“Jack Frost,” by Hannah Flagg Gould (1789-1865), is perhaps a hundred years old, but he is the same rollicking fellow to-day as of yore. The poem puts his merry pranks to the front and prepares the way for science to give him a true analysis.
The Frost looked forth, one still, clear night, And whispered, “Now I shall be out of sight; So through the valley and over the height, In silence I’ll take my way: I will not go on with that blustering train, The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain, Who make so much bustle and noise in vain, But I’ll be as busy as they.”
Then he flew to the mountain and powdered its crest; He lit on the trees, and their boughs he dressed In diamond beads—and over the breast Of the quivering lake he spread A coat of mail, that it need not fear The downward point of many a spear That hung on its margin far and near, Where a rock could rear its head.
He went to the windows of those who slept, And over each pane, like a fairy, crept; Wherever he breathed, wherever he slept, By the light of the moon were seen Most beautiful things—there were flowers and trees; There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees; There were cities with temples and towers, and these All pictured in silver sheen!
But he did one thing that was hardly fair; He peeped in the cupboard, and finding there That all had forgotten for him to prepare— “Now just to set them a-thinking, I’ll bite this basket of fruit,” said he, “This costly pitcher I’ll burst in three, And the glass of water they’ve left for me Shall 'tchich!’ to tell them I’m drinking.” |
Hannah Flagg Gould.
When cats run home and light is come, And dew is cold upon the ground, And the far-off stream is dumb, And the whirring sail goes round, And the whirring sail goes round; Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits.
When merry milkmaids click the latch, And rarely smells the new-mown hay, And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch Twice or thrice his roundelay, Twice or thrice his roundelay; Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits. |
Alfred Tennyson.
“Little Billee,” by William Makepeace Thackeray (1811-63), finds a place here because it carries a good lesson good-naturedly rendered. An accomplished teacher recommends it, and I recollect two young children in Chicago who sang it frequently for years without getting tired of it.
There were three sailors of Bristol city Who took a boat and went to sea. But first with beef and captain’s biscuits And pickled pork they loaded she.
There was gorging Jack and guzzling Jimmy, And the youngest he was little Billee. Now when they got so far as the Equator They’d nothing left but one split pea.
Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, “I am extremely hungaree.” To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy, “We’ve nothing left, us must eat we.”
Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, “With one another, we shouldn’t agree! There’s little Bill, he’s young and tender, We’re old and tough, so let’s eat he.”
“Oh! Billy, we’re going to kill and eat you, So undo the button of your chemie.” When Bill received this information He used his pocket-handkerchie.
“First let me say my catechism, Which my poor mammy taught to me.” “Make haste, make haste,” says guzzling Jimmy While Jack pulled out his snickersnee.
So Billy went up to the main-topgallant mast, And down he fell on his bended knee. He scarce had come to the Twelfth Commandment When up he jumps, “There’s land I see.
“Jerusalem and Madagascar, And North and South Amerikee: There’s the British flag a-riding at anchor, With Admiral Napier, K.C.B.”
So when they got aboard of the Admiral’s He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee; But as for little Bill, he made him The Captain of a Seventy-three. |
William Makepeace Thackeray.
“The Butterfly and the Bee,” by William Lisle Bowles (1762-1850), is recommended by some school-girls. It carries a lesson in favour of the worker.
Methought I heard a butterfly Say to a labouring bee: “Thou hast no colours of the sky On painted wings like me.”
“Poor child of vanity! those dyes, And colours bright and rare,” With mild reproof, the bee replies, “Are all beneath my care.
“Content I toil from morn to eve, And scorning idleness, To tribes of gaudy sloth I leave The vanity of dress.” |
William Lisle Bowles.
“An Incident of the French Camp,” by Robert Browning (1812-89), is included in this volume out of regard to a boy of eight years who did not care for many poems, but this one stirred his heart to its depths.
You know, we French storm’d Ratisbon: A mile or so away On a little mound, Napoleon Stood on our storming-day; With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, Legs wide, arms lock’d behind, As if to balance the prone brow Oppressive with its mind.
Just as perhaps he mus’d “My plans That soar, to earth may fall, Let once my army leader Lannes Waver at yonder wall,”— Out ’twixt the battery smokes there flew A rider, bound on bound Full-galloping; nor bridle drew Until he reach’d the mound.
Then off there flung in smiling joy, And held himself erect By just his horse’s mane, a boy: You hardly could suspect— (So tight he kept his lips compress’d, Scarce any blood came through) You look’d twice ere you saw his breast Was all but shot in two.
“Well,” cried he, “Emperor, by God’s grace We’ve got you Ratisbon! The Marshal’s in the market-place, And you’ll be there anon To see your flag-bird flap his vans Where I, to heart’s desire, Perched him!” The chief’s eye flashed; his plans Soared up again like fire.
The chief’s eye flashed; but presently Softened itself, as sheathes A film the mother-eagle’s eye When her bruised eaglet breathes; “You’re wounded!” “Nay,” the soldier’s pride Touched to the quick, he said: “I’m killed, Sire!” And his chief beside, Smiling the boy fell dead. |
Robert Browning.
“Robert of Lincoln,” by William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878), is one of the finest bird poems ever written. It finds a place here because I have seen it used effectively as a memory gem in the Cook County Normal School (Colonel Parker’s school), year after year, and because my own pupils invariably like to commit it to memory. With the child of six to the student of twenty years it stands a source of delight.
Merrily swinging on brier and weed, Near to the nest of his little dame, Over the mountain-side or mead, Robert of Lincoln is telling his name. Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink, Snug and safe is this nest of ours, Hidden among the summer flowers. Chee, chee, chee.
Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed, Wearing a bright, black wedding-coat; White are his shoulders, and white his crest, Hear him call in his merry note, Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink, Look what a nice, new coat is mine; Sure there was never a bird so fine. Chee, chee, chee.
Robert of Lincoln’s Quaker wife, Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, Passing at home a patient life, Broods in the grass while her husband sings, Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink, Brood, kind creature, you need not fear Thieves and robbers while I am here. Chee, chee, chee.
Modest and shy as a nun is she; One weak chirp is her only note; Braggart, and prince of braggarts is he, Pouring boasts from his little throat, Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink, Never was I afraid of man, Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can. Chee, chee, chee.
Six white eggs on a bed of hay, Flecked with purple, a pretty sight: There as the mother sits all day, Robert is singing with all his might, Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink, Nice good wife that never goes out, Keeping house while I frolic about. Chee, chee, chee.
Soon as the little ones chip the shell, Six wide mouths are open for food; Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, Gathering seeds for the hungry brood: Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink, This new life is likely to be Hard for a gay young fellow like me. Chee, chee, chee.
Robert of Lincoln at length is made Sober with work, and silent with care, Off is his holiday garment laid, Half forgotten that merry air, Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink, Nobody knows but my mate and I, Where our nest and our nestlings lie. Chee, chee, chee.
Summer wanes; the children are grown; Fun and frolic no more he knows; Robert of Lincoln’s a hum-drum drone; Off he flies, and we sing as he goes, Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink, When you can pipe that merry old strain, Robert of Lincoln, come back again. Chee, chee, chee. |
William Cullen Bryant.
“Old Grimes” is an heirloom, an antique gem. We learn it as a matter of course for its sparkle and glow.
Old Grimes is dead; that good old man, We ne’er shall see him more; He used to wear a long, black coat, All buttoned down before.
His heart was open as the day, His feelings all were true; His hair was some inclined to gray, He wore it in a queue.
He lived at peace with all mankind, In friendship he was true; His coat had pocket-holes behind, His pantaloons were blue.
He modest merit sought to find, And pay it its desert; He had no malice in his mind, No ruffles on his shirt.
His neighbours he did not abuse, Was sociable and gay; He wore large buckles on his shoes, And changed them every day.
His knowledge, hid from public gaze, He did not bring to view, Nor make a noise town-meeting days, As many people do.
His worldly goods he never threw In trust to fortune’s chances, But lived (as all his brothers do) In easy circumstances.
Thus undisturbed by anxious cares His peaceful moments ran; And everybody said he was A fine old gentleman. |
Albert Gorton Greene.
A traveller on a dusty road Strewed acorns on the lea; And one took root and sprouted up, And grew into a tree. Love sought its shade at evening-time, To breathe its early vows; And Age was pleased, in heights of noon, To bask beneath its boughs. The dormouse loved its dangling twigs, The birds sweet music bore— It stood a glory in its place, A blessing evermore.
A little spring had lost its way Amid the grass and fern; A passing stranger scooped a well Where weary men might turn. He walled it in, and hung with care A ladle on the brink; He thought not of the deed he did, But judged that Toil might drink. He passed again; and lo! the well, By summer never dried, Had cooled ten thousand parchéd tongues, And saved a life beside.
A nameless man, amid the crowd That thronged the daily mart, Let fall a word of hope and love, Unstudied from the heart, A whisper on the tumult thrown, A transitory breath, It raised a brother from the dust, It saved a soul from death. O germ! O fount! O word of love! O thought at random cast! Ye were but little at the first, But mighty at the last. |
Charles Mackay.
Shed no tear! O shed no tear! The flower will bloom another year. Weep no more! O, weep no more! Young buds sleep in the root’s white core. Dry your eyes! Oh! dry your eyes! For I was taught in Paradise To ease my breast of melodies— Shed no tear.
Overhead! look overhead! ’Mong the blossoms white and red— Look up, look up. I flutter now On this flush pomegranate bough. See me! ’tis this silvery bell Ever cures the good man’s ill. Shed no tear! O, shed no tear! The flowers will bloom another year. Adieu, adieu—I fly, adieu, I vanish in the heaven’s blue— Adieu, adieu! |
John Keats.
“A Boy’s Song,” by James Hogg (1770-1835), is a sparkling poem, very attractive to children.
Where the pools are bright and deep, Where the gray trout lies asleep, Up the river and o’er the lea, That’s the way for Billy and me.
Where the blackbird sings the latest, Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest, Where the nestlings chirp and flee, That’s the way for Billy and me.
Where the mowers mow the cleanest, Where the hay lies thick and greenest, There to trace the homeward bee, That’s the way for Billy and me.
Where the hazel bank is steepest, Where the shadow falls the deepest, Where the clustering nuts fall free. That’s the way for Billy and me.
Why the boys should drive away, Little sweet maidens from the play, Or love to banter and fight so well, That’s the thing I never could tell.
But this I know, I love to play, Through the meadow, among the hay; Up the water and o’er the lea, That’s the way for Billy and me. |
James Hogg.
Buttercups and daisies, Oh, the pretty flowers, Coming ere the spring time, To tell of sunny hours. While the tree are leafless, While the fields are bare, Buttercups and daisies Spring up here and there.
Ere the snowdrop peepeth, Ere the crocus bold, Ere the early primrose Opes its paly gold, Somewhere on the sunny bank Buttercups are bright; Somewhere ’mong the frozen grass Peeps the daisy white.
Little hardy flowers, Like to children poor, Playing in their sturdy health By their mother’s door, Purple with the north wind, Yet alert and bold; Fearing not, and caring not, Though they be a-cold!
What to them is winter! What are stormy showers! Buttercups and daisies Are these human flowers! He who gave them hardships And a life of care, Gave them likewise hardy strength And patient hearts to bear. |
Mary Howitt.
Triumphal arch, that fills the sky When storms prepare to part, I ask not proud Philosophy To teach me what thou art.
Still seem, as to my childhood’s sight, A midway station given, For happy spirits to alight, Betwixt the earth and heaven. |
Thomas Campbell.
“Old Ironsides,” by Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809-94), is learned readily. Children are untouched by the commercial spirit which is the reproach of this age. “Ingratitude is the vice of republics,” and this poem puts to shame the love of money and the spirit of ingratitude that could let a national servant become a wreck.
Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! Long has it waved on high, And many an eye has danced to see That banner in the sky; Beneath it rung the battle shout, And burst the cannon’s roar;— The meteor of the ocean air Shall sweep the clouds no more.
Her deck, once red with heroes’ blood, Where knelt the vanquished foe, When winds were hurrying o’er the flood And waves were white below. No more shall feel the victor’s tread, Or know the conquered knee; The harpies of the shore shall pluck The eagle of the sea!
O, better that her shattered hulk Should sink beneath the wave; Her thunders shook the mighty deep, And there should be her grave; Nail to the mast her holy flag, Set every threadbare sail, And give her to the god of storms, The lightning and the gale! |
Oliver Wendell Holmes.
“Little Orphant Annie” certainly earns her “board and keep” when she has “washed the dishes,” “swept up the crumbs,” “driven the chickens from the porch,” and done all the other odds and ends of work on a farm. The poet, James Whitcomb Riley (1853-), has shown how truly a little child may be overtaxed and yet preserve a brave spirit and keen imagination. Children invariably love to learn this poem.
Little Orphant Annie’s come to our house to stay, An’ wash the cups and saucers up, an’ brush the crumbs away, An’ shoo the chickens off the porch, an’ dust the hearth, an’ sweep, An’ make the fire, an’ bake the bread, an’ earn her board-an’-keep; An’ all us other children, when the supper things is done, We set around the kitchen fire an’ has the mostest fun A-list’nin’ to the witch-tales ’at Annie tells about, An’ the Gobble-uns ’at gits you Ef you Don’t Watch Out!
Onc’t they was a little boy wouldn’t say his pray’rs— An’ when he went to bed at night, away up-stairs, His mammy heerd him holler, an’ his daddy heerd him bawl, An’ when they turn’t the kivvers down, he wasn’t there at all! An’ they seeked him in the rafter-room, an’ cubby hole, an’ press, An’ seeked him up the chimbly flue, an’ ever’-wheres, I guess; But all they ever found was thist his pants an’ roundabout! An’ the Gobble-uns’ll git you Ef you Don’t Watch Out!
An’ one time a little girl ’ud allus laugh an’ grin, An’ make fun of ever’ one, an’ all her blood-an’-kin; An’ onc’t when they was “company,” an’ ole folks was there, She mocked ’em an’ shocked ’em, an’ said she didn’t care! An’ thist as she kicked her heels, an’ turn’t to run an’ hide, They was two great big Black Things a-standin’ by her side, An’ they snatched her through the ceilin’ ’fore she knowed what she’s about! An’ the Gobble-uns’ll git you Ef you Don’t Watch Out!
An’ little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue, An’ the lampwick sputters, an’ the wind goes woo-oo! An’ you hear the crickets quit, an’ the moon is gray, An’ the lightnin’-bugs in dew is all squenched away,— You better mind yer parents, an’ yer teachers fond an’ dear, An’ churish them ’at loves you, an’ dry the orphant’s tear, An’ he’p the pore an’ needy ones ’at clusters all about, Er the Gobble-uns’ll git you Ef you Don’t Watch Out! |
James Whitcomb Riley.
“O Captain! My Captain!” by Walt Whitman (1819-92), is placed here out of compliment to a little boy aged ten who wanted to recite it once a week for a year. This song and Edwin Markham’s poem on Lincoln are two of the greatest tributes ever paid to that hero.
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head! It is some dream that on the deck You’ve fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will. The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; Exult O shores, and ring O bells! But I, with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. |
Walt Whitman.
“Ingratitude,” by William Shakespeare (1564-1616), is an incisive thrust at a refined vice. It is a part of education to learn to be grateful.
Blow, blow, thou winter wind, Thou are not so unkind As man’s ingratitude; Thy tooth is not so keen Because thou are not seen, Although thy breath be rude.
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, Thou dost not bite so nigh As benefits forgot; Though thou the waters warp, Thy sting is not so sharp As friend remembered not. |
William Shakespeare.
“The Ivy Green,” by Charles Dickens (1812-70), is a hardy poem in honour of a hardy plant. There is a wonderful ivy growing at Rhudlan, in northern Wales. Its roots are so large and strong that they form a comfortable seat for many persons, and no one can remember when they were smaller. This ivy envelops a great castle in ruins. Every child in that locality loves the old ivy. It is typical of the ivy as seen all through Wales and England.
O, a dainty plant is the ivy green, That creepeth o’er ruins old! Of right choice food are his meals, I ween, In his cell so lone and cold. The walls must be crumbled, the stones decayed. To pleasure his dainty whim; And the mouldering dust that years have made Is a merry meal for him. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green.
Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, And a staunch old heart has he! How closely he twineth, how tight he clings To his friend, the huge oak tree! And slyly he traileth along the ground, And his leaves he gently waves, And he joyously twines and hugs around The rich mould of dead men’s graves. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green.
Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed, And nations have scattered been; But the stout old ivy shall never fade From its hale and hearty green. The brave old plant in its lonely days Shall fatten upon the past; For the stateliest building man can raise Is the ivy’s food at last. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green. |
Charles Dickens.
“The Noble Nature,” by Ben Jonson (1574-1637), needs no plea. A small virtue well polished is better than none.
It is not growing like a tree In bulk doth make man better be; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear A lily of a day Is fairer far in May, Although it fall and die that night,— It was the plant and flower of light. In small proportions we just beauties see; And in short measures life may perfect be. |
Ben Jonson.
“The Flying Squirrel” is an honest account of a live creature that won his way into scores of hearts by his mad pranks and affectionate ways. It is enough that John Burroughs has commended the poem.
Of all the woodland creatures, The quaintest little sprite Is the dainty flying squirrel In vest of shining white, In coat of silver gray, And vest of shining white.
His furry Quaker jacket Is trimmed with stripe of black; A furry plume to match it Is curling o’er his back; New curved with every motion, His plume curls o’er his back.
No little new-born baby Has pinker feet than he; Each tiny toe is cushioned With velvet cushions three; Three wee, pink, velvet cushions Almost too small to see.
Who said, “The foot of baby Might tempt an angel’s kiss”? I know a score of school-boys Who put their lips to this,— This wee foot of the squirrel, And left a loving kiss.
The tiny thief has hidden My candy and my plum; Ah, there he comes unbidden To gently nip my thumb,— Down in his home (my pocket) He gently nips my thumb.
How strange the food he covets, The restless, restless wight;— Fred’s old stuffed armadillo He found a tempting bite, Fred’s old stuffed armadillo, With ears a perfect fright.
The Lady Ruth’s great bureau, Each foot a dragon’s paw! The midget ate the nails from His famous antique claw. Oh, what a cruel beastie To hurt a dragon’s claw!
To autographic copies Upon my choicest shelf,— To every dainty volume The rogue has helped himself. My books! Oh dear! No matter! The rogue has helped himself.
And yet, my little squirrel, Your taste is not so bad; You’ve swallowed Caird completely And psychologic Ladd. Rosmini you’ve digested, And Kant in rags you’ve clad.
Gnaw on, my elfish rodent! Lay all the sages low! My pretty lace and ribbons, They’re yours for weal or woe! My pocket-book’s in tatters Because you like it so. |
Mary E. Burt.
There is never a boy who objects to learning “Warren’s Address,” by John Pierpont (1785-1866). To stand by one’s own rights is inherent in every true American. This poem is doubtless developed from Robert Burns’s “Bannockburn.” (1785-1866.)
Stand! the ground’s your own, my braves! Will ye give it up to slaves? Will ye look for greener graves? Hope ye mercy still? What’s the mercy despots feel? Hear it in that battle-peal! Read it on yon bristling steel! Ask it,—ye who will.
Fear ye foes who kill for hire? Will ye to your homes retire? Look behind you! they’re afire! And, before you, see Who have done it!—From the vale On they come!—And will ye quail?— Leaden rain and iron hail Let their welcome be!
In the God of battles trust! Die we may,—and die we must; But, O, where can dust to dust Be consigned so well, As where Heaven its dews shall shed On the martyred patriot’s bed, And the rocks shall raise their head, Of his deeds to tell! |
John Pierpont.