“The Song in Camp” is Bayard Taylor’s best effort as far as young boys and girls are concerned. It is a most valuable poem. I once heard a clergyman in Chicago use it as a text for his sermon. Since then “Annie Laurie” has become the song of the Labour party. “The Song in Camp” voices a universal feeling. (1825-78.)
“Give us a song!” the soldiers cried, The outer trenches guarding, When the heated guns of the camps allied Grew weary of bombarding.
The dark Redan, in silent scoff, Lay, grim and threatening, under; And the tawny mound of the Malakoff No longer belched its thunder.
There was a pause. A guardsman said, “We storm the forts to-morrow; Sing while we may, another day Will bring enough of sorrow.”
They lay along the battery’s side, Below the smoking cannon: Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde, And from the banks of Shannon.
They sang of love, and not of fame; Forgot was Britain’s glory: Each heart recalled a different name, But all sang “Annie Laurie.”
Voice after voice caught up the song, Until its tender passion Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,— Their battle-eve confession.
Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, But, as the song grew louder, Something upon the soldier’s cheek Washed off the stains of powder.
Beyond the darkening ocean burned The bloody sunset’s embers, While the Crimean valleys learned How English love remembers.
And once again a fire of hell Rained on the Russian quarters, With scream of shot, and burst of shell, And bellowing of the mortars!
And Irish Nora’s eyes are dim For a singer, dumb and gory; And English Mary mourns for him Who sang of “Annie Laurie.”
Sleep, soldiers! still in honoured rest Your truth and valour wearing: The bravest are the tenderest,— The loving are the daring. |
Bayard Taylor.
“The Bugle Song” (by Alfred Tennyson, 1809-90), says Heydrick, “has for its central theme the undying power of human love. The music is notable for sweetness and delicacy.”
The splendour falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story: The long light shakes across the lakes And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going! O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O love, they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. |
Alfred Tennyson.
“The Three Bells of Glasgow,” by Whittier (1807-92), cannot be praised too highly for its ethical value. Children always love to learn it after hearing it read correctly and by one who understands and appreciates it. “Stand by” is the motto. My pupils teach it to me once a year and learn it themselves, too.
Beneath the low-hung night cloud That raked her splintering mast The good ship settled slowly, The cruel leak gained fast.
Over the awful ocean Her signal guns pealed out. Dear God! was that Thy answer From the horror round about?
A voice came down the wild wind, “Ho! ship ahoy!” its cry: “Our stout Three Bells of Glasgow Shall stand till daylight by!”
Hour after hour crept slowly, Yet on the heaving swells Tossed up and down the ship-lights, The lights of the Three Bells!
And ship to ship made signals, Man answered back to man, While oft, to cheer and hearten, The Three Bells nearer ran:
And the captain from her taffrail Sent down his hopeful cry. “Take heart! Hold on!” he shouted, “The Three Bells shall stand by!”
All night across the waters The tossing lights shone clear; All night from reeling taffrail The Three Bells sent her cheer.
And when the dreary watches Of storm and darkness passed, Just as the wreck lurched under, All souls were saved at last.
Sail on, Three Bells, forever, In grateful memory sail! Ring on, Three Bells of rescue, Above the wave and gale!
Type of the Love eternal, Repeat the Master’s cry, As tossing through our darkness The lights of God draw nigh! |
John G. Whittier.
There never was a boy who did not like “Sheridan’s Ride,” by T. Buchanan Read (1822-72). The swing and gallop in it take every boy off from his feet. The children never teach this poem to me, because they love to learn it at first sight. It is easily memorised.
Up from the South at break of day, Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, The affrighted air with a shudder bore, Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain’s door, The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar, Telling the battle was on once more, And Sheridan twenty miles away.
And wider still those billows of war Thundered along the horizon’s bar; And louder yet into Winchester rolled The roar of that red sea uncontrolled, Making the blood of the listener cold As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, And Sheridan twenty miles away.
But there is a road from Winchester town, A good, broad highway leading down; And there, through the flush of the morning light, A steed as black as the steeds of night Was seen to pass as with eagle flight; As if he knew the terrible need, He stretched away with his utmost speed; Hills rose and fell; but his heart was gay, With Sheridan fifteen miles away.
Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering South, The dust, like smoke from the cannon’s mouth; Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster, Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster. The heart of the steed and the heart of the master Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, Impatient to be where the battle-field calls; Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, With Sheridan only ten miles away.
Under his spurning feet the road Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, And the landscape sped away behind Like an ocean flying before the wind. And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace fire, Swept on, with his wild eye full of ire. But lo! he is nearing his heart’s desire; He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, With Sheridan only five miles away.
The first that the General saw were the groups Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops. What was done—what to do? A glance told him both, Then striking his spurs, with a terrible oath, He dashed down the line, mid a storm of huzzas, And the wave of retreat checked its course there, because The sight of the master compelled it to pause. With foam and with dust the black charger was gray; By the flash of his eye, and the red nostrils’ play, He seemed to the whole great army to say: “I have brought you Sheridan all the way From Winchester down to save the day!”
Hurrah! hurrah for Sheridan! Hurrah! hurrah for horse and man! And when their statues are placed on high, Under the dome of the Union sky, The American soldiers’ Temple of Fame, There with the glorious General’s name Be it said, in letters both bold and bright: “Here is the steed that saved the day, By carrying Sheridan into the fight From Winchester, twenty miles away!” |
Thomas Buchanan Read.
“The Sandpiper,” by Celia Thaxter (1836-94), is placed here because a goodly percentage of the children who read it want to learn it.
Across the lonely beach we flit, One little sandpiper and I, And fast I gather, bit by bit, The scattered driftwood, bleached and dry. The wild waves reach their hands for it, The wild wind raves, the tide runs high, As up and down the beach we flit, One little sandpiper and I.
Above our heads the sullen clouds Scud, black and swift, across the sky; Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds Stand out the white lighthouses high. Almost as far as eye can reach I see the close-reefed vessels fly, As fast we flit along the beach, One little sandpiper and I.
I watch him as he skims along, Uttering his sweet and mournful cry; He starts not at my fitful song, Nor flash of fluttering drapery. He has no thought of any wrong, He scans me with a fearless eye; Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong, The little sandpiper and I.
Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night, When the loosed storm breaks furiously? My driftwood fire will burn so bright! To what warm shelter canst thou fly? I do not fear for thee, though wroth The tempest rushes through the sky; For are we not God’s children both, Thou, little sandpiper, and I? |
Celia Thaxter.
Girls always love “Lady Clare” and “The Lord of Burleigh.” They like to think that it is enough to be a splendid woman without title or wealth. They want to be loved, if they are loved at all, for their good hearts and graces of mind. Tennyson (1809-92) makes this point repeatedly through his poems.
It was the time when lilies blow And clouds are highest up in air; Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe To give his cousin, Lady Clare.
I trow they did not part in scorn: Lovers long-betroth’d were they: They too will wed the morrow morn: God’s blessing on the day!
“He does not love me for my birth, Nor for my lands so broad and fair; He loves me for my own true worth, And that is well,” said Lady Clare.
In there came old Alice the nurse; Said: “Who was this that went from thee?” “It was my cousin,” said Lady Clare; “To-morrow he weds with me.”
“O God be thank’d!” said Alice the nurse, “That all comes round so just and fair: Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands, And you are not the Lady Clare.”
“Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse,” Said Lady Clare, “that ye speak so wild?” “As God’s above,” said Alice the nurse, “I speak the truth: you are my child.
“The old Earl’s daughter died at my breast; I speak the truth, as I live by bread! I buried her like my own sweet child, And put my child in her stead.”
“Falsely, falsely have ye done, O mother,” she said, “if this be true, To keep the best man under the sun So many years from his due.”
“Nay now, my child,” said Alice the nurse, “But keep the secret for your life, And all you have will be Lord Ronald’s When you are man and wife.”
“If I’m a beggar born,” she said, “I will speak out, for I dare not lie. Pull off, pull off the brooch of gold, And fling the diamond necklace by.”
“Nay now, my child,” said Alice the nurse, “But keep the secret all ye can.” She said: “Not so: but I will know If there be any faith in man.”
“Nay now, what faith?” said Alice the nurse, “The man will cleave unto his right,” “And he shall have it,” the lady replied, “Tho’ I should die to-night.”
“Yet give one kiss to your mother dear! Alas! my child, I sinn’d for thee.” “O mother, mother, mother,” she said, “So strange it seems to me.
“Yet here’s a kiss for my mother dear, My mother dear, if this be so, And lay your hand upon my head, And bless me, mother, ere I go.”
She clad herself in a russet gown, She was no longer Lady Clare: She went by dale, and she went by down, With a single rose in her hair.
The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought Leapt up from where she lay, Dropt her head in the maiden’s hand, And follow’d her all the way.
Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower: “O Lady Clare, you shame your worth! Why come you drest like a village maid, That are the flower of the earth?”
“If I come drest like a village maid, I am but as my fortunes are: I am a beggar born,” she said, “And not the Lady Clare.”
“Play me no tricks,” said Lord Ronald, “For I am yours in word and in deed. Play me no tricks,” said Lord Ronald, “Your riddle is hard to read.”
O and proudly stood she up! Her heart within her did not fail: She look’d into Lord Ronald’s eyes, And told him all her nurse’s tale.
He laugh’d a laugh of merry scorn: He turn’d and kiss’d her where she stood: “If you are not the heiress born? And I,” said he, “the next in blood—
“If you are not the heiress born, And I,” said he, “the lawful heir, We two will wed to-morrow morn, And you shall still be Lady Clare.” |
Alfred Tennyson.
In her ear he whispers gaily, “If my heart by signs can tell, Maiden, I have watched thee daily, And I think thou lov’st me well.” She replies, in accents fainter, “There is none I love like thee.” He is but a landscape-painter, And a village maiden she.
He to lips, that fondly falter, Presses his without reproof; Leads her to the village altar, And they leave her father’s roof.
“I can make no marriage present; Little can I give my wife. Love will make our cottage pleasant, And I love thee more than life.”
They by parks and lodges going See the lordly castles stand; Summer woods, about them blowing, Made a murmur in the land.
From deep thought himself he rouses, Says to her that loves him well, “Let us see these handsome houses Where the wealthy nobles dwell.”
So she goes by him attended, Hears him lovingly converse, Sees whatever fair and splendid Lay betwixt his home and hers.
Parks with oak and chestnut shady, Parks and order’d gardens great, Ancient homes of lord and lady, Built for pleasure and for state.
All he shows her makes him dearer; Evermore she seems to gaze On that cottage growing nearer, Where they twain will spend their days.
O but she will love him truly! He shall have a cheerful home; She will order all things duly When beneath his roof they come.
Thus her heart rejoices greatly Till a gateway she discerns With armorial bearings stately, And beneath the gate she turns; Sees a mansion more majestic Than all those she saw before; Many a gallant gay domestic Bows before him at the door.
And they speak in gentle murmur When they answer to his call, While he treads with footstep firmer, Leading on from hall to hall.
And while now she wanders blindly, Nor the meaning can divine, Proudly turns he round and kindly, “All of this is mine and thine.”
Here he lives in state and bounty, Lord of Burleigh, fair and free. Not a lord in all the county Is so great a lord as he. All at once the colour flushes Her sweet face from brow to chin; As it were with same she blushes, And her spirit changed within.
Then her countenance all over Pale again as death did prove: But he clasp’d her like a lover, And he cheer’d her soul with love.
So she strove against her weakness, Tho’ at times her spirits sank; Shaped her heart with woman’s meekness To all duties of her rank; And a gentle consort made he, And her gentle mind was such That she grew a noble lady, And the people loved her much. But a trouble weigh’d upon her And perplex’d her, night and morn, With the burden of an honour Unto which she was not born.
Faint she grew and ever fainter. As she murmur’d, “Oh, that he Were once more that landscape-painter Which did win my heart from me!”
So she droop’d and droop’d before him, Fading slowly from his side; Three fair children first she bore him, Then before her time she died.
Weeping, weeping late and early, Walking up and pacing down, Deeply mourn’d the Lord of Burleigh, Burleigh-house by Stamford-town.
And he came to look upon her, And he look’d at her and said, “Bring the dress and put it on her That she wore when she was wed.”
Then her people, softly treading, Bore to earth her body, drest In the dress that she was wed in, That her spirit might have rest. |
Alfred Tennyson.
“Hiawatha” needs no commendation. Hundreds of thousands of children in our land know snatches of it It is a child’s poem, every line of it. One summer in Boston more than 50,000 people went to take a peep at the poet’s house. (1807-82.)
By the shores of Gitche Gumee, By the shining Big-Sea-Water, Stood the wigwam of Nokomis, Daughter of the Moon, Nokomis. Dark behind it rose the forest, Rose the black and gloomy pine-trees, Rose the firs with cones upon them; Bright before it beat the water, Beat the clear and sunny water, Beat the shining Big-Sea-Water.
There the wrinkled old Nokomis Nursed the little Hiawatha, Rocked him in his linden cradle, Bedded soft in moss and rushes, Safely bound with reindeer sinews; Stilled his fretful wail by saying, “Hush! the Naked Bear will hear thee!” Lulled him into slumber, singing, “Ewa-yea! my little owlet! Who is this that lights the wigwam? With his great eyes lights the wigwam? Ewa-yea! my little owlet!”
Many things Nokomis taught him Of the stars that shine in heaven; Showed him Ishkoodah, the comet, Ishkoodah, with fiery tresses; Showed the Death-Dance of the spirits, Warriors with their plumes and war-clubs, Flaring far away to northward In the frosty nights of winter; Showed the broad, white road in heaven, Pathway of the ghosts, the shadows, Running straight across the heavens, Crowded with the ghosts, the shadows.
At the door, on summer evenings, Sat the little Hiawatha; Heard the whispering of the pine-trees, Heard the lapping of the water, Sounds of music, words of wonder; “Minnie-wawa!” said the pine-trees, “Mudway-aushka!” said the water; Saw the fire-fly, Wah-wah-taysee, Flitting through the dusk of evening, With the twinkle of its candle Lighting up the brakes and bushes, And he sang the song of children.
Sang the song Nokomis taught him: “Wah-wah-taysee, little fire-fly, Little, flitting, white-fire insect, Little, dancing, white-fire creature, Light me with your little candle, Ere upon my bed I lay me, Ere in sleep I close my eyelids!”
Saw the moon rise from the water Rippling, rounding from the water, Saw the flecks and shadows on it, Whispered, “What is that, Nokomis?” And the good Nokomis answered: “Once a warrior, very angry, Seized his grandmother, and threw her Up into the sky at midnight; Right against the moon he threw her; ’Tis her body that you see there.”
Saw the rainbow in the heaven, In the eastern sky, the rainbow, Whispered, “What is that, Nokomis?” And the good Nokomis answered: “Tis the heaven of flowers you see there; All the wild-flowers of the forest, All the lilies of the prairie, When on earth they fade and perish, Blossom in that heaven above us.”
When he heard the owls at midnight, Hooting, laughing in the forest, “What is that?” he cried, in terror; “What is that,” he said, “Nokomis?” And the good Nokomis answered: “That is but the owl and owlet, Talking in their native language, Talking, scolding at each other.”
Then the little Hiawatha Learned of every bird its language, Learned their names and all their secrets, How they built their nests in summer, Where they hid themselves in winter, Talked with them whene’er he met them, Called them “Hiawatha’s Chickens.”
Of all beasts he learned the language, Learned their names and all their secrets, How the beavers built their lodges, Where the squirrels hid their acorns, How the reindeer ran so swiftly, Why the rabbit was so timid, Talked with them whene’er he met them, Called them “Hiawatha’s Brothers.” |
Henry W. Longfellow.
“The Daffodil” is here out of compliment to a splendid school and a splendid teacher at Poughkeepsie. I found the pupils learning the poem, the teacher having placed a bunch of daffodils in a vase before them. It was a charming lesson. (1770-96.)
I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o’er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host of golden daffodils: Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay; Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but they Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:— A poet could not but be gay In such a jocund company; I gazed—and gazed—but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought.
For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. |
William Wordsworth.
“John Barleycorn” is a favourite with boys because it pictures a successful struggle. One editor has made a temperance poem of it, mistaking its true intent. The poem is a strong expression of a plow-man’s love for a hardy, food-giving grain which has sprung to life through his efforts. (1759-96.)
There were three kings into the East, Three kings both great and high; And they ha’e sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn should die.
They took a plow and plowed him down, Put clods upon his head; And they ha’e sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn was dead.
But the cheerful spring came kindly on, And showers began to fall; John Barleycorn got up again, And sore surprised them all.
The sultry suns of summer came, And he grew thick and strong; His head well arm’d wi’ pointed spears, That no one should him wrong.
The sober autumn entered mild, And he grew wan and pale; His bending joints and drooping head Showed he began to fail.
His colour sickened more and more, He faded into age; And then his enemies began To show their deadly rage.
They took a weapon long and sharp, And cut him by the knee, Then tied him fast upon a cart, Like a rogue for forgery.
They laid him down upon his back, And cudgelled him full sore; They hung him up before the storm, And turn’d him o’er and o’er.
They filled up then a darksome pit With water to the brim, And heaved in poor John Barleycorn, To let him sink or swim.
They laid him out upon the floor, To work him further woe; And still as signs of life appeared, They tossed him to and fro.
They wasted o’er a scorching flame The marrow of his bones; But a miller used him worst of all— He crushed him ’tween two stones.
And they have taken his very heart’s blood, And drunk it round and round; And still the more and more they drank, Their joy did more abound. |
Robert Burns.
“A Life on the Ocean Wave,” by Epes Sargent (1813-80), gives the swing and motion of the water of the great ocean. Children remember it almost unconsciously after hearing it read several times.
A life on the ocean wave, A home on the rolling deep, Where the scattered waters rave, And the winds their revels keep! Like an eagle caged, I pine On this dull, unchanging shore: Oh! give me the flashing brine, The spray and the tempest’s roar!
Once more on the deck I stand Of my own swift-gliding craft: Set sail! farewell to the land! The gale follows fair abaft. We shoot through the sparkling foam Like an ocean-bird set free;— Like the ocean-bird, our home We’ll find far out on the sea.
The land is no longer in view, The clouds have begun to frown; But with a stout vessel and crew, We’ll say, Let the storm come down! And the song of our hearts shall be, While the winds and the waters rave, A home on the rolling sea! A life on the ocean wave! |
Epes Sargent.
It is customary, every New Year’s eve in America, to ring bells, fire guns, send up rockets, and, in many other ways, to show joy and gratitude that the old year has been so kind, and that the new year is so auspicious. The emphasis in Tennyson’s poem is laid on gratitude for past benefits so easily forgotten rather than upon the possible advantages of the unknown and untried future.
Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, And the winter winds are wearily sighing: Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, And tread softly and speak low, For the old year lies a-dying. Old year, you must not die; You came to us so readily, You lived with us so steadily, Old year, you shall not die.
He lieth still: he doth not move: He will not see the dawn of day. He hath no other life above. He gave me a friend, and a true true-love, And the New-year will take ’em away. Old year, you must not go; So long as you have been with us, Such joy as you have seen with us, Old year, you shall not go.
He froth’d his bumpers to the brim; A jollier year we shall not see. But tho’ his eyes are waxing dim, And tho’ his foes speak ill of him, He was a friend to me. Old year, you shall not die; We did so laugh and cry with you, I’ve half a mind to die with you, Old year, if you must die.
He was full of joke and jest, But all his merry quips are o’er. To see him die, across the waste His son and heir doth ride post-haste, But he’ll be dead before. Every one for his own. The night is starry and cold, my friend, And the New-year blithe and bold, my friend, Comes up to take his own.
How hard he breathes! over the snow I heard just now the crowing cock. The shadows flicker to and fro: The cricket chirps: the light burns low: ’Tis nearly twelve o’clock. Shake hands, before you die. Old year, we’ll dearly rue for you: What is it we can do for you? Speak out before you die.
His face is growing sharp and thin. Alack! our friend is gone. Close up his eyes: tie up his chin: Step from the corpse, and let him in That standeth there alone, And waiteth at the door. There’s a new foot on the floor, my friend, And a new face at the door, my friend, A new face at the door. |
Alfred Tennyson.