law Unto the soul of pure delights. |
John Burroughs.
“Ode to a Skylark,” by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822), is usually assigned to “grammar grades” of schools. It is included here out of respect to a boy of eleven years who was more impressed with these lines than with any other lines in any poem:
“Like a poet hidden,
In the light of thought
Singing songs unbidden
Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not.”
Hail to thee, blithe spirit— Bird thou never wert— That from heaven or near it Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest, Like a cloud of fire; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar and soaring ever singest.
In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun, O’er which clouds are brightening, Thou dost float and run, Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
The pale purple even Melts around thy flight; Like a star of heaven, In the broad daylight Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight.
All the earth and air With thy voice is loud, As, when night is bare, From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.
What thou art we know not; What is most like thee? From rainbow-clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see As from thy presence showers a rain of melody:—
Like a poet hidden In the light of thought; Singing hymns unbidden, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not.
Teach us, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine: I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
Chorus hymeneal Or triumphal chaunt, Matched with thine, would be all But an empty vaunt— A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain? What fields, or waves, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?
Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow, The world should listen then, as I am listening now! |
Percy Bysshe Shelley.
I have often had the pleasure of riding across the coast from Chester, England, to Rhyl, on the north coast of Wales, where stretch “The Sands of Dee” (Charles Kingsley, 1819-75). These purple sands at low tide stretch off into the sea miles away, and are said to be full of quicksands.
“O Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, Across the sands of Dee.” The western wind was wild and dark with foam And all alone went she.
The western tide crept up along the sand, And o’er and o’er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see. The rolling mist came down and hid the land; And never home came she. Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair,— A tress of golden hair, A drownèd maiden’s hair, Above the nets at sea? Was never salmon yet that shone so fair Among the stakes on Dee.
They rowed her in across the rolling foam, The cruel crawling foam, The cruel hungry foam, To her grave beside the sea. But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee. |
Charles Kingsley.
“A Wish” (by Samuel Rogers, 1763-1855) and “Lucy” (by Wordsworth, 1770-1850) are two gems that can be valued only for the spirit of quiet and modesty diffused by them.
Mine be a cot beside the hill; A bee-hive’s hum shall soothe my ear; A willowy brook that turns a mill With many a fall shall linger near.
The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, And share my meal, a welcome guest.
Around my ivied porch shall spring Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing In russet gown and apron blue.
The village church among the trees, Where first our marriage-vows were given, With merry peals shall swell the breeze And point with taper spire to Heaven. |
S. Rogers.
She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove; A maid whom there were none to praise, And very few to love.
A violet by a mossy stone Half-hidden from the eye! Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and, oh, The difference to me! |
William Wordsworth.
Happy the man, whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air In his own ground.
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Whose flocks supply him with attire; Whose trees in summer yield him shade, In winter fire.
Blest, who can unconcern’dly find Hours, days, and years slide soft away In health of body, peace of mind, Quiet by day,
Sound sleep by night; study and ease Together mixt, sweet recreation, And innocence, which most does please With meditation.
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; Thus unlamented let me die; Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie. |
Alexander Pope.
“John Anderson,” by Robert Burns (1759-96). This poem is included to please several teachers.
John Anderson, my jo, John, When we were first acquent Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is bald, John, Your locks are like the snow; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither, And mony a canty day, John, We’ve had wi’ ane anither; Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we’ll go, And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo. |
Robert Burns.
“The God of Music,” by Edith M. Thomas, an Ohio poetess now living. In this sonnet the poetess has touched the power of Wordsworth or Keats and placed herself among the immortals.
The God of Music dwelleth out of doors. All seasons through his minstrelsy we meet, Breathing by field and covert haunting-sweet From organ-lofts in forests old he pours: A solemn harmony: on leafy floors To smooth autumnal pipes he moves his feet, Or with the tingling plectrum of the sleet In winter keen beats out his thrilling scores. Leave me the reed unplucked beside the stream. And he will stoop and fill it with the breeze; Leave me the viol’s frame in secret trees, Unwrought, and it shall wake a druid theme; Leave me the whispering shell on Nereid shores. The God of Music dwelleth out of doors. |
Edith M. Thomas.
“A Musical Instrument” by Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-61). This poem is the supreme masterpiece of Mrs. Browning. The prime thought in it is the sacrifice and pain that must go to make a poet of any genius.
“The great god sighed for the cost and the pain.”
What was he doing, the great god Pan, Down in the reeds by the river? Spreading ruin and scattering ban, Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat, And breaking the golden lilies afloat With the dragon-fly on the river.
He tore out a reed, the great god Pan, From the deep cool bed of the river: The limpid water turbidly ran, And the broken lilies a-dying lay, And the dragon-fly had fled away, Ere he brought it out of the river.
High on the shore sat the great god Pan, While turbidly flow’d the river; And hack’d and hew’d as a great god can, With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed, Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed To prove it fresh from the river.
He cut it short, did the great god Pan (How tall it stood in the river!), Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man, Steadily from the outside ring, And notched the poor dry empty thing In holes, as he sat by the river.
“This is the way,” laugh’d the great god Pan (Laugh’d while he sat by the river), “The only way, since gods began To make sweet music, they could succeed.” Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed He blew in power by the river.
Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan! Piercing sweet by the river! Blinding sweet, O great god Pan! The sun on the hill forgot to die, And the lilies reviv’d, and the dragon-fly Came back to dream on the river.
Yet half a beast is the great god Pan, To laugh as he sits by the river, Making a poet out of a man: The true gods sigh for the cost and pain,— For the reed which grows nevermore again As a reed with the reeds in the river. |
Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
“The Brides of Enderby,” by Jean Ingelow (1830-97). This poem is very dramatic, and the music of the refrain has done much to make it popular. But the pathos is that which endears it.
The old mayor climb’d the belfry tower, The ringers ran by two, by three; “Pull, if ye never pull’d before; Good ringers, pull your best,” quoth he. “Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells! Ply all your changes, all your swells, Play uppe, 'The Brides of Enderby.’”
Men say it was a stolen tyde— The Lord that sent it, He knows all; But in myne ears doth still abide The message that the bells let fall: And there was naught of strange, beside The flight of mews and peewits pied By millions crouch’d on the old sea wall.
I sat and spun within the doore, My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes; The level sun, like ruddy ore, Lay sinking in the barren skies; And dark against day’s golden death She moved where Lindis wandereth, My sonne’s faire wife, Elizabeth.
“Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!” calling, Ere the early dews were falling, Farre away I heard her song, “Cusha! Cusha!” all along; Where the reedy Lindis floweth, Floweth, floweth, From the meads where melick groweth Faintly came her milking song—
“Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!” calling, “For the dews will soone be falling; Leave your meadow grasses mellow, Mellow, mellow; Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; Come uppe, Whitefoot, come uppe, Lightfoot; Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, Hollow, hollow; Come uppe, Jetty, rise and follow, From the clovers lift your head; Come uppe, Whitefoot, come uppe, Lightfoot, Come uppe, Jetty, rise and follow, Jetty, to the milking shed.”
If it be long ay, long ago, When I beginne to think howe long, Againe I hear the Lindis flow, Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong; And all the aire, it seemeth mee, Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), That ring the tune of Enderby.
Alle fresh the level pasture lay, And not a shadowe mote be seene, Save where full fyve good miles away The steeple tower’d from out the greene; And lo! the great bell farre and wide Was heard in all the country side That Saturday at eventide.
The swanherds where their sedges are Mov’d on in sunset’s golden breath, The shepherde lads I heard afarre, And my sonne’s wife, Elizabeth; Till floating o’er the grassy sea Came downe that kyndly message free, The “Brides of Mavis Enderby.”
Then some look’d uppe into the sky, And all along where Lindis flows To where the goodly vessels lie, And where the lordly steeple shows. They sayde, “And why should this thing be? What danger lowers by land or sea? They ring the tune of Enderby!
“For evil news from Mablethorpe, Of pyrate galleys warping down; For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe, They have not spar’d to wake the towne: But while the west bin red to see, And storms be none, and pyrates flee, Why ring 'The Brides of Enderby’?”
I look’d without, and lo! my sonne Came riding downe with might and main; He rais’d a shout as he drew on, Till all the welkin rang again, “Elizabeth! Elizabeth!” (A sweeter woman ne’er drew breath Than my sonne’s wife, Elizabeth.)
“The olde sea wall,” he cried, “is downe, The rising tide comes on apace, And boats adrift in yonder towne Go sailing uppe the market-place.” He shook as one that looks on death: “God save you, mother!” straight he saith “Where is my wife, Elizabeth?”
“Good sonne, where Lindis winds her way With her two bairns I marked her long; And ere yon bells beganne to play Afar I heard her milking song.” He looked across the grassy lea, To right, to left, “Ho, Enderby!” They rang “The Brides of Enderby!”
With that he cried and beat his breast; For, lo! along the river’s bed A mighty eygre rear’d his crest, And uppe the Lindis raging sped. It swept with thunderous noises loud; Shap’d like a curling snow-white cloud, Or like a demon in a shroud.
And rearing Lindis backward press’d Shook all her trembling bankes amaine; Then madly at the eygre’s breast Flung uppe her weltering walls again. Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout— Then beaten foam flew round about— Then all the mighty floods were out.
So farre, so fast the eygre drave, The heart had hardly time to beat Before a shallow seething wave Sobb’d in the grasses at oure feet: The feet had hardly time to flee Before it brake against the knee, And all the world was in the sea.
Upon the roofe we sate that night, The noise of bells went sweeping by; I mark’d the lofty beacon light Stream from the church tower, red and high— A lurid mark and dread to see; And awsome bells they were to mee, That in the dark rang “Enderby.”
They rang the sailor lads to guide From roofe to roofe who fearless row’d; And I—my sonne was at my side, And yet the ruddy beacon glow’d: And yet he moan’d beneath his breath, “O come in life, or come in death! O lost! my love, Elizabeth.”
And didst thou visit him no more? Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare The waters laid thee at his doore, Ere yet the early dawn was clear. Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, The lifted sun shone on thy face, Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place.
That flow strew’d wrecks about the grass, That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea; A fatal ebbe and flow, alas! To manye more than myne and mee; But each will mourn his own (she saith); And sweeter woman ne’er drew breath Than my sonne’s wife, Elizabeth.
I shall never hear her more By the reedy Lindis shore, “Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!” calling, Ere the early dews be falling; I shall never hear her song, “Cusha! Cusha!” all along Where the sunny Lindis floweth, Goeth, floweth; From the meads where melick groweth, When the water winding down, Onward floweth to the town.
I shall never see her more Where the reeds and rushes quiver, Shiver, quiver; Stand beside the sobbing river, Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling To the sandy lonesome shore; I shall never hear her calling, “Leave your meadow grasses mellow, Mellow, mellow; Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow;
“Come uppe, Whitefoot, come uppe, Lightfoot; Quit your pipes of parsley hollow, Hollow, hollow; Come uppe, Lightfoot, rise and follow; Lightfoot, Whitefoot, From your clovers lift the head; Come uppe, Jetty, follow, follow, Jetty, to the milking shed.” |
Jean Ingelow.