“Abou Ben Adhem” has won its way to the popular heart because the “Brotherhood of Man” is the motto of this age. (1784-1859.)
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw within the moonlight in his room, Making it rich and like a lily in bloom, An angel writing in a book of gold.
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold; And to the presence in the room he said, “What writest thou?” The vision raised its head, And, with a look made of all sweet accord, Answered, “The names of those who love the Lord.”
“And is mine one?” said Abou. “Nay, not so,” Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low, But cheerly still; and said, “I pray thee, then, Write me as one that loves his fellow-men.”
The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night It came again, with a great wakening light, And showed the names whom love of God had blessed; And, lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest. |
Leigh Hunt.
“A Farm-Yard Song” was popular years ago with Burbank, the great reader. How the boys and girls loved it! The author, J. T. Trowbridge (1827-still living), “is a boy-hearted man,” says John Burroughs. The poem is just as popular as it ever was.
Over the hill the farm-boy goes, His shadow lengthens along the land, A giant staff in a giant hand; In the poplar-tree, above the spring, The katydid begins to sing; The early dews are falling;— Into the stone-heap darts the mink; The swallows skim the river’s brink; And home to the woodland fly the crows, When over the hill the farm-boy goes, Cheerily calling,— “Co’, boss! co’, boss! co’! co’! co’!” Farther, farther over the hill, Faintly calling, calling still,— “Co’, boss! co’, boss! co’! co’!”
Into the yard the farmer goes, With grateful heart, at the close of day; Harness and chain are hung away; In the wagon-shed stand yoke and plow; The straw’s in the stack, the hay in the mow; The cooling dews are falling;— The friendly sheep his welcome bleat, The pigs come grunting to his feet, The whinnying mare her master knows, When into the yard the farmer goes, His cattle calling,— “Co’, boss! co’, boss! co’! co’! co’!” While still the cow-boy, far away, Goes seeking those that have gone astray,— “Co’, boss! co’, boss! co’! co’!”
Now to her task the milkmaid goes. The cattle come crowding through the gate, Lowing, pushing, little and great; About the trough, by the farm-yard pump, The frolicsome yearlings frisk and jump, While the pleasant dews are falling;— The new-milch heifer is quick and shy, But the old cow waits with tranquil eye; And the white stream into the bright pail flows, When to her task the milkmaid goes, Soothingly calling,— “So, boss! so, boss! so! so! so!” The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool, And sits and milks in the twilight cool, Saying, “So! so, boss! so! so!”
To supper at last the farmer goes. The apples are pared, the paper read, The stories are told, then all to bed. Without, the crickets’ ceaseless song Makes shrill the silence all night long; The heavy dews are falling. The housewife’s hand has turned the lock; Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock; The household sinks to deep repose; But still in sleep the farm-boy goes. Singing, calling,— “Co’, boss! co’, boss! co’! co’! co’!” And oft the milkmaid, in her dreams, Drums in the pail with the flashing streams, Murmuring, “So, boss! so!” |
J.T. Trowbridge.
“To a Mouse” and “To a Mountain Daisy,” by Robert Burns (1759-96), are the ineffable touches of tenderness that illumine the sturdy plowman. The contrast between the strong man and the delicate flower or creature at his mercy makes tenderness in man a vital point in character.
The lines “To a Mouse” seem by report to have been composed while Burns was actually plowing. One of the poet’s first editors wrote: “John Blane, who had acted as gaudsman to Burns, and who lived sixty years afterward, had a distinct recollection of the turning up of the mouse. Like a thoughtless youth as he was, he ran after the creature to kill it, but was checked and recalled by his master, who he observed became thereafter thoughtful and abstracted. Burns, who treated his servants with the familiarity of fellow-labourers, soon afterward read the poem to Blane.”
Wee, sleekit, cow’rin’, tim’rous beastie, Oh, what a panic’s in thy breastie! Thou needna start awa’ sae hasty, Wi’ bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin and chase thee, Wi’ murd’ring pattle!
I’m truly sorry man’s dominion Has broken Nature’s social union, And justifies that ill opinion, Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion And fellow-mortal!
I doubtna, whiles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen icker in a thrave ’S a sma’ request: I’ll get a blessin’ wi’ the lave, And never miss ’t!
Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! Its silly wa’s the win’s are strewin’! And naething now to big a new ane O’ foggage green, And bleak December’s winds ensuin’, Baith snell and keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste, And weary winter comin’ fast, And cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till, crash! the cruel coulter passed Out through thy cell.
That wee bit heap o’ leaves and stibble Has cost thee monie a weary nibble! Now thou’s turned out for a’ thy trouble, But house or hald, To thole the winter’s sleety dribble, And cranreuch cauld!
But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, In proving foresight may be vain: The best-laid schemes o’ mice and men Gang aft a-gley, And lea’e us naught but grief and pain, For promised joy.
Still thou art blest, compared wi’ me! The present only toucheth thee: But, och! I backward cast my e’e On prospects drear! And forward, though I canna see, I guess and fear. |
Robert Burns.
Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower, Thou’s met me in an evil hour; For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem: To spare thee now is past my power, Thou bonny gem.
Alas! it’s no thy neebor sweet, The bonny lark, companion meet, Bending thee ’mang the dewy weet, Wi’ speckled breast, When upward-springing, blithe, to greet The purpling east!
Cauld blew the bitter biting north Upon thy early, humble birth; Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm, Scarce reared above the parent earth Thy tender form.
The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, High sheltering woods and wa’s maun shield, But thou, beneath the random bield O’ clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field, Unseen, alane.
There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies!
Such is the fate of artless maid, Sweet floweret of the rural shade! By love’s simplicity betrayed, And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid Low i’ the dust.
Such is the fate of simple bard, On life’s rough ocean luckless starr’d! Unskilful he to note the card Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o’er!
Such fate to suffering worth is given, Who long with wants and woes has striven, By human pride or cunning driven To misery’s brink, Till wrenched of every stay but Heaven, He, ruined, sink!
Even thou who mourn’st the Daisy’s fate, That fate is thine—no distant date; Stern Ruin’s plowshare drives, elate, Full on thy bloom, Till crushed beneath the furrow’s weight Shall be thy doom. |
Robert Burns.
“Barbara Frietchie” will be beloved of all times because she was an old woman (not necessarily an old lady) worthy of her years. Old age is honourable if it carries a head that has a halo. (1807-92.)
Up from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn,
The clustered spires of Frederick stand Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.
Roundabout them orchards sweep, Apple and peach tree fruited deep,
Fair as the garden of the Lord To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,
On that pleasant morn of the early fall When Lee marched over the mountain-wall,
Over the mountains winding down, Horse and foot, into Frederick town.
Forty flags with their silver stars, Forty flags with their crimson bars,
Flapped in the morning wind: the sun Of noon looked down, and saw not one.
Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, Bowed with her fourscore years and ten,
Bravest of all in Frederick town, She took up the flag the men hauled down.
In her attic window the staff she set, To show that one heart was loyal yet.
Up the street came the rebel tread, Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.
Under his slouched hat left and right He glanced: the old flag met his sight.
“Halt!”—the dust-brown ranks stood fast. “Fire!”—out blazed the rifle-blast.
It shivered the window, pane and sash; It rent the banner with seam and gash.
Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf.
She leaned far out on the window-sill, And shook it forth with a royal will.
“Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, But spare your country’s flag,” she said.
A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, Over the face of the leader came;
The nobler nature within him stirred To life at that woman’s deed and word:
“Who touches a hair of yon gray head Dies like a dog! March on!” he said.
All day long through Frederick street Sounded the tread of marching feet:
All day long that free flag tost Over the heads of the rebel host.
Even its torn folds rose and fell On the loyal winds that loved it well;
And through the hill-gaps sunset light Shone over it with a warm good-night.
Barbara Frietchie’s work is o’er, And the rebel rides on his raids no more.
Honour to her! and let a tear Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall’s bier.
Over Barbara Frietchie’s grave, Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!
Peace and order and beauty draw Round thy symbol of light and law;
And ever the stars above look down On thy stars below in Frederick town! |
John G. Whittier.