The man is wrecked and his ship is sunken before he ever steps on board or sees the water if his heart is hard and his estimate of human beings low. “The Inchcape Rock” is a thrust at hard-heartedness. “What is the use of life?” To bear one another’s burdens, to develop a genius for pulling people through hard places—that’s the use of life. It is the last resort of a mean mind to crack jokes that wreck innocent voyagers on life’s sea. (1774-1843.)
No stir in the air, no stir in the sea, The ship was still as she could be; Her sails from heaven received no motion; Her keel was steady in the ocean.
Without either sign or sound of their shock, The waves flowed over the Inchcape Rock; So little they rose, so little they fell, They did not move the Inchcape Bell.
The Abbot of Aberbrothok Had placed that Bell on the Inchcape Rock; On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung, And over the waves its warning rung.
When the Rock was hid by the surge’s swell, The mariners heard the warning Bell; And then they knew the perilous Rock, And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok.
The sun in heaven was shining gay; All things were joyful on that day; The sea-birds screamed as they wheeled round, And there was joyance in their sound.
The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen, A dark spot on the ocean green; Sir Ralph the Rover walked his deck, And he fixed his eye on the darker speck.
He felt the cheering power of spring; It made him whistle, it made him sing: His heart was mirthful to excess, But the Rover’s mirth was wickedness.
His eye was on the Inchcape float. Quoth he, “My men, put out the boat And row me to the Inchcape Rock, And I’ll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok.”
The boat is lowered, the boatmen row, And to the Inchcape Rock they go; Sir Ralph bent over from the boat, And he cut the Bell from the Inchcape float.
Down sank the Bell with a gurgling sound; The bubbles rose and burst around. Quoth Sir Ralph, “The next who comes to the Rock Won’t bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok.”
Sir Ralph the Rover sailed away; He scoured the sea for many a day; And now grown rich with plundered store, He steers his course for Scotland’s shore.
So thick a haze o’erspread the sky, They cannot see the sun on high: The wind hath blown a gale all day, At evening it hath died away.
On the deck the Rover takes his stand; So dark it is they see no land. Quoth Sir Ralph, “It will be brighter soon, For there is the dawn of the rising moon.”
“Canst hear,” said one, “the broken roar? For methinks we should be near the shore.” “Now where we are I cannot tell, But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell.”
They hear no sound; the swell is strong; Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock: “O Christ! it is the Inchcape Rock!”
Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair, He curst himself in his despair: The waves rush in on every side, The ship is sinking beneath the tide.
But, even in his dying fear, One dreadful sound could the Rover hear,— A sound as if with the Inchcape Bell The Devil below was ringing his knell. |
Robert Southey.
Once a year my pupils teach me “The Finding of the Lyre.” By the time I have learned it they know the meaning of every line and have caught the spirit of the verse. There is an ancient “lyre,” or violin, made in northern Africa, in the possession of a Boston lady, and I have found the mud-turtle rattle among the Indians on the Indian reservation at Syracuse, New York. They use it as a musical instrument in their Thanksgiving dances. The poem helps to build an interest in history and mythology while it develops a child’s reverence and insight. (1819-91.)
There lay upon the ocean’s shore What once a tortoise served to cover; A year and more, with rush and roar, The surf had rolled it over, Had played with it, and flung it by, As wind and weather might decide it, Then tossed it high where sand-drifts dry Cheap burial might provide it.
It rested there to bleach or tan, The rains had soaked, the sun had burned it; With many a ban the fisherman Had stumbled o’er and spurned it; And there the fisher-girl would stay, Conjecturing with her brother How in their play the poor estray Might serve some use or other.
So there it lay, through wet and dry, As empty as the last new sonnet, Till by and by came Mercury, And, having mused upon it, “Why, here,” cried he, “the thing of things In shape, material, and dimension! Give it but strings, and, lo, it sings, A wonderful invention!”
So said, so done; the chords he strained, And, as his fingers o’er them hovered, The shell disdained a soul had gained, The lyre had been discovered. O empty world that round us lies, Dead shell, of soul and thought forsaken, Brought we but eyes like Mercury’s, In thee what songs should waken! |
James Russell Lowell.
“A Chrysalis” is a favourite poem with John Burroughs, and is found, too, in Stedman’s collection. We all come to a point in life where we need to burst the shell and fly away into the new realm. (1835-98.)
My little Mädchen found one day A curious something in her play, That was not fruit, nor flower, nor seed; It was not anything that grew, Or crept, or climbed, or swam, or flew; Had neither legs nor wings, indeed; And yet she was not sure, she said, Whether it was alive or dead.
She brought it in her tiny hand To see if I would understand, And wondered when I made reply, “You’ve found a baby butterfly.” “A butterfly is not like this,” With doubtful look she answered me. So then I told her what would be Some day within the chrysalis: How, slowly, in the dull brown thing Now still as death, a spotted wing, And then another, would unfold, Till from the empty shell would fly A pretty creature, by and by, All radiant in blue and gold.
“And will it, truly?” questioned she— Her laughing lips and eager eyes All in a sparkle of surprise— “And shall your little Mädchen see?” “She shall!” I said. How could I tell That ere the worm within its shell Its gauzy, splendid wings had spread, My little Mädchen would be dead?
To-day the butterfly has flown,— She was not here to see it fly,— And sorrowing I wonder why The empty shell is mine alone. Perhaps the secret lies in this: I too had found a chrysalis, And Death that robbed me of delight Was but the radiant creature’s flight! |
Mary Emily Bradley.
Robert Burns, the plowman and poet, “dinnered wi’ a lord.” The story goes that he was put at the second table. That lord is dead, but Robert Burns still lives. He is immortal. It is “the survival of the fittest” “For a’ That and a’ That” is a poem that wipes out the superficial value put on money and other externalities. This poem is more valuable in education than good penmanship or good spelling. (1759-96.)
Is there, for honest poverty, That hangs his head, and a’ that? The coward slave, we pass him by, We dare be poor for a’ that; For a’ that, and a’ that, Our toils obscure, and a’ that; The rank is but the guinea’s stamp, The man’s the gowd for a’ that!
What though on hamely fare we dine, Wear hoddin-gray,[1] and a’ that; Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, A man’s a man for a’ that! For a’ that, and a’ that, Their tinsel show, and a’ that; The honest man, though e’er sae poor, Is king o’ men for a’ that!
Ye see yon birkie[2] ca’d a lord, Wha struts, and stares, and a’ that; Though hundreds worship at his word, He’s but a coof[3] for a’ that; For a’ that, and a’ that, His riband, star, and a’ that, The man of independent mind, He looks and laughs at a’ that.
A prince can make a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a’ that; But an honest man’s aboon his might. Guid faith he maunna fa’ that! For a’ that, and a’ that, Their dignities, and a’ that, The pith o’ sense, and pride o’ worth, Are higher rank than a’ that.
Then let us pray that come it may— As come it will for a’ that— That sense and worth, o’er a’ the earth, May bear the gree, and a’ that; For a’ that, and a’ that, It’s coming yet for a’ that, That man to man, the warld o’er, Shall brothers be for a’ that! |
Robert Burns.
[1] Coarse woolen clothes. [2] Impudent fellow. [3] Fool: blockhead.
“The New Arrival” is a valuable poem because it expresses the joy of a young father over his new baby. If girls should be educated to be good mothers, so should boys be taught that fatherhood is the highest and holiest joy and right of man. The child is educator to the man. He teaches him how to take responsibility, how to give unbiased judgments, and how to be fatherly like “Our Father who is in Heaven.” (1844-.)
There came to port last Sunday night The queerest little craft, Without an inch of rigging on; I looked and looked and laughed. It seemed so curious that she Should cross the Unknown water, And moor herself right in my room, My daughter, O my daughter!
Yet by these presents witness all She’s welcome fifty times, And comes consigned to Hope and Love And common-meter rhymes. She has no manifest but this, No flag floats o’er the water, She’s too new for the British Lloyds— My daughter, O my daughter!
Ring out, wild bells, and tame ones too! Ring out the lover’s moon! Ring in the little worsted socks! Ring in the bib and spoon! Ring out the muse! ring in the nurse! Ring in the milk and water! Away with paper, pen, and ink— My daughter, O my daughter! |
George W. Cable.
Tennyson’s “The Brook” is included out of love to a dear old schoolmate in Colorado. The real brook, near Cambridge, England, is tame compared to your Colorado streams, O beloved comrade. This poem is well liked by the majority of pupils. (1809-92.)
I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river; For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever.
I wind about, and in and out, With here a blossom sailing, And here and there a lusty trout, And here and there a grayling.
I steal by lawns and grassy plots, I slide by hazel covers; I move the sweet forget-me-nots That grow for happy lovers.
I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, Among my skimming swallows; I make the netted sunbeams dance Against my sandy shallows.
I murmur under moon and stars In brambly wildernesses; I linger by my shingly bars; I loiter round my cresses.
And out again I curve and flow To join the brimming river; For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever. |
Alfred Tennyson.
“The Ballad of the Clampherdown,” by Rudyard Kipling, is included because my boys always like it. It needs a great deal of explanation, and few boys will hold out to the end in learning it. But “it pays.” (1865-.)
It was our war-ship Clampherdown Would sweep the Channel clean, Wherefore she kept her hatches close When the merry Channel chops arose, To save the bleached marine.
She had one bow-gun of a hundred ton, And a great stern-gun beside; They dipped their noses deep in the sea, They racked their stays and stanchions free In the wash of the wind-whipped tide.
It was our war-ship Clampherdown, Fell in with a cruiser light That carried the dainty Hotchkiss gun And a pair o’ heels wherewith to run, From the grip of a close-fought fight.
She opened fire at seven miles— As ye shoot at a bobbing cork— And once she fired and twice she fired, Till the bow-gun drooped like a lily tired That lolls upon the stalk.
“Captain, the bow-gun melts apace, The deck-beams break below, ’Twere well to rest for an hour or twain, And botch the shattered plates again.” And he answered, “Make it so.”
She opened fire within the mile— As ye shoot at the flying duck— And the great stern-gun shot fair and true, With the heave of the ship, to the stainless blue, And the great stern-turret stuck.
“Captain, the turret fills with steam, The feed-pipes burst below— You can hear the hiss of helpless ram, You can hear the twisted runners jam.” And he answered, “Turn and go!”
It was our war-ship Clampherdown, And grimly did she roll; Swung round to take the cruiser’s fire As the White Whale faces the Thresher’s ire, When they war by the frozen Pole.
“Captain, the shells are falling fast, And faster still fall we; And it is not meet for English stock, To bide in the heart of an eight-day clock, The death they cannot see.”
“Lie down, lie down, my bold A.B., We drift upon her beam; We dare not ram, for she can run; And dare ye fire another gun, And die in the peeling steam?”
It was our war-ship Clampherdown That carried an armour-belt; But fifty feet at stern and bow, Lay bare as the paunch of the purser’s sow, To the hail of the Nordenfeldt.
“Captain, they lack us through and through; The chilled steel bolts are swift! We have emptied the bunkers in open sea, Their shrapnel bursts where our coal should be.” And he answered, “Let her drift.”
It was our war-ship Clampherdown, Swung round upon the tide. Her two dumb guns glared south and north, And the blood and the bubbling steam ran forth, And she ground the cruiser’s side.
“Captain, they cry the fight is done, They bid you send your sword.” And he answered, “Grapple her stern and bow. They have asked for the steel. They shall have it now; Out cutlasses and board!”
It was our war-ship Clampherdown, Spewed up four hundred men; And the scalded stokers yelped delight, As they rolled in the waist and heard the fight, Stamp o’er their steel-walled pen.
They cleared the cruiser end to end, From conning-tower to hold. They fought as they fought in Nelson’s fleet; They were stripped to the waist, they were bare to the feet, As it was in the days of old.
It was the sinking Clampherdown Heaved up her battered side— And carried a million pounds in steel, To the cod and the corpse-fed conger-eel, And the scour of the Channel tide.
It was the crew of the Clampherdown Stood out to sweep the sea, On a cruiser won from an ancient foe, As it was in the days of long-ago, And as it still shall be. |
Rudyard Kipling.
“The Destruction of Sennacherib,” by Lord Byron, finds a place in this collection because Johnnie, a ten-year-old, and many of his friends say, “It’s great.” (1788-1824.)
The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when the Summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen: Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still!
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride; And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail, And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord! |
Lord Byron.
I remember, I remember The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn; He never came a wink too soon Nor brought too long a day; But now, I often wish the night Had borne my breath away.
I remember, I remember The roses, red and white, The violets, and the lily-cups— Those flowers made of light! The lilacs where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburnum on his birthday,— The tree is living yet!
I remember, I remember Where I was used to swing, And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing; My spirit flew in feathers then That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow.
I remember, I remember The fir trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky: It was a childish ignorance, But now ’tis little joy To know I’m farther off from Heaven Than when I was a boy. |
Thomas Hood.
Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass He turned them into the river lane; One after another he let them pass, Then fastened the meadow bars again.
Under the willows and over the hill, He patiently followed their sober pace; The merry whistle for once was still, And something shadowed the sunny face.
Only a boy! and his father had said He never could let his youngest go: Two already were lying dead, Under the feet of the trampling foe.
But after the evening work was done, And the frogs were loud in the meadow-swamp, Over his shoulder he slung his gun, And stealthily followed the footpath damp.
Across the clover, and through the wheat, With resolute heart and purpose grim: Though the dew was on his hurrying feet, And the blind bat’s flitting startled him.
Thrice since then had the lanes been white, And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom; And now, when the cows came back at night, The feeble father drove them home.
For news had come to the lonely farm That three were lying where two had lain; And the old man’s tremulous, palsied arm Could never lean on a son’s again.
The summer day grew cool and late: He went for the cows when the work was done; But down the lane, as he opened the gate, He saw them coming one by one:
Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, Shaking their horns in the evening wind; Cropping the buttercups out of the grass, But who was it following close behind?
Loosely swung in the idle air The empty sleeve of army blue; And worn and pale, from the crisping hair, Looked out a face that the father knew.
For close-barred prisons will sometimes yawn, And yield their dead unto life again; And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn, In golden glory at last may wane.
The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes; For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb, And under the silent evening skies Together they followed the cattle home. |
Kate Putnam Osgood.
“Krinken” is the dearest of poems.
“Krinken was a little child.
It was summer when he smiled!”
Eugene Field, above all other poets, paid the finest tribute to children. This poet only, could make the whole ocean warm because a child’s heart was there to warm it.
Krinken was a little child,— It was summer when he smiled. Oft the hoary sea and grim Stretched its white arms out to him, Calling, “Sun-child, come to me; Let me warm my heart with thee!” But the child heard not the sea Calling, yearning evermore For the summer on the shore.
Krinken on the beach one day Saw a maiden Nis at play; On the pebbly beach she played In the summer Krinken made. Fair, and very fair, was she, Just a little child was he. “Krinken,” said the maiden Nis, “Let me have a little kiss,— Just a kiss, and go with me To the summer-lands that be Down within the silver sea.”
Krinken was a little child— By the maiden Nis beguiled, Hand in hand with her went he And ’twas summer in the sea. And the hoary sea and grim To its bosom folded him— Clasped and kissed the little form, And the ocean’s heart was warm.
Now the sea calls out no more; It is winter on the shore,— Winter where that little child Made sweet summer when he smiled; Though ’tis summer on the sea Where with maiden Nis went he,— It is winter on the shore, Winter, winter evermore.
Of the summer on the deep Come sweet visions in my sleep; His fair face lifts from the sea, His dear voice calls out to me,— These my dreams of summer be.
Krinken was a little child, By the maiden Nis beguiled; Oft the hoary sea and grim Reached its longing arms to him, Crying, “Sim-child, come to me; Let me warm my heart with thee!” But the sea calls out no more; It is winter on the shore,— Winter, cold and dark and wild.
Krinken was a little child,— It was summer when he smiled; Down he went into the sea, And the winter bides with me, Just a little child was he. |
Eugene Field.
“How I should like a birthday!” said the child, “I have so few, and they so far apart.” She spoke to Stevenson—the Master smiled— “Mine is to-day; I would with all my heart That it were yours; too many years have I! Too swift they come, and all too swiftly fly”
So by a formal deed he there conveyed All right and title in his natal day, To have and hold, to sell or give away,— Then signed, and gave it to the little maid.
Joyful, yet fearing to believe too much, She took the deed, but scarcely dared unfold. Ah, liberal Genius! at whose potent touch All common things shine with transmuted gold! A day of Stevenson’s will prove to be Not part of Time, but Immortality. |
Katherine Miller.
I learned “A Modest Wit” as a reading-lesson when I was a child. It has clung to me and so I cling to it. It is just as good as it ever was. It is a sharp thrust at power that depends on externalities. Selleck Osborne. (——.)
A supercilious nabob of the East— Haughty, being great—purse-proud, being rich— A governor, or general, at the least, I have forgotten which— Had in his family a humble youth, Who went from England in his patron’s suit, An unassuming boy, in truth A lad of decent parts, and good repute.
This youth had sense and spirit; But yet with all his sense, Excessive diffidence Obscured his merit.
One day, at table, flushed with pride and wine, His honour, proudly free, severely merry, Conceived it would be vastly fine To crack a joke upon his secretary.
“Young man,” he said, “by what art, craft, or trade, Did your good father gain a livelihood?”— “He was a saddler, sir,” Modestus said, “And in his time was reckon’d good.”
“A saddler, eh! and taught you Greek, Instead of teaching you to sew! Pray, why did not your father make A saddler, sir, of you?”
Each parasite, then, as in duty bound, The joke applauded, and the laugh went round. At length Modestus, bowing low, Said (craving pardon, if too free he made), “Sir, by your leave, I fain would know Your father’s trade!”
“My father’s trade! by heaven, that’s too bad! My father’s trade? Why, blockhead, are you mad? My father, sir, did never stoop so low— He was a gentleman, I’d have you know.”
“Excuse the liberty I take,” Modestus said, with archness on his brow, “Pray, why did not your father make A gentleman of you?” |
Selleck Osborne.
“The Legend of Bishop Hatto” is doubtless a myth (Robert Southey, 1774-1843). But “The Mouse-Tower on the Rhine” is an object of interest to travellers, and the story has a point
The summer and autumn had been so wet, That in winter the corn was growing yet: ’Twas a piteous sight to see, all around, The grain lie rotting on the ground.
Every day the starving poor Crowded around Bishop Hatto’s door; For he had a plentiful last-year’s store, And all the neighbourhood could tell His granaries were furnished well.
At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day To quiet the poor without delay: He bade them to his great barn repair, And they should have food for winter there.
Rejoiced such tidings good to hear, The poor folk flocked from far and near; The great barn was full as it could hold Of women and children, and young and old.
Then, when he saw it could hold no more, Bishop Hatto, he made fast the door; And while for mercy on Christ they call, He set fire to the barn and burned them all.
“I’ faith, ’tis an excellent bonfire!” quoth he; “And the country is greatly obliged to me For ridding it in these times forlorn Of Rats that only consume the corn.”
So then to his palace returnèd he, And he sat down to supper merrily, And he slept that night like an innocent man; But Bishop Hatto never slept again.
In the morning as he entered the hall, Where his picture hung against the wall, A sweat-like death all over him came; For the Rats had eaten it out of the frame.
As he looked, there came a man from his farm; He had a countenance white with alarm: “My Lord, I opened your granaries this morn, And the Rats had eaten all your corn.”
Another came running presently, And he was pale as pale could be: “Fly, my Lord Bishop, fly!” quoth he, “Ten thousand Rats are coming this way; The Lord forgive you yesterday!”
“I’ll go to my town on the Rhine,” replied he; “’Tis the safest place in Germany; The walls are high, and the shores are steep, And the stream is strong, and the water deep.”
Bishop Hatto fearfully hastened away, And he crossed the Rhine without delay, And reached his tower, and barred with care All windows, doors, and loop-holes there.
He laid him down, and closed his eyes; But soon a scream made him arise: He started and saw two eyes of flame On his pillow, from whence the screaming came.
He listened and looked; it was only the cat: But the Bishop he grew more fearful for that; For she sat screaming, mad with fear At the army of Rats that was drawing near.
For they have swum over the river so deep, And they have climbed the shore so steep; And up the tower their way is bent, To do the work for which they were sent.
They are not to be told by the dozen or score; By thousands they come, and by myriads and more; Such numbers had never been heard of before, Such a judgment had never been witnessed of yore.
Down on his knees the Bishop fell, And faster and faster his beads did tell, As, louder and louder drawing near, The gnawing of their teeth he could hear.
And in at the windows and in at the door, And through the walls, helter-skelter they pour, And down from the ceiling and up through the floor, From the right and the left, from behind and before, And all at once to the Bishop they go.
They have whetted their teeth against the stones; And now they pick the Bishop’s bones: They gnawed the flesh from every limb; For they were sent to do judgment on him! |
Robert Southey.