Literature 
 
 fbr* the 
 Si u d 11 oi ' I , a ti0ii 
 
 9 
 
 
 Houakton Mifflin 
 
73^.27 
 
KtoettfiDe iliterattire 
 
 LITEKATUKE FOR THE 
 STUDY OF LANGUAGE 
 
 AS SUGGESTED BY THE COURSE OF STUDY FOR 
 THE COMMON SCHOOLS OF NORTH DAKOTA 
 
 ARRANGED BY 
 
 R. M. BLACK 
 
 FOR THE COMMITTEE ON COURSE OF STUDY 
 
 REVISED IN ACCORDANCE WITH 
 THE 1912 COURSE OF STUDY 
 
 BOSTON NEW YORK CHICAGO 
 
 HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
 ftitoeitfibe 
 
OFFICIAL ENDORSEMENT 
 
 The publication of this book was approved by the Stand- 
 ing Committee of Superintendents on the North Dakota 
 State Course of Study, and by the Department of Public 
 Instruction for use in connection with the work in Reading 
 and Language in the Course of Study for the Common 
 Schools of North Dakota. 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1908, 1913, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
 
 <Cftf Bibertfce $re0 
 
 CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS 
 U . S . A 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 THIRD YEAR 
 
 First Month PAQB 
 
 SEPTEMBER Helen Hunt Jackson 1 
 
 Second Month 
 
 OCTOBER'S BRIGHT BLUE WEATHER 
 
 Helen Hunt Jackson 2 
 Third Month 
 
 THE CORN-SONG John Greenleaf Whittier 3 
 
 Fourth Month 
 
 THE FIRST SNOW-FALL James Russell Lowell 5 
 
 Fifth Month 
 
 WINTER-TIME Robert Louis Stevenson 7 
 
 Sixth Month 
 
 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR 
 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 7 
 Seventh Month 
 
 MARCH William Cullen Bryant 9 
 
 Eiijlitk Month 
 
 SWEET AND Low Alfred, Lord Tennyson 10 
 
 THE UGLY DUCKLING 
 
 Hans Christian Andersen 11 
 Ninth Month 
 
 THE BROOK Alfred, Lord Tennyson 17 
 
 FOURTH YEAR 
 First Month 
 
 THE BAREFOOT BOY John Greenleaf Whittier 19 
 
 2986S9 
 
vi CONTENTS 
 
 Second Month 
 
 DUTCH LULLABY Eugene Field 22 
 
 Third Month 
 
 THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH 
 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 24 
 Fourth Month 
 
 THE SPARROWS Celia Thaxter 26 
 
 Fifth Month 
 
 SNOW-BOUND (Selections : THE STORM ; THE 
 
 KITCHEN SCENE) John Greenleaf Whittier 28 
 PSALM CXXI The Bible 31 
 
 Sixth Month 
 
 OLD IRONSIDES Oliver Wendell Holmes 32 
 
 Seventh Month 
 
 I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER Thomas Hood 33 
 
 Eighth Month 
 
 ' THE VOICE OF SPRING Felicia D. Hemans 34 
 
 Ninth Month 
 
 THE LEAK IN THE DYKE Phoebe Gary 37 
 
 FIFTH YEAR 
 First Month 
 
 BARBARA FRIETCHIE John Greenleaf Whittier 43 
 
 Second Month 
 
 LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT John Henry Newman 46 
 
 Third Month 
 
 THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS IN 
 NEW ENGLAND Felicia D. Hemans 46 
 
 Fourth Month 
 
 LITTLE GOTTLIEB Phoebe Gary 48 
 
 Fifth Month 
 
 AMERICA Samuel Francis Smith 52 
 
CONTENTS vii 
 
 Sixth Month 
 
 ABRAHAM LINCOLN William Cullen Bryant 53 
 
 Seventh Month 
 
 THE STAB-SPANGLED BANNER 
 
 Francis Scott Key 54 
 Eighth Month 
 
 PAUL REVERE'S RIDE 
 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 55 
 Ninth Month 
 
 THE BLUE AND THE GRAY 
 
 Francis Miles Finch 60 
 
 WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE 
 
 George Pope Morris 62 
 
 SIXTH YEAR 
 First Month 
 
 GLUCK'S VISITOR (First Visit) John Ruskin 64 
 
 Second Month 
 
 MAIZE, THE NATION'S EMBLEM Celia Thaxter 69 
 
 Third Month 
 
 THE CLOUD Percy Bysshe Shelley 70 
 
 Fourth Month 
 
 CHRISTMASTIDE Richard Burton 73 
 
 Fifth Month 
 
 KING SOLOMON AND THE ANTS 
 
 John Greenleaf Whittier 73 
 SNOW-BOUND (Selections : THE MOTHER ; 
 THE SISTERS; THE SCHOOLMASTER) 
 
 John Greenleaf Whittier 75 
 Sixth Month 
 
 WASHINGTON (from ODE TO NAPOLEON BUON- 
 APARTE) Lord Byron 80 
 
viii CONTENTS 
 
 Seventh Month 
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE CROSSBILL 
 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 82 
 Eighth Month 
 
 THE RUBY-CROWNED KINGLET 
 
 Henry van Dyke 83 
 To A WATERFOWL William Cullen Bryant 85 
 
 Ninth Month 
 
 THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD 
 
 Theodore O'Hara 87 
 
 SEVENTH YEAR 
 
 First Month 
 
 YUSSOUF James Russell Lowell 91 
 
 PSALM XIX The Bible 92 
 
 Second Month 
 
 THE HUSKERS John Greenleaf Whittier 93 
 
 Third Month 
 
 WENDELL PHILLIPS James Russell Lowell 97 
 MIDNIGHT James Russell Lowell 97 
 
 Fourth Month 
 
 THE PRESENT CRISIS James Russell Lowell 99 
 
 Fifth Month 
 
 THE FROST SPIRIT John Greenleaf Whittier 104 
 
 Sixth Month 
 
 THOSE EVENING BELLS Thomas Moore 106 
 
 THE GETTYSBURG SPEECH Abraham Lincoln 106 
 
 Seventh Month 
 
 THE OAK James Russell Lowell 107 
 
 Eighth Month 
 
 To THE DANDELION James Russell Lowell 109 
 
CONTENTS ix 
 
 Ninth Month 
 
 To WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON 
 
 James Russell Lowell 111 
 
 EIGHTH YEAR 
 
 First Month 
 
 RECESSIONAL Rudyard Kipling 113 
 THE VILLAGE PREACHER (from THE DE- 
 SERTED VILLAGE) Oliver Goldsmith 114 
 
 Second Month 
 
 ABRAHAM DAVENPORT 
 
 John Greenleaf Whittier 116 
 THE AMERICAN FLAG Joseph Rodman Drake 118 
 
 Third Month 
 
 FOR AN AUTUMN FESTIVAL 
 
 John Greenleaf Whittier 120 
 Fourth Month 
 
 THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR 
 
 Alfred, Lord Tennyson 122 
 Fifth Month 
 
 THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS 
 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes 124 
 THE NEW YEAR John Greenleaf Whittier 126 
 
 Sixth Month 
 
 ICHABOD John Greenleaf Whittier 131 
 
 SIR GALAHAD Alfred, Lord Tennyson 133 
 
 Seventh Month 
 
 THE LITTLE LAND Robert Louis Stevenson 135 
 SELECTIONS FROM SNOW-BOUND (THE UNCLE ; 
 THE AUNT ; THE END OF THE DAY ; MORN- 
 ING) John Greenleaf Whittier 138 
 THE PARABLE OF THE SOWER The Bible 142 
 
x CONTENTS 
 
 Eighth Month 
 
 THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS 
 
 William Cullen Bryant 144 
 Ninth Month 
 
 MY NATIVE LAND (from THE LAY OF THE 
 
 LAST MINSTREL) Sir Walter Scott 146 
 
 CROSSING THE BAR Alfred, Lord Tennyson 147 
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS 149 
 
 INDEX OF TITLES 151 
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIEB 18 
 
 THE KITCHEN IN WHITTIER'S HOME 28 
 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 54 
 
 CRAIGIE HOUSE, CAMBRIDGE 82 
 
 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 90 
 
 ELMWOOD, CAMBRIDGE 106 
 
 ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 122 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 144 
 
LITERATURE FOR THE STUDY 
 OF LANGUAGE 
 
 THIRD YEAR 
 
 SEPTEMBER l 
 HELEN HUNT JACKSON 
 
 THE golden-rod is yellow ; 
 
 The corn is turning brown ; 
 The trees in apple orchards 
 
 With fruit are bending down. 
 
 The gentian's bluest fringes 5 
 
 Are curling in the sun ; 
 In dusty pods the milkweed 
 
 Its hidden silk has spun. 
 
 The sedges flaunt their harvest, 
 
 In every meadow nook ; 10 
 
 And asters by the brook-side 
 Make asters in the brook. 
 
 From dewy lanes at morning 
 The grapes' sweet odors rise ; 
 
 At noon the roads all flutter 15 
 
 With yellow butterflies. 
 
 By all these lovely tokens 
 
 September days are here, 
 With summer's best of weather, 
 
 And autumn's best of cheer. 20 
 
 1 Used by permission of Messrs. Little, Brown & Co., the 
 authorized publishers of Helen Hunt Jackson's writings. 
 
THIRD YEAR 
 
 But none of all this beauty 
 
 Which floods the earth and air 
 
 Is unto me the secret 
 
 Which makes September fair. 
 
 'T is a thing which I remember ; 25 
 
 To name it thrills me yet ; 
 One day of one September 
 
 I never can forget. 
 
 OCTOBER'S BRIGHT BLUE WEATHER* 
 HELEN HDNT JACKSON 
 
 O SUNS and skies and clouds of June, 
 
 And flowers of June together, 
 Ye cannot rival for one hour 
 
 October's bright blue weather, 
 
 When loud the bumble-bee makes haste, 5 
 
 Belated, thriftless, vagrant, 
 And Golden-Rod is dying fast, 
 
 And lanes with grapes are fragrant : 
 
 When Gentians roll their fringes tight 
 
 To save them for the morning, 10 
 
 And chestnuts fall from satin burrs 
 Without a sound of warning ; 
 
 When on the ground red apples lie 
 
 In piles like jewels shining, 
 And redder still on old stone walls 15 
 
 Are leaves of woodbine twining ; 
 
 1 Used by permission of Messrs. Little, Brown & Co., the 
 authorized publishers of Helen Hunt Jackson's writings. 
 
THIRD YEAR 3 
 
 When all the lovely wayside things 
 Their white-winged seeds are sowing, 
 
 And in the fields, still green and fair, 
 
 Late aftermaths are growing ; 20 
 
 When springs run low, and on the brooks, 
 
 In idle golden freighting, 
 Bright leaves sink noiseless in the hush 
 
 Of woods, for winter waiting ; 
 
 When comrades seek sweet country haunts, 25 
 
 By twos and twos together, 
 And count like misers hour by hour, 
 
 October's bright blue weather. 
 
 O suns and skies and flowers of June, 
 
 Count all your boasts together, 30 
 
 Love loveth best of all the year 
 October's bright blue weather. 
 
 THE CORN-SONG 
 JOHN GBKENLEAF WHITTIBB 
 
 HEAP high the farmer's wintry hoard ! 
 
 High heap the golden corn ! 
 No richer gift has Autumn poured 
 
 From out her lavish horn ! 
 
 Let other lands, exulting, glean 5 
 
 The apple from the pine, 
 The orange from its glossy green, 
 
 The cluster from the vine ; 
 
 We better love the hardy gift 
 
 Our rugged vales bestow, 10 
 
THIRD YEAR 
 
 To cheer us when the storm shall drift 
 Our harvest-fields with snow. 
 
 Through vales of grass and meads of flowers 
 
 Our ploughs their furrows made, 
 While on the hills the sun and showers 15 
 
 Of changeful April played. 
 
 We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain 
 
 Beneath the sun of May, 
 And frightened from our sprouting grain 
 
 The robber crows away. 20 
 
 All through the long, bright days of June 
 
 Its leaves grew green and fair, 
 And waved in hot midsummer's noon 
 
 Its soft and yellow hair. 
 
 And now, with Autumn's moonlit eves, 25 
 
 Its harvest-time has come, 
 W 7 e pluck away the frosted leaves, 
 
 And bear the treasure home. 
 
 There, when the snows about us drift, 
 
 And winter winds are cold, 30 
 
 Fair hands the broken grain shall sift, 
 And knead its meal of gold. 
 
 Let vapid idlers loll in silk 
 
 Around their costly board; 
 Give us the bowl of samp and milk, 35 
 
 By homespun beauty poured ! 
 
 Where'er the wide old kitchen hearth 
 Sends up its smoky curls, 
 
THIRD YEAR 5 
 
 Who will not thank the kindly earth 
 
 And bless our farmer girls ! , 40 
 
 Then shame on all the proud and vain, 
 
 Whose folly laughs to scorn 
 The blessing of our hardy grain, 
 
 Our wealth of golden corn ! 
 
 Let earth withhold her goodly root, 45 
 
 Let mildew blight the rye, 
 Give to the worm the orchard's fruit, 
 
 The wheat-field to the fly ; 
 
 But let the good old corn adorn 
 
 The hills our fathers trod ; 50 
 
 Still let us, for His golden corn, 
 
 Send up our thanks to God ! 
 
 THE FIRST SNOW-FALL 
 
 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 
 
 THE snow had begun in the gloaming, 
 
 And busily all the night 
 Had been heaping field and highway 
 
 With a silence deep and white. 
 
 Every pine and fir and hemlock 5 
 
 Wore ermine too dear for an earl, 
 
 And the poorest twig on the elm-tree 
 Was ridged inch-deep with pearl. 
 
 From sheds new roofed with Carrara 
 
 Came Chanticleer's muffled crow, 10 
 
 The stiff rails softened to swan's-down, 
 And still fluttered down the snow. 
 
THIRD YEAR 
 
 I stood and watched by the window 
 
 The noiseless work of the sky, 
 And the sudden flurries of snow-birds, 15 
 
 Like brown leaves whirling by. 
 
 I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn 
 
 Where a little headstone stood ; 
 How the flakes were folding it gently, 
 
 As did robins the babes in the wood. 20 
 
 Up spoke our own little Mabel, 
 
 Saying, " Father, who makes it snow ? " 
 
 And I told of the good All-father 
 Who cares for us here below. 
 
 Again I looked at the snow-fall, 25 
 
 And thought of the leaden sky 
 That arched o'er our first great sorrow, 
 
 When that mound was heaped so high. 
 
 I remembered the gradual patience 
 
 That fell from that cloud like snow, 30 
 
 Flake by flake, healing and hiding 
 The scar that renewed our woe. 
 
 And again to the child I whispered, 
 
 " The snow that husheth all, 
 Darling, the merciful Father 35 
 
 Alone can make it fall ! " 
 
 Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her ; 
 
 And she, kissing back, could not know 
 That my kiss was given to her sister, 
 
 Folded close under deepening snow. 40 
 
THIRD YEAR 7 
 
 WINTER-TIME 
 ROBERT Louis STEVENSON 
 
 LATE lies the wintry sun abed 
 A frosty, fiery sleepy-head ; 
 Blinks but an hour or two ; and then, 
 A blood-red orange, sets again. 
 
 Before the stars have left the skies, 5 
 
 At morning in the dark I rise ; 
 And shivering in my nakedness, 
 By the cold candle, bathe and dress. 
 
 Close by the jolly fire I sit 
 
 To warm my frozen bones a bit ; 10 
 
 Or with a reindeer-sled, explore 
 
 The colder countries round the door. 
 
 When to go out, my nurse doth wrap 
 
 Me in my comforter and cap, 
 
 The cold wind burns my face, and blows 15 
 
 Its frosty pepper up my nose. 
 
 Black are my steps on silver sod ; 
 Thick blows my frosty breath abroad ; 
 And tree and house, and hill and lake, 
 Are frosted like a wedding-cake. 20 
 
 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR 
 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 BETWEEN the dark and the daylight, 
 When the night is beginning to lower, 
 
 Comes a pause in the day's occupations, 
 That is known as the Children's Hour. 
 
8 THIRD YEAR 
 
 I hear in the chamber above me 5 
 
 The patter of little feet, 
 The sound of a door that is opened, 
 
 And voices soft and sweet. 
 
 From my study I see in the lamplight, 
 
 Descending the broad hall stair, 10 
 
 Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, 
 And Edith with golden hair. 
 
 A whisper, and then a silence : 
 
 Yet I know by their merry eyes, 
 They are plotting and planning together 15 
 
 To take me by surprise. 
 
 A sudden rush from the stairway, 
 
 A sudden raid from the hall ! 
 By three doors left unguarded 
 
 They enter my castle wall ! 20 
 
 They climb up into my turret 
 
 O'er the arms and back of my chair ; 
 
 If I try to escape, they surround me ; 
 They seem to be everywhere. 
 
 They almost devour me with kisses, 25 
 
 Their arms about me entwine, 
 Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen 
 
 In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine ! 
 
 27-28. Near Bingen on the Rhine is a little square Mouse 
 Tower, so called from an old word meaning toll, since it was 
 used as a toll-house ; but there is an old tradition that a certain 
 Bishop Hatto, who had been cruel to the people, was attacked 
 in the tower by a great army of rats and mice. See Southey's 
 famous poem, Bishop Hatto. 
 
THIRD YEAR 9 
 
 Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, 
 
 Because you have scaled the wall, 30 
 
 Such an old moustache as I am 
 
 Is not a match for you all ? 
 
 I have you fast in my fortress, 
 
 And will not let you depart, 
 But put you down into the dungeon 35 
 
 In the round-tower of my heart. 
 
 And there will I keep you forever, 
 
 Yes, forever and a day, 
 Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, 
 
 And moulder in dust away ! 40 
 
 MARCH 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 
 
 THE stormy March is come at last, 
 
 With wind and cloud and changing skies ; 
 
 I hear the rushing of the blast, 
 
 That through the snowy valley flies. 
 
 Ah, passing few are they who speak, 5 
 
 Wild stormy month ! in praise of thee ; 
 
 Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak, 
 Thou art a welcome month to me. 
 
 For thou to northern lands again 
 
 The glad and glorious sun dost bring, 10 
 
 And thou hast joined the gentle train. 
 
 And wear'st the gentle name of Spring. 
 
 And, in thy reign of blast and storm, 
 Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day, 
 
10 THIRD YEAR 
 
 When the changed winds are soft and warm, 15 
 And heaven puts on the blue of May. 
 
 Then sing aloud the gushing rills 
 
 In joy that they again are free, 
 And, brightly leaping down the hills, 
 
 Renew their journey to the sea. 20 
 
 The year's departing beauty hides 
 Of wintry storms the sullen threat; 
 
 But in thy sternest frown abides 
 A look of kindly promise yet. 
 
 Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies, 25 
 And that soft time of sunny showers, 
 
 When the wide bloom, on earth that lies, 
 Seems of a brighter world than ours. 
 
 SWEET AND LOW 
 
 ALFKED, LORD TENNYSON 
 
 SWEET and low, sweet and low, 
 
 Wind of the western sea, 
 Low, low, breathe and blow, 
 
 Wind of the western sea! 
 
 Over the rolling waters go, 5 
 
 Come from the dying moon, and blow, 
 
 Blow him again to me ; 
 While my little one, while my pretty one sleeps. 
 
 Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, 
 
 Father will come to thee soon ; 10 
 
 Rest, rest, on mother's breast, 
 
 Father will come to thee soon ; 
 
THIRD YEAR 11 
 
 Father will come to his babe in the nest, 
 Silver sails all out of the west 
 
 Under the silver moon ; 15 
 
 Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. 
 
 THE UGLY DUCKLING 
 
 ADAPTED FROM HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN 
 
 IT was glorious out in the country. In the midst of 
 the sunshine there lay an old farm, surrounded by 
 deep canals, and from the wall down to the water 
 grew great burdocks, so high that little children could 
 stand upright under the loftiest of them. Here sat 
 a duck upon her nest waiting for her young ones to 
 hatch. At last one eggshell after another burst open, 
 and in all the eggs there were little creatures that 
 stuck out their heads. 
 
 "Well, how goes it ?" asked an old duck who had 
 come to pay her a visit. 
 
 "It lasts a long time with that one egg," said the 
 duck who sat there. "It will not burst. Now, only 
 look at the others ; are they not the prettiest ducks 
 one could possibly see ? " 
 
 " Let me see the egg that will not burst," said the 
 old visitor, " Believe me, it is a turkey's egg. I was 
 once cheated in that way. Yes, that is a turkey's egg ! 
 Let it lie there, and you teach the other children to 
 swim." 
 
 "" I think I will sit on it a little longer," said the 
 duck. "I've sat so long now that I can sit a few 
 days more." 
 
 u Just as you please," said the old duck ; and she 
 went away. 
 
12 THIRD YEAR 
 
 At last the great egg burst. "Peep! peep!" said 
 the little one, and crept forth. It was very large and 
 very ugly. The duck looked at it. "It's a very large 
 duckling," said she; "none of the others look like 
 that; can it really be a turkey chick? Now we shall 
 soon find out. It must go into the water, even if I 
 have to thrust it in myself." 
 
 The next day the weather was splendidly bright, 
 and the mother duck went down to the water with all 
 her little ones. Splash ! she jumped into the water. 
 " Quack ! quack ! " she said, and then one duckling 
 after another plunged in. The ugly gray duckling 
 swam with them. 
 
 " No, it 's not a turkey," said she ; " look how well 
 it can use its legs, and how upright it holds itself. It 
 is my own child ! On the whole it 's quite pretty, if one 
 looks at it rightly." 
 
 They came into the poultry-yard; but the other 
 ducks round about looked at them, and said quite 
 boldly: 
 
 " Look there ! now we 're to have these hanging on, 
 as if there were not enough of us already ! And fie 
 fie ! how that duckling yonder looks ; we won't stand 
 that ! " And one duck flew up immediately, and bit it 
 in the neck. 
 
 " Let it alone," said the mother ; " it does no harm 
 to any one." 
 
 "Those are pretty children that the mother has 
 there," said the old duck with the rag round her leg. 
 " They 're all pretty but that one ; that was a failure ; 
 I wish he could be hatched over again." 
 
 " That cannot be done," said the mother. " He is not 
 handsome, but he has a really good disposition, and 
 
THIRD YEAR 13 
 
 swims even better than the others. I think he will 
 grow up pretty, and become smaller in time." 
 
 And now they were at home. But the poor ugly 
 duckling was bitten and pushed and jeered, as much 
 by the ducks as by the chickens. 
 
 So it went on the first day ; and afterward it became 
 worse and worse. The poor duckling was hunted about 
 by every one ; even his brothers and sisters were un- 
 kind. The ducks bit him, the chickens beat him, and 
 the girl who fed the poultry kicked at him with her 
 foot. 
 
 Then he ran and flew over the fence, and the little 
 birds in the bushes flew up in fear. " That is because 
 I am so ugly I " thought the duckling, shutting his eyes, 
 but going on. 
 
 At last he came to a place where the wild geese 
 lived. There he lay two whole days ; then came two 
 wild geese. "Listen, comrade," said one of them. 
 " You 're so ugly that I like you. Will you go with us, 
 and fly away to the south?" 
 
 Bang ! bang ! went a gun, and the two wild geese fell 
 down dead in the swamp, and the water became blood- 
 red. Bang ! it sounded again, and whole flocks of wild 
 geese rose up from the reeds. A great hunt was going 
 on. The blue smoke rose up like clouds among the 
 dark trees, and the hunting dogs came splash, 
 splash ! into the swamp, and the poor duckling was 
 frightened. He turned his head to put it under his 
 wing ;-but at that moment a frightful great dog stood 
 close to the duckling. His tongue hung far out of his 
 mouth and his eyes gleamed horrible and ugly. He 
 looked at the poor duckling an instant, and splash, 
 splash ! on he went without hurting him. 
 
 " Well, let me be thankful," said the duckling ; " I 
 am so ugly that even the dog will not bite me." And 
 
14 THIRD YEAR 
 
 now he lay still ; and the noise of the shooting did 
 not cease till late in the day. The poor little thing 
 waited many hours before he dared move. Then he 
 ran as fast as he could over fields and meadows. 
 
 In the evening he reached a little hut. The door 
 was broken, so he crept into the room. Here lived an 
 old woman with her cat and her hen. 
 
 In the morning the strange duckling was at once 
 noticed, and the cat began to purr and the hen to 
 cluck. 
 
 " What's this?" said the woman; but she could not 
 see well, and therefore she thought the duckling was 
 a fat duck and had lost its way. "This is a rare 
 prize," she said ; " now I shall have duck's eggs." So 
 the duckling was kept for three weeks, but no eggs 
 came. 
 
 "Can you lay eggs?" asked the hen. 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Well, then, hold your tongue." 
 
 And the cat said, " Can you put up your back, and 
 purr, and give out sparks?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Well, then, you should keep still." 
 
 So the duckling sat alone in the corner, and was 
 very unhappy. Then the fresh air and the sunshine 
 streamed in ; and he was seized with such a strange 
 longing to swim on the water that he went away. He 
 swam on the water, and dived, but he was slighted by 
 every creature because of his ugliness. 
 
 Now came the autumn, the leaves turned yellow and 
 brown, the air was very cold, and the clouds were 
 heavy with snow. One evening the sun was just set- 
 ting in his beauty there came a whole flock of great 
 handsome birds out of the bushes; they were daz- 
 
THIRD YEAR 15 
 
 zingly white, with long flexible necks; they were swans. 
 They uttered a very peculiar cry, spread forth their 
 glorious great wings, and flew away from that cold 
 region to warmer lands, to fair open lakes. They 
 mounted so high, so high! and the ugly little duck- 
 ling felt quite strangely as it watched them. He 
 turned round and round in the water like a wheel, 
 stretched out his neck toward them, and uttered such 
 a strange loud cry as frightened himself. 
 
 Oh ! he could not forget those beautiful, happy 
 birds. He did not know the name of those birds, and 
 knew not whither they were flying ; but he loved 
 them more than he had ever loved any one. He did 
 not envy them. He would have been glad if only the 
 ducks would have endured his company the poor 
 ugly creature ! 
 
 And the winter grew cold, very cold ! It would be 
 too sad to tell all the misery and care which the duck- 
 ling had to endure in the hard winter. He lay out on 
 the moor among the reeds when the sun began to shine 
 again, and the larks to sing ; it was a beautiful spring. 
 
 Then all at once the duckling could flap his wings ; 
 they beat the air more strongly than before, and bore 
 him strongly away ; and before he well knew how all 
 this had happened, he found himself in a great gar- 
 den, where the elder trees smelled sweet, and bent 
 their long green branches down to the canal that 
 wound through the region. Oh ! here it was so beau- 
 tiful, such a gladness of spring ! and from the thicket 
 came three glorious white swans ; they rustled their 
 wings, and swam lightly on the water. The duckling 
 knew the splendid creatures, and felt oppressed by a 
 peculiar sadness. 
 
 " I will fly away to them, to the royal birds ! and 
 
16 THIRD YEAR 
 
 they will kill me, because I, that am so ugly, dare to 
 approach them. But it is of no consequence ! Better to 
 be killed by them than to be pursued by ducks, and 
 beaten by fowls, and pushed about by the girl who 
 takes care of the poultry -yard, and to suffer hunger in 
 winter ! " And it flew out into the water, and swarn 
 toward the beautiful swans : these looked at him, and 
 came sailing down upon him with outspread wings. 
 "Kill me!" said the poor creature, and bent his head 
 down upon the water, expecting nothing but death. 
 But what was this that he saw in the clear water ? He 
 beheld his own image . and lo ! it was no longer a 
 clumsy dark gray bird, ugly and hateful to look at, 
 but a swan ! 
 
 It matters nothing if one was born in a duck-yard, 
 if one has only lain in a swan's egg. 
 
 He felt quite glad at all the need and misfortune 
 he had suffered, now he realized his happiness in all 
 the splendor that surrounded him. And the great 
 swans swam round him, and stroked him with their 
 beaks. Into the garden came little children, who threw 
 bread and corn into the water, and the youngest one 
 cried, " There is a new one ! " And they all said, 
 " The new one is the most beautiful of all ! so young 
 and handsome ! " and the old swans bowed their heads 
 before him. 
 
 Then he felt quite ashamed, and hid his head under 
 his wing, for he did not know what to do ; he was so 
 happy, and yet not at all proud. He thought how he 
 had been persecuted and despised ; and now he heard 
 them saying that he was the most beautiful of all the 
 birds. Then his wings rustled, he lifted his slender 
 neck, and cried rejoicingly from the depths of his 
 heart: "I never dreamed of so much happiness when 
 I was still the Ugly Duckling ! " 
 
THIRD YEAR 17 
 
 THE BROOK 
 ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 
 
 I COME from haunts of coot and hern, 
 
 I make a sudden sally, 
 And sparkle out among the fern, 
 
 To bicker down a valley. 
 
 By thirty hills I hurry down, 5 
 
 Or slip between the ridges, 
 By twenty thorps, a little town, 
 
 And half a hundred bridges. 
 
 Till last by Philip's farm I flow 
 
 To join the brimming river, 10 
 
 For men may come, and men may go, 
 
 But I go on for ever. 
 
 I chatter over stony ways, 
 
 In little sharps and trebles, 
 I bubble into eddying bays ; 15 
 
 I babble on the pebbles. 
 
 With many a curve my banks I fret 
 
 By many a field and fallow, 
 And many a fairy foreland set 
 
 With willow-weed and mallow. 20 
 
 I chatter, chatter, as I flow 
 
 To join the brimming river, 
 For men may come, and men may go, 
 
 But I go on for ever. 
 
18 THIRD YEAR 
 
 I wind about, and in and out, 25 
 
 With here a blossom sailing, 
 And here and there a lusty trout, 
 
 And here and there a grayling, 
 
 And here and there a foamy flake 
 
 Upon me as I travel 30 
 
 With many a silvery waterbreak 
 Above the golden gravel, 
 
 And draw them all along and flow 
 
 To join the brimming river, 
 For men may come, and men may go, 35 
 
 But I go on for ever. 
 
 I steal by lawns and grassy plots, 
 
 I slide by hazel covers; 
 I move the sweet forget-me-nots 
 
 That grow for happy lovers. 40 
 
 I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, 
 Among my skimming swallows ; 
 
 I make the netted sunbeam dance 
 Against my sandy shallows. 
 
 I murmur under moon and stars 45 
 
 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, 50 
 
 For men may come, and men may go, 
 
 But I go on for ever. 
 
FOURTH YEAR 
 
 THE BAREFOOT BOY 
 JOHN GREENLEAP WHITTIBB 
 
 BLESSINGS on thee, little man, 
 
 Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan ! 
 
 With thy turned-up pantaloons, 
 
 And thy merry whistled tunes ; 
 
 With thy red lip, redder still 5 
 
 Kissed by strawberries on the hill ; 
 
 With the sunshine on thy face, 
 
 Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace ; 
 
 From my heart I give thee joy, 
 
 I was once a barefoot boy ! 10 
 
 Prince thou art, the grown-up man 
 
 Only is republican. 
 
 Let the milliou-dollared ride ! 
 
 Barefoot, trudging at his side, 
 
 Thou hast more than he can buy 15 
 
 In the reach of ear and eye, 
 
 Outward sunshine, inward joy: 
 
 Blessings on thee, barefoot boy ! 
 
 Oh for boyhood's painless play, 
 
 Sleep that wakes in laughing day, 20 
 
 Health that mocks the doctor's rules, 
 
 Knowledge never learned of schools, 
 
 Of the wild bee's morning chase, 
 
 Of the wild-flower's time and place, 
 
20 FOURTH YEAR 
 
 Flight of fowl and habitude 25 
 
 Of the tenants of the wood ; 
 
 How the tortoise bears his shell, 
 
 How the woodchtick digs his cell. 
 
 And the ground-mole sinks his well; 
 
 How the robin feeds her young, 30 
 
 How the oriole's nest is hung ; 
 
 Where the whitest lilies blow, 
 
 Where the freshest berries grow, 
 
 Where the ground-nut trails its vine, 
 
 Where the wood -grape's clusters shine; 35 
 
 Of the black wasp's cunning way, 
 
 Mason of his walls of clay, 
 
 And the architectural plans 
 
 Of gray hornet artisans ! 
 
 For, eschewing books and tasks, 40 
 
 Nature answers all he asks ; 
 
 Hand in hand with her he walks, 
 
 Face to face with her he talks, 
 
 Part and parcel of her joy, 
 
 Blessings on the barefoot boy ! 45 
 
 Oh for boyhood's time of June 
 
 Crowding years in one brief moon, 
 
 When all things I heard or saw, 
 
 Me, their master, waited for. 
 
 I was rich in flowers and trees, 50 
 
 Humming-birds and honey-bees ; 
 
 For my sport the squirrel played, 
 
 Plied the snouted mole his spade ; 
 
 For my taste the blackberry cone 
 
 Purpled over hedge and stone ; 55 
 
 Laughed the brook for my delight 
 
 Through the day and through the night, 
 
FOURTH YEAR 21 
 
 Whispering at the garden wall, 
 
 Talked with me from fall to fall ; 
 
 Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, 60 
 
 Mine the walnut slopes beyond, 
 
 Mine, on bending orchard trees, 
 
 Apples of Hesperides ! 
 
 Still as my horizon grew, 
 
 Larger grew my riches too ; 65 
 
 All the world I saw or knew 
 
 Seemed a complex Chinese toy, 
 
 Fashioned for a barefoot boy ! 
 
 Oh for festal dainties spread, 
 
 Like my bowl of milk and bread ; F3 
 
 Pewter spoon and bowl of wood^ 
 
 On the door-stone, gray and rude ! 
 
 O'er me, like a regal tent, 
 
 Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent, 
 
 Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, 75 
 
 Looped in many a wind-swung fold ; 
 
 While for music came the play 
 
 Of the pied frogs' orchestra ; 
 
 And, to light the noisy choir, 
 
 Lit the fly his lamp of fire. 80 
 
 I was monarch : pomp and joy 
 
 Waited on the barefoot boy ! 
 
 Cheerily, then, my little man, 
 
 Live and laugh, as boyhood can ! 
 
 Though the flinty slopes be hard, 85 
 
 Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, 
 
 Every morn shall lead thee through 
 
 Fresh baptisms of the dew; 
 
 Every evening from thy feet 
 
22 FOURTH YEAR 
 
 Shall the cool wind kiss the heat ; 90 
 
 All too soon these feet must hide 
 
 In the prison cells of pride, 
 
 Lose the freedom of the sod, 
 
 Like a colt's for work be shod, 
 
 Made to tread the mills of toil, 95 
 
 Up and down in ceaseless moil : 
 
 Happy if their track be found 
 
 Never on forbidden ground ; 
 
 Happy if they sink not in 
 
 Quick and treacherous sands of sin. 100 
 
 Ah ! that thou couldst know thy joy, 
 
 Ere it passes, barefoot boy ! 
 
 DUTCH LULLABY 1 
 EUGENE FIELD 
 
 WYNKEN, Blynken, and Nod one night 
 
 Sailed off in a wooden shoe, 
 Sailed on a river of misty light 
 
 Into a sea of dew. 
 " Where are you going, and what do you wish ? " 
 
 The old moon asked the three. 
 " We have come to fish for the herring-fish 
 That live in this beautiful sea ; 
 Nets of silver and gold have we," 
 
 Said Wynken, 10 
 
 Blynken, 
 
 And Nod. 
 
 1 From A Little Book of Western Verse. Copyright, 1889, by 
 Eugene Field. Published by Charles Scribner's Sons, 
 
FOURTH YEAR 23 
 
 The old moon laughed and sung a song, 
 
 As they rocked in the wooden shoe ; 
 And the wind that sped them all night long 15 
 
 Ruffled the waves of dew ; 
 The little stars were the herring-fish 
 That lived in the beautiful sea. 
 " Now cast your nets wherever you wish, 
 
 But never afeard are we ! " 20 
 
 So cried the stars to the fishermen three, 
 Wynken, 
 Blynken, 
 And Nod. 
 
 All night long their nets they threw 26 
 
 For the fish in the twinkling foam, 
 Then down from the sky came the wooden shoe, 
 
 Bringing the fishermen home ; 
 ? T was all so pretty a sail, it seemed 
 
 As if it could not be ; 30 
 
 And some folk thought 't was a dream they 'd dreamed 
 
 Of sailing that beautiful sea ; 
 But I shall name you the fishermen three : 
 Wynken, 
 
 Blynken, 35 
 
 And Nod. 
 
 Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes, 
 
 And Nod is a little head, 
 And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies 
 
 Is a wee one's trundle-bed ; 40 
 
 So shut your eyes while Mother sings 
 
 Of wonderful sights that be, 
 
 And you shall see the beautiful things 
 As you rock on the misty sea 
 
24 FOURTH YEAR 
 
 Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three, 45 
 Wynken, 
 Blynken, 
 And Nod. 
 
 THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH ' 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 UNDER a spreading chestnut-tree 
 
 The village smithy stands ; 
 The smith, a mighty man is he, 
 
 With large and sinewy hands ; 
 And the muscles of his brawny arms 5 
 
 Are strong as iron bands. 
 
 His hair is crisp, and black, and long, 
 
 His face is like the tan ; 
 His brow is wet with honest sweat, 
 
 He earns whatever he can, 10 
 
 And looks the whole world in the face, 
 
 For he owes not any man. 
 
 Week in, week out, from morn till night, 
 
 You can hear his bellows blow ; 
 You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, 15 
 
 With measured beat and slow, 
 Like a sexton ringing the village bell, 
 
 When the evening sun is low. 
 
 1 The suggestion of this poem came from the smithy which the poet 
 passed daily, and which stood beneath a horse-chestnut tree not far 
 from his house in Cambridge. The tree, against the protest of Mr. 
 Longfellow and others, was removed in 1876, on the ground that it 
 imperilled drivers of heavy loads who passed under it. 
 
FOURTH YEAR 25 
 
 And children coming home from school 
 
 Look in at the open door ; 20 
 
 They love to see the flaming forge, 
 And hear the bellows roar, 
 
 And catch the burning sparks that fly 
 Like chaff from a threshing-floor. 
 
 He goes on Sunday to the church, 25 
 
 And sits among his boys ; 
 He hears the parson pray and preach, 
 
 He hears his daughter's voice, 
 Singing in the village choir, 
 
 And it makes his heart rejoice. 30 
 
 It sounds to him like her mother's voice, 
 
 Singing in Paradise ! 
 He needs must think of her once more, 
 
 How in the grave she lies ; 
 And with his hard, rough hand he wipes 35 
 
 A tear out of his eyes. 
 
 Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing, 
 
 Onward through life he goes ; 
 Each morning sees some task begin, 
 
 Each evening sees it close ; 40 
 
 Something attempted, something done, 
 
 Has earned a night's repose. 
 
 23. After this poem had been printed for some time, Mr. 
 Longfellow was ' disposed to change the word " catch " to 
 " watch," but the original form had grown so familiar that he 
 decided to leave it. 
 
26 FOURTH YEAR 
 
 Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, 
 For the lesson thou hast taught ! 
 
 Thus at the flaming forge of life 45 
 
 Our fortunes must be wrought ; 
 
 Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 
 Each burning deed and thought. 
 
 THE SPARROWS 
 
 CELIA THAXTEB 
 
 IN the far-off land of Norway, 
 
 Where the winter lingers late, 
 And long for the singing-birds and flowers 
 
 The little children wait ; 
 
 When at last the summer ripens 5 
 
 And the harvest is gathered in, 
 And food for the bleak, drear days to come 
 
 The toiling people win ; 
 
 Through all the land the children 
 
 In the golden fields remain 10 
 
 Till their busy little hands have gleaned 
 
 A generous sheaf of grain ; 
 
 All the stalks by the reapers forgotten 
 
 They glean to the very least, 
 To save till the cold December, 15 
 
 For the sparrows' Christmas feast. 
 
 And then through the frost-locked country 
 There happens a wonderful thing : 
 
 The sparrows flock north, south, east, west, 
 
 For the children's offering. 20 
 
FOURTH YEAR 27 
 
 Of a sudden, the day before Christmas, 
 
 The twittering crowds arrive, 
 And the bitter, wintry air at once 
 
 With their chirping is all alive. 
 
 They perch upon roof and gable, 25 
 
 On porch and fence and tree, 
 They flutter about the windows 
 
 And peer in curiously. 
 
 And meet the eyes of the children, 
 
 Who eagerly look out ( 30 
 
 With cheeks that bloom like roses red, 
 
 And greet them with welcoming shout. 
 
 On the joyous Christmas morning, 
 
 In front of every door 
 A tall pole, crowned with clustering grain, 35 
 
 Is set the birds before. 
 
 And which are the happiest, truly 
 
 It would be hard to tell ; 
 The sparrows who share in the Christmas cheer, 
 
 Or the children who love them well ! 40 
 
 How sweet that they should remember, 
 
 With faith so full and sure, 
 That the children's bounty awaited them 
 
 The whole wide country o'er ! 
 
 When this pretty story was told me 45 
 
 By one who had helped to rear 
 The rustling grain for the merry birds 
 
 In Norway, many a year, 
 
28 FOURTH YEAR 
 
 I thought that our little children 
 
 Would like to know it too, 50 
 
 It seems to me so beautiful, 
 
 So blessed a thing to do, 
 
 To make God's innocent creatures see 
 
 In every child a friend, 
 And on our faithful kindness 55 
 
 So fearlessly depend. 
 
 SELECTIONS FROM SNOW-BOUND 
 
 i 
 
 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIEB 
 THE STORM 
 
 UNWARMED by any sunset light 
 
 The gray day darkened into night, 
 
 A night made hoary with the swarm 
 
 And whirl-dance of the blinding storm, 
 
 As zigzag wavering to and fro 5 
 
 Crossed and recrossed the winged snow : 
 
 And ere the early bedtime came 
 
 The white drift piled the window-frame, 
 
 And through the glass the clothes-line posts 
 
 Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts. 10 
 
 So all night long the storm roared on : 
 
 The morning broke without a sun ; 
 
 In tiny spherule traced with lines 
 
 Of Nature's geometric signs, 
 
 In starry flake and pellicle 15 
 
 All day the hoary meteor fell ; 
 
 And, when the second morning shone, 
 
 We looked upon a world unknown, 
 
 On nothing we could call our own. 
 
5 I 
 
 a w I 
 
 III 
 
FOURTH YEAR 29 
 
 Around the glistening wonder bent 20 
 
 The blue walls of the firmament, 
 
 No cloud above, no earth below, 
 
 A universe of sky and snow ! 
 
 The old familiar sights of ours 
 
 Took marvellous shapes ; strange domes and towers 25 
 
 Rose up where sty or corn-crib stood, 
 
 Or garden-wall or belt of wood ; 
 
 A smooth white mound the brush-pile showed, 
 
 A fenceless drift what once was road; 
 
 The bridle-post an old man sat . 30 
 
 With loose-flung coat and high cocked hat ; 
 
 The well-curb had a Chinese roof ; 
 
 And even the long sweep, high aloof, 
 
 In its slant splendor, seemed to tell 
 
 Of Pisa's leaning miracle. 35 
 
 THE KITCHEN SCENE 
 
 As night drew on, and, from the crest 
 
 Of wooded knolls that ridged the west, 
 
 The sun, a snow-blown traveller, sank 
 
 From sight beneath the smothering bank, 
 
 We piled with care our nightly stack 5 
 
 Of wood against the chimney-back, 
 
 The oaken log, green, huge, and thick, 
 
 35. The Leaning Tower of Pisa, in Italy, which inclines from 
 the perpendicular a little more than six feet in eighty, is a cam- 
 panile, or bell-tower, built of white marble, very beautiful, but 
 so famous for its singular deflection from perpendicularity as 
 to be known almost wholly as a curiosity. Opinions differ as to 
 the leaning being the result of accident or design, but the better 
 judgment makes it an effect of the character of the soil on which 
 the town is built. The Cathedral to which it belongs has suffered 
 so much from a similar cause that there is not a vertical line in it. 
 
30 FOURTH YEAR 
 
 And on its top the stout back-stick ; 
 
 The knotty forestick laid apart, 
 
 And filled between with curious art 10 
 
 The ragged brush ; then, hovering near, 
 
 We watched the first red blaze appear, 
 
 Heard the sharp crackle, caught the gleam 
 
 On whitewashed wall and sagging beam, 
 
 Until the old, rude-furnished room 15 
 
 Burst, flower-like, into rosy bloom ; 
 
 While radiant with a mimic flame 
 
 Outside the sparkling drift became, 
 
 And through the bare-boughed lilac-tree, 
 
 Our own warm hearth seemed blazing free. 20 
 
 The crane and pendent trammels showed, 
 
 The Turk's heads on the andirons glowed ; 
 
 While childish fancy, prompt to tell 
 
 The meaning of the miracle, 
 
 Whispered the old rhyme : " Under the tree, 25 
 
 When fire outdoors burns merrily, 
 
 There the witches are making tea" 
 
 The moon above the eastern wood 
 
 Shone at its full ; the hill-range stood 
 
 Transfigured in the silver flood, 30 
 
 Its blown snows flashing cold and keen, 
 
 Dead white, save where some sharp ravine 
 
 Took shadow, or the sombre green 
 
 Of hemlocks turned to pitchy black 
 
 Against the whiteness at their back. 35 
 
 For such a world and such a night 
 
 Most fitting that unwarming light, 
 
 Which only seemed where'er it fell 
 
 To make the coldness visible. 
 
FOURTH YEAR 31 
 
 Shut in from all the world without, 40 
 
 We sat the clean-winged hearth about, 
 
 Content to let the north-wind roar 
 
 In baffled rage at pane and door, 
 
 While the red logs before us beat 
 
 The frost-line back with tropic heat; 45 
 
 And ever, when a louder blast 
 
 Shook beam and rafter as it passed, 
 
 The merrier up its roaring draught 
 
 The great throat of the chimney laughed ; 
 
 The house-dog on his paws outspread 50 
 
 Laid to the fire his drowsy head, 
 
 The cat's dark silhouette on the wall 
 
 A couchant tiger's seemed to fall ; 
 
 And, for the winter fireside meet, 
 
 Between the andirons' straddling feet, 55 
 
 The mug of cider simmered slow, 
 
 The apples sputtered in a row, 
 
 And, close at hand, the basket stood, 
 
 With nuts from brown October's wood. 
 
 PSALM CXXI 
 
 THE BIBLE 
 
 I WILL lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence 
 cometh my help. 
 
 My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven 
 and earth. 
 
 He will not suffer thy foot to be moved : he that 
 keepeth thee will not slumber. 
 
 Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber 
 nor sleep. 
 
32 FOURTH YEAR 
 
 The Lord is thy keeper : the Lord is thy shade upon 
 thy right hand. 
 
 The sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon 
 by night. 
 
 The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil : he shall 
 preserve thy soul. 
 
 The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy 
 coming in, from this time forth, and even for evermore. 
 
 OLD IRONSIDES 
 
 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 
 
 AY, tear her tattered ensign down 1 
 
 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, 5 
 
 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, 10 
 
 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 15 
 
 The eagle of the sea ! 
 
 Oh, better that her shattered hulk 
 
 Should sink beneath the wave ; 
 Her thunders shook the mighty deep, 
 
 And there should be her grave ; 20 
 
FOURTH YEAR 33 
 
 Nail to the mast her holy flag, 
 
 Set every threadbare sail, 
 And give her to the. god of storms, 
 
 The lightning and the gale ! 
 
 I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER 
 
 THOMAS HOOD 
 
 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, 5 
 
 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, 10 
 
 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 15 
 
 The tree is living yet ! 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 
 Where I was used to swing, 
 And thought the air must rush as fresh 
 
 O 
 
 To swallows on the wing; 20 
 
 My spirit flew in feathers then, 
 
 That is so heavy now, 
 And summer pools could hardly cool 
 
 The fever on my brow I 
 
34 FOURTH YEAR 
 
 I remember, I remember 25 
 
 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 't is little joy 30 
 
 To know I 'm farther off from heaven 
 
 Than when I was a boy. 
 
 THE VOICE OF SPRING 
 FELICIA D. HEMAKS 
 
 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 wakening earth 
 
 By the winds which tell of the violet's birth, 
 
 By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass, 5 
 
 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 ; 10 
 
 But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, 
 
 To speak of the ruin or the tomb ! 
 
 I have looked on the hills of the stormy North, 
 
 And the larch has hung all his tassels forth, 
 
 The fisher is out on the sunny sea, 15 
 
 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 foot hath been. 
 
FOURTH YEAR 35 
 
 I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh, 
 And called out each voice of the deep-blue sky ; 20 
 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, 26 
 
 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 ! 30 
 
 Come forth, O ye children of gladness ! come ! 
 
 Where the violets lie may be now your home. 
 
 Ye of the rose lip and dew-bright eye, 
 
 And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly ! 
 
 With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay, 35 
 
 Come forth to the sunshine I may not stay. 
 
 Away from the dwellings of careworn men, 
 
 The waters are sparkling in grove and glen ! 
 
 Away from the chamber and sullen hearth, 
 
 The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth ! 40 
 
 Their light stems thrill to the wildwood strains, 
 
 And youth is abroad in my green domains. 
 
 But ye ! ye are changed sinoe ye met me last ! 
 There is something bright from your features passed ! 
 There is that come over your brow and eye 45 
 
 W 7 hich speaks of a world where the flowers must die ! 
 Ye smile ! but your smile hath a dimness yet ; 
 O, what have you looked on since last we met ? 
 
36 FOURTH YEAR 
 
 Ye are changed, ye are changed! and I see not 
 
 here 
 
 All whom I saw in the vanished year ! 50 
 
 There were graceful heads, with their ringlets bright, 
 Which tossed in the breeze with a play of light ; 
 There were eyes in whose glistening laughter lay 
 No faint remembrance of dull decay! 
 
 There were steps that flew o'er the cowslip's head, 55 
 
 As if for a banquet all earth were spread ; 
 
 There were voices that rang through the sapphire sky, 
 
 And had not a sound of mortality ! 
 
 Are they gone? is their mirth from the mountains 
 
 passed ? 
 Ye have looked on death since ye met me last ! 60 
 
 I know where the shadow comes o'er you now, 
 
 Ye have strewn the dust on the sunny brow! 
 
 Ye have given the lovely to Earth's embrace, 
 
 She hath taken the fairest of Beauty's race, 
 
 With their laughing eyes and their festal crown : 65 
 
 They are gone from amongst you in silence down I 
 
 They are gone from amongst you, the young and 
 
 fair, 
 
 Ye have lost the gleam of their shining hair ! 
 But I know of a land where there falls no blight, 
 I shall find them there, with their eyes of light ! 70 
 Where Death midst the blooms of the morn may 
 
 dwell, 
 I tarry no longer, farewell, farewell ! 
 
 The summer is coming, on soft wings borne, 
 Ye may press the grape, ye may bind the corn ! 
 
FOURTH YEAR 37 
 
 For me, I depart to a brighter shore, 75 
 
 Ye are marked by care, ye are mine no more ; 
 I go where the loved who have left you dwell, 
 And the flowers are not Death's. Fare ye well, fare- 
 well! 
 
 THE LEAK IN THE DIKE 
 
 A STORY OF HOLLAND 
 PH(EBE CARY 
 
 THE good dame looked from her cottage 
 
 At the close of the pleasant day, 
 And cheerily called to her little son 
 
 Outside the door at play : 
 " Come, Peter, come ! I want you to go, 5 
 
 While there is light to see, 
 To the hut of the blind old man who lives 
 
 Across the dike, for me ; 
 And take these cakes I made for him 
 
 They are hot and smoking yet ; 10 
 
 You have time enough to go and come 
 
 Before the sun is set." 
 Then the good-wife turned to her labor 
 
 Humming a simple song, 
 And thought of her husband, working hard 15 
 
 At the sluices all day long ; 
 And set the turf a-blazing, 
 
 And brought the coarse black bread ; 
 That he might find a fire at night, 
 
 And find the table spread. 20 
 
 And Peter left the brother, 
 
 With whom all day he had played, 
 
38 FOURTH YEAR 
 
 And the sister who had watched their sports 
 
 In the willow's tender shade ; 
 And told them they 'd see him back before 25 
 
 They saw a star in sight, 
 Though he would n't be afraid to go 
 
 In the very darkest night ! 
 For he was a brave, bright fellow, 
 
 With eye and conscience clear ; 30 
 
 He could do whatever a boy might do, 
 
 And he had not learned to fear. 
 Why, he would n't have robbed a bird's nest, 
 
 Nor brought a stork to harm, 
 Though never a law in Holland 35 
 
 Had stood to stay his arm ! 
 
 And now, with his face all glowing, 
 
 And eyes as bright as the day 
 With the thoughts of his pleasant errand, 
 
 He trudged along the way ; 40 
 
 And soon his joyous prattle 
 
 Made glad a lonesome place 
 Alas ! if only the blind old man 
 
 Could have seen that happy face ! 
 Yet he somehow caught the brightness 45 
 
 Which his voice and presence lent ; 
 And he felt the sunshine come and go 
 
 As Peter came and went. 
 
 And now, as the day was sinking, 
 
 And the winds began to rise, 50 
 
 The mother looked from her door again, 
 
 Shading her anxious eyes ; 
 And saw the shadows deepen 
 
 And birds to their homes come back, 
 
FOURTH YEAR 39 
 
 But never a sign of Peter 55 
 
 Along the level track. 
 But she said : " He will come at morning, 
 
 So I need not fret nor grieve 
 Though it is n't like my boy at all 
 
 To stay without my leave." 60 
 
 But where was the child delaying ? 
 
 On the homeward way was he, 
 And across the dike while the sun was up 
 
 An hour above the sea. 
 He was stopping now to gather flowers, 65 
 
 Now listening to the sound, 
 As the angry waters dashed themselves 
 
 Against their narrow bound. 
 
 O 
 
 " Ah ! well for us," said Peter, 
 
 " That the gates are good and strong, 70 
 
 And my father tends them carefully, 
 
 Or they would not hold you long ! 
 You 're a wicked sea," said Peter ; 
 
 " I know why you fret and chafe ; 
 You would like to spoil our lands and homes ; 75 
 
 But our sluices keep you safe ! " 
 
 But hark ! Through the noise of waters 
 
 Comes a low, clear, trickling sound ; 
 And the child's face pales with terror, 
 
 And his blossoms drop to the ground. 80 
 
 He is up the bank in a moment, 
 
 And, stealing through the sand, 
 He sees a stream not yet so large 
 
 As his slender, childish hand. 
 ' T is a leak in the dike ! He is but a boy, 85 
 
 Unused to fearful scenes ; 
 
40 FOURTH YEAR 
 
 But, as young as he is, he has learned to know 
 
 The dreadful things that means. 
 A leak in the dike ! The stoutest heart 
 
 Grows faint that cry to hear, 90 
 
 And the bravest man in all the land 
 
 Turns white with mortal fear. 
 For he knows the smallest leak may grow 
 
 To a flood in a single night ; 
 And he knows the strength of the cruel sea 95 
 
 When loosed in its angry might. 
 
 And the boy ! He has seen the danger, 
 
 And, shouting a wild alarm, 
 He forces back the weight of the sea 
 
 With the strength of his single arm ! 100 
 
 He listens for the joyful sound 
 
 Of a footstep passing nigh ; 
 And lays his ear to the ground, to catch 
 
 The answer to his cry. 
 And he hears the rough winds blowing, 105 
 
 And the waters rise and fall, 
 But never an answer comes to him, 
 
 Save the echo of his call. 
 He sees no hope, no succor, 
 
 His feeble voice is lost ; 110 
 
 Yet what shall he do but watch and wait, 
 
 Though he perish at his post ! 
 
 So faintly calling and crying 
 
 Till the sun is under the sea ; 
 Crying and moaning till the stars 115 
 
 Come out for company ; 
 PC thinks of his brother and sister, 
 
 Asleep in their safe warm bed ; 
 
FOURTH YEAR 41 
 
 He thinks of his father and mother, 
 
 Of himself as dying and dead ; 120 
 
 And of how, when the night is over, 
 
 They must come and find him at last : 
 But he never thinks he can leave the place 
 
 Where duty holds him fast. 
 
 The good dame in the cottage 125 
 
 Is up and astir with the light, 
 For the thought of her little Peter 
 
 Has been with her all night. 
 And now she watches the pathway, 
 
 As yester eve she had done ; 130 
 
 But what does she see so strange and black 
 
 Against the rising sun ? 
 Her neighbors are bearing between them 
 
 Something straight to her door ; 
 Her child is coming home, but not 135 
 
 As he ever came before ! 
 
 " He is dead ! " she cries ; " my darling ! " 
 
 And the startled father hears, 
 And comes and looks the way she looks, 
 
 And fears the thing she fears : 140 
 
 Till a glad shout from the bearers 
 
 Thrills the stricken man and wife 
 " Give thanks, for your son has saved our land, 
 
 And God has saved his life ! " 
 So, there in the morning sunshine 145 
 
 They knelt about the boy ; 
 And every head was bared and bent 
 
 In tearful, reverent joy. 
 
 'T is many a year since then ; but still, 
 
 When the sea roars like a flood, 150 
 
42 FOURTH YEAR 
 
 Their boys are taught what a boy can do 
 Who is brave and true and good. 
 
 For every man in that country 
 Takes his son by the hand, 
 
 And tells him of little Peter 155 
 
 Whose courage saved the land. 
 
 They have many a valiant hero, 
 
 Remembered through the years : 
 But never one whose name so oft 
 
 Is named with loving tears. 160 
 
 And his deed shall be sung by the cradle, 
 
 And told to the child on the knee, 
 So long as the dikes of Holland 
 
 Divide the land from the sea ! 
 
FIFTH YEAR 
 
 BARBARA FRIETCHIE l 
 JOHN GREBNLEAF WHITTIEB 
 
 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. 
 
 Kound about them orchards sweep, 5 
 
 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 ; 10 
 
 1 " This poem," says Mr. Whittier, " was written in strict conformity 
 to the account of the incident as I had it from respectable and trust- 
 worthy sources. It has since been the subject of a good deal of con- 
 flicting testimony, and the story was probably incorrect in some of 
 its details. It is admitted by all that Barbara Frietchie was no myth, 
 but a worthy and highly esteemed gentlewoman, intensely loyal and a 
 hater of the Slavery Rebellion, holding her Union flag sacred and 
 keeping it with her Bible ; that when the Confederates halted before 
 her house, and entered her dooryard, she denounced them in vigorous 
 language, shook her cane in their faces, and drove them out : and 
 when General Burnside's troops followed close upon Jackson's, she 
 waved her flag and cheered them. It is stated that May Quantrell, a 
 brave and loyal lady in another part of the city, did wave her flag in 
 sight of the Confederates. It is possible that there has been a blend- 
 ing of the two incidents." 
 
44 FIFTH YEAR 
 
 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 15 
 
 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 ; 20 
 
 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 25 
 
 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. 30 
 
 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. 
 
FIFTH YEAR 45 
 
 " Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, 35 
 
 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 ; 40 
 
 " 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 45 
 
 Over the heads of the rebel host. 
 
 Ever 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. 50 
 
 Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, 
 
 And the Rebel rides on his raids no more. 
 
 Honor to her ! and let a tear 
 
 Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. 
 
 Over Barbara Frietchie's grave, 55 
 
 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 ! 60 
 
46 FIFTH YEAR 
 
 LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT 
 
 JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 
 
 LEAD, kindly Light, amid th' encircling gloom, 
 
 Lead Thou me on ; 
 The night is dark, and I am far from home, 
 
 Lead Thou me on. 
 
 Keep Thou my feet ; I do not ask to see 5 
 
 The distant scene ; one step enough for me. 
 
 I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou 
 
 Shouldst lead me on ; 
 I loved to choose and see my path ; but now 
 
 Lead Thou me on. 10 
 
 I loved the garish day ; and, spite of fears, 
 Pride ruled my will ; remember not past years. 
 
 So long Thy power has blest me, sure it still 
 
 Will lead me on 
 O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till 15 
 
 The night is gone, 
 
 And with the morn those angel faces smile, 
 Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile. 
 
 THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS 
 IN NEW ENGLAND 
 
 FELICIA D. HEMANS 
 
 THE breaking waves dashed high 
 
 On a stern and rockbound coast, 
 And the woods against a stormy sky 
 
 Their giant branches tossed. 
 
FIFTH YEAR 47 
 
 And the heavy night hung dark 5 
 
 The hills and water o'er, 
 When a band of exiles moored their bark 
 
 On the wild New England shore. 
 
 Not as the conqueror comes, 
 
 They, the true-hearted, came ; 10 
 
 Not with the roll of the stirring drums, 
 
 And the trumpet that sings of fame. 
 
 Not as the flying come, 
 
 In silence and in fear ; 
 They shook the depths of the desert gloom 15 
 
 With their hymns of lofty cheer. 
 
 Amidst the storm they sang, 
 
 And the stars heard, and the sea : 
 And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang 
 
 To the anthem of the free ! 20 
 
 The ocean eagle soared 
 
 From his nest by the white wave's foam : 
 And the rocking pines of the forest roared, 
 
 This was their welcome home ! 
 
 There were men with hoary hair 25 
 
 Amidst that pilgrim band : 
 Why had they come to wither there, 
 
 Away from their childhood's land ? 
 
 There was woman's fearless eye, 
 
 Lit by her deep love's truth ; 30 
 
 There was manhood's brow serenely high, 
 
 And the fiery heart of youth. 
 
48 FIFTH YEAR 
 
 What sought they thus afar ? 
 
 Bright jewels of the mine ? 
 The wealth of seas, the spoils of war ? 35 
 
 They sought a faith's pure shrine ! 
 
 Ay, call it holy ground, 
 
 The soil where first they trod : 
 They have left unstained what there they found, 
 
 Freedom to worship God. 40 
 
 LITTLE GOTTLIEB 
 
 A CHRISTMAS STORY 
 
 PHCEBE GARY 
 ACROSS the German Ocean, 
 
 In a country far from our own, 
 Once, a poor little boy, named Gottlieb, 
 Lived with his mother alone. 
 
 They dwelt in the part of a village 5 
 
 Where the houses were poor and small, 
 
 But the home of little Gottlieb 
 Was the poorest one of all. 
 
 He was not large enough to work, 
 
 And his mother could do no more 10 
 
 (Though she scarcely laid her knitting down) 
 
 Than keep the wolf from the door. 
 
 She had to take their threadbare clothes, 
 
 And turn, and patch, and darn ; 
 For never any woman yet 15 
 
 Grew rich by knitting yarn. 
 
 And oft at night, beside her chair, 
 Would Gottlieb sit, and plan 
 
FIFTH YEAR 49 
 
 The wonderful things he would do for her, 
 
 When he grew to be a man. 20 
 
 One night she sat and knitted, 
 
 And Gottlieb sat and dreamed, 
 When a happy fancy all at once 
 
 Upon his vision beamed. 
 
 'T was only a week till Christmas, 25 
 
 And Gottlieb knew that then 
 The Christ-child, who was born that day, 
 
 Sent down good gifts to men. 
 
 But he said, " He will never find us, 
 
 Our home is so mean and small, 30 
 
 And we, who have most need of them, 
 
 Will get no gifts at all." 
 
 When all at once a happy light 
 
 Came into his eyes so blue, 
 And lighted up his face with smiles, 35 
 
 As he thought what he could do. 
 
 Next day when the postman's letters 
 
 Came from all over the land ; 
 Came one for the Christ-child, written 
 
 In a child's poor trembling hand. 40 
 
 You may think he was sorely puzzled 
 
 What in the world to do ; 
 So he went to the Burgomaster, 
 
 As the wisest man he knew. 
 
 And when they opened the letter, 45 
 
 They stood almost dismayed 
 
50 FIFTH YEAR 
 
 That such a little child should dare 
 To ask the Lord for aid. 
 
 Then the Burgomaster stammered, 
 
 And scarce knew what to speak, 50 
 
 And hastily he brushed aside 
 
 A drop, like a tear, from his cheek. 
 
 Then up he spoke right gruffly, 
 
 And he turned himself about : 
 
 " This must be a very foolish boy, 55 
 
 And a small one, too, no doubt.'* 
 
 But when six rosy children 
 
 That night about him pressed, 
 Poor, trusting little Gottlieb 
 
 Stood near him, with the rest. 60 
 
 And he heard his simple, touching prayer, 
 
 Through all their noisy play ; 
 Though he tried his very best to put 
 
 The thought of him away. 
 
 A wise and learned man was he, 65 
 
 Men called him good and just ; 
 But his wisdom seemed like foolishness, 
 
 By that weak child's simple trust. 
 
 Now when the morn of the Christmas came, 
 
 And the long, long week was done, 70 
 
 Poor Gottlieb, who scarce could sleep, 
 Rose up before the sun, 
 
 And hastened to his mother, 
 
 But he scarce might speak for fear, 
 
FIFTH YEAR 51 
 
 When he saw her wondering look, and saw 75 
 The Burgomaster near. 
 
 He was n't afraid of the Holy Babe, 
 
 Nor his mother, meek and mild ; 
 But he felt as if so great a man 
 
 Had never been a child. 80 
 
 Amazed the poor child looked, to find 
 
 The hearth was piled with wood, 
 And the table, never full before, 
 
 Was heaped with dainty food. 
 
 Then half to hide from himself the truth 85 
 
 The Burgomaster said, 
 While the mother blessed him on her knees, 
 
 And Gottlieb shook for dread, 
 
 " Nay, give no thanks, my good dame, 
 
 To such as me for aid, 90 
 
 Be grateful to your little son, 
 
 And the Lord to whom he prayed ! " 
 
 Then turning round to Gottlieb, 
 
 " Your written prayer, you see, 
 Came not to whom it was addressed, 95 
 
 It only came to me ! 
 
 " 'T was but a foolish thing you did, 
 
 As you must understand ; 
 For though the gifts are yours, you know, 
 
 You have them from my hand." 100 
 
 Then Gottlieb answered fearlessly, 
 Where he humbly stood apart, 
 
52 FIFTH YEAR 
 
 " But the Christ-child sent them all the same, 
 He put the thought in your heart ! " 
 
 AMERICA 
 
 SAMUEL FRANCIS SMITH 
 
 MY country, 't is of thee, 
 Sweet land of liberty, 
 
 Of thee I sing ; 
 Land where my fathers died, 
 Land of the pilgrim's pride, 5 
 
 From every mountain-side 
 
 Let freedom ring. 
 
 My native country, thee, 
 Land of the noble free, 
 
 Thy name I love ; 10 
 
 I love thy rocks and rills, 
 Thy woods and templed hills ; 
 My heart with rapture thrills 
 
 Like that above. 
 
 Let music swell the breeze, 15 
 
 And ring from all the trees, 
 
 Sweet freedom's song ; 
 Let mortal tongues awake, 
 Let all that breathe partake, 
 Let rocks their silence break, 20 
 
 The sound prolong. 
 
 Our fathers' God, to Thee, 
 Author of liberty, 
 To Thee I sing ; 
 
FIFTH YEAR 53 
 
 Long may our land be bright 25 
 
 With freedom's holy light ; 
 Protect us by thy might, 
 Great God our King. 
 
 ABRAHAM LINCOLN 1 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 
 
 OH, slow to smite and swift to spare, 
 
 Gentle and merciful and just ! 
 Who, in the fear of God, didst bear 
 
 The sword of power, a nation's trust ! 
 
 In sorrow by thy bier we stand, 5 
 
 Amid the awe that hushes all, 
 And speak the anguish of a land 
 
 That shook with horror at thy fall. 
 
 Thy task is done ; the bond are free : 
 
 We bear thee to an honored grave, 10 
 
 Whose proudest monument shall be 
 The broken fetters of the slave. 
 
 Pure was thy life ; its bloody close 
 
 Hath placed thee with the sons of light, 
 
 Among the noble host of those 15 
 
 Who perished in the cause of Right. 
 
 1 Written by request, when the funeral procession of the martyred 
 President passed through the streets of New York. 
 
54 FIFTH YEAR 
 
 THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER 
 FRANCIS SCOTT KEY 
 
 O SAY, can you see, by the dawn's early light, 
 
 What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last 
 
 gleaming 
 Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the 
 
 clouds of the fight, 
 O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly 
 
 streaming ! 
 
 And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, 5 
 Gave proof through the night that our flag was still 
 
 there ; 
 
 O ! say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave 
 O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave ? 
 
 On that shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep, 
 
 Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence 
 
 reposes, 10 
 
 What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep, 
 
 As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses ? 
 Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, 
 In full glory reflected now shines on the stream ; 
 'T is the star-spangled banner! O long may it wave 15 
 O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave ! 
 
 And where is that band who so vauntingly swore 
 That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion 
 
 A home and a country should leave us no more ? 
 Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' 
 pollution. 20 
 
 No refuge could save the hireling and slave 
 
 From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave ; 
 
FIFTH YEAR 55 
 
 And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave 
 O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave ! 
 
 O ! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand 25 
 
 Between their loved homes and the war's desola- 
 tion. 
 Blest with victory and peace, may the heav'n-rescued 
 
 land 
 Praise the power that hath made and preserved us 
 
 a nation. 
 
 Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just, 
 And this be our motto "In God is our trust : " 30 
 And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave 
 O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave. 
 
 PAUL REVERE'S RIDE 1 
 HENRY WADSWOBTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 LISTEN, my children, and you shall hear 
 
 Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, 
 
 On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five ; 
 
 Hardly a man is now alive 
 
 Who remembers that famous day and year. 5 
 
 He said to his friend, " If the British march 
 By land or sea from the town to-night, 
 Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch 
 
 1 Mr. Longfellow imagined a party of friends met at a country inn, 
 and telling tales before the fire. The first of these Tales of a Way- 
 side Inn was by the landlord, and is this story of Paul Revere. Revere 
 was an American patriot, a silversmith and engraver by trade, whose 
 tea-pots and cream jugs and tankards may be found in old Boston 
 families. He was a spirited man, and in the secrets of the Boston 
 patriots. 
 
56 FIFTH YEAR 
 
 Of the North Church tower as a signal light, 
 One, if by land, and two, if by sea ; 10 
 
 And I on the opposite shore will be, 
 Ready to ride and spread the alarm 
 Through every Middlesex village and farm, 
 For the country folk to be up and to arm." 
 
 Then he said " Good night ! " and with muffled oar 15 
 
 Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, 
 
 Just as the moon rose over the bay, 
 
 Where swinging wide at her moorings lay 
 
 The Somerset, British man-of-war ; 
 
 A phantom ship, with each mast and spar 20 
 
 Across the moon like a prison bar, 
 
 And a huge black hulk, that was magnified 
 
 By its own reflection in the tide. 
 
 Meanwhile his friend, through alley and street, 
 Wanders and watches with eager ears, 25 
 
 Till in the silence around him he hears 
 The muster of men at the barrack door, 
 The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, 
 And the measured tread of the grenadiers, 
 Marching down to their boats on the shore. 30 
 
 9. There has been some discussion as to the church tower from 
 which the lanterns were hung, some claiming that the church was 
 the old North Meeting-house in North Square, pulled down 
 afterward for fuel, during the siege of Boston ; but the evidence 
 points more clearly to Christ Church, still standing, and often 
 spoken of as the North Church. The poet has departed some- 
 what from the actual historic facts, since Revere did not watch 
 for the lights, nor did he reach Concord. In 1894, when April 
 19 was made a holiday in Massachusetts, under the name of 
 Patriots' Day, there was an attempt at acting out the famous 
 story of the ride. 
 
FIFTH YEAR 57 
 
 Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church, 
 
 By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, 
 
 To the belfry-chamber overhead, 
 
 And startled the pigeons from their perch 
 
 On the sombre rafters that round him made 35 
 
 Masses and moving shapes of shade, 
 
 By the trembling ladder, steep and tall, 
 
 To the highest window in the wall, 
 
 Where he paused to listen and look down 
 
 A moment on the roofs of the town, 40 
 
 And the moonlight flowing over all. 
 
 Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, 
 
 In their night encampment on the hill, 
 
 Wrapped in silence so deep and still 
 
 That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, 45 
 
 The watchful night-wind, as it went 
 
 Creeping along from tent to tent, 
 
 And seeming to whisper, " All is well ! " 
 
 A moment only he feels the spell 
 
 Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread 50 
 
 Of the lonely belfry and the dead ; 
 
 For suddenly all his thoughts are bent 
 
 On a shadowy something far away, 
 
 Where the river widens to meet the bay, 
 
 A line of black that bends and floats 55 
 
 On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. 
 
 Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, 
 
 Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride 
 
 On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. 
 
 Now he patted his horse's side, 60 
 
 Now gazed at the landscape far and near, 
 
 Then, impetuous, stamped the earth, 
 
8 FIFTH YEAR 
 
 And turned and tightened his saddle-girth ; 
 
 But mostly he watched with eager search 
 
 The belfry -tower of the Old North Church, 65 
 
 As it rose above the graves on the hill, 
 
 Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. 
 
 And lo ! as he looks, on the belfry's height 
 
 A glimmer, and then a gleam of light ! 
 
 He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, 70 
 
 But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight 
 
 A second lamp in the belfry burns ! 
 
 A hurry of hoofs in a village street, 
 
 A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, 
 
 And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark 75 
 
 Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet : 
 
 That was all ! And yet, through the gloom and the 
 
 light, 
 
 The fate of a nation was riding that night ; 
 And the spark struck out by that steed in his flight, 
 Kindled the land into flame with its heat. 80 
 
 He has left the village and mounted the steep, 
 
 And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, 
 
 Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides ; 
 
 And under the alders that skirt its edge, 
 
 Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, 85 
 
 Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. 
 
 It was twelve by the village clock, 
 
 When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. 
 
 He heard ^the crowing of the cock, 
 
 And the barking of the farmer's dog, 90 
 
 And felt the damp of the river fog, 
 
 That rises after the sun goes down. 
 
FIFTH YEAR 69 
 
 It was one by the village clock, 
 
 When he galloped into Lexington. 
 
 He saw the gilded weathercock 95 
 
 Swim in the moonlight as he passed, 
 
 And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, 
 
 Gaze at him with a spectral glare, 
 
 As if they already stood aghast 
 
 At the bloody work they would look upon. 100 
 
 It was two by the village clock, 
 
 When he came to the bridge in Concord town. 
 
 He heard the bleating of the flock, 
 
 And the twitter of birds among the trees, 
 
 And felt the breath of the morning breeze 105 
 
 Blowing over the meadows brown. 
 
 And one was safe and asleep in his bed 
 
 Who at the bridge would be first to fall, 
 
 Who that day would be lying dead, 
 
 Pierced by a British musket-ball. 110 
 
 You know the rest. In the books you have read, 
 How the British Regulars fired and fled, 
 How the farmers gave them ball for ball, 
 From behind each fence and farm-yard wall, 
 Chasing the red-coats down the lane, 115 
 
 Then crossing the fields to emerge again 
 Under the trees at the turn of the road, 
 And only pausing to fire and load. 
 
 So through the night rode Paul Revere ; 
 
 And so through the night went his cry of alarm 120 
 
 To every Middlesex village and farm, 
 
 A cry of defiance and not of fear, 
 
60 FIFTH YEAR 
 
 A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, 
 
 And a word that shall echo forevermore ! 
 
 For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, 125 
 
 Through all our history, to the last, 
 
 In the hour of darkness and peril and need, 
 
 The people will waken and listen to hear 
 
 The hurrying hoof -beats of that steed, 
 
 And the midnight message of Paul Revere. 130 
 
 THE BLUE AND THE GRAY 
 
 FRANCIS MILES FINCH 
 
 BY the flow of the inland river, 
 
 Whence the fleets of iron had fled, 
 
 Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver, 
 
 Asleep are the ranks of the dead : 
 
 Under the sod and the dew, 5 
 
 Waiting the judgment-day ; 
 Under the one, the Blue, 
 Under the other, the Gray, 
 
 These in the robings of glory, 
 
 Those in the gloom of defeat, 10 
 
 All with the battle-blood gory, 
 
 In the dusk of eternity meet : 
 Under the sod and the dew, 
 
 Waiting the judgment-day ; . 
 Under the laurel, the Blue, 15 
 
 Under the willow, the Gray. 
 
 From the silence of sorrowful hours 
 The desolate mourners go, 
 
FIFTH YEAR 61 
 
 Lovingly laden with flowers 
 
 Alike for the friend and the foe : 20 
 
 Under the sod and the dew, 
 
 Waiting the judgment-day; 
 Under the roses, the Blue, 
 Under the lilies, the Gray. 
 
 So with an equal splendor, 25 
 
 The morning sun-rays fall, 
 With a touch impartially tender, 
 
 On the blossoms blooming for all : 
 Under the sod and the dew, 
 
 Waiting the judgment-day ; 30 
 
 'Broidered with gold, the Blue, 
 Mellowed with gold, the Gray. 
 
 So, when the summer calleth, 
 
 On forest and field of grain, 
 
 With an equal murmur falleth 35 
 
 The cooling drip of the rain : 
 Under the sod and the dew, 
 
 Waiting the judgment-day; 
 Wet with the rain, the Blue, 
 
 Wet with the rain, the Gray. 40 
 
 Sadly, but not with upbraiding, 
 
 The generous deed was done, 
 In the storm of the years that are fading 
 No braver battle was won : 
 
 Under the sod and the dew, 45 
 
 Waiting the judgment-day ; 
 Under the blossoms, the Blue, 
 Under the garlands, the Gray. 
 
62 FIFTH YEAR 
 
 No more shall the war cry sever, 
 
 Or the winding rivers be red ; 50 
 
 They banish our anger forever 
 
 When they laurel the graves of our dead ! 
 Under the sod and the dew, 
 
 Waiting the judgment-day, 
 Love and tears for the Blue, 55 
 
 Tears and love for the Gray. 
 
 WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE! 
 GEORGE POPE MORRIS 
 
 WOODMAN, spare that tree ! 
 
 Touch not a single bough ! 
 In youth it sheltered me, 
 
 And I '11 protect it now. 
 'T was my forefather's hand 5 
 
 That placed it near his cot ; 
 There, woodman, let it stand, 
 
 Thy axe shall harm it not. 
 
 That old familiar tree, 
 
 Whose glory and renown 10 
 
 Are spread o'er land and sea 
 
 And wouldst thou hew it down ? 
 Woodman, forbear thy stroke ! 
 
 Cut not its earth-bound ties; 
 Oh, spare that aged oak 15 
 
 Now towering to the skies ! 
 
 When but an idle boy, 
 
 I sought its grateful shade ; 
 In all their gushing joy 
 
 Here, too, my sisters played. 20 
 
FIFTH YEAR 63 
 
 My mother kissed me here ; 
 
 My father pressed my hand 
 Forgive this foolish tear, 
 
 But let that old oak stand. 
 
 My heart-strings round thee cling, 25 
 
 Close as thy bark, old friend ! 
 Here shall the wild-bird sing, 
 
 And still thy branches bend. 
 Old tree ! the storm still brave ! 
 
 And, woodman, leave the spot ; 30 
 
 While I 've a hand to save, 
 
 Thy axe shall harm it not. 
 
SIXTH YEAR 
 
 GLUCK'S VISITOR (FIRST VISIT) 
 ADAPTED FROM JOHN RUSKIN 
 
 GLUCK was so perfectly paralyzed by the singular 
 appearance of his visitor that he remained fixed with- 
 out uttering a word, until the old gentleman, having 
 performed another and more energetic concerto on the 
 knocker, turned round to look after his fly-away cloak. 
 In so doing he caught sight of Gluck's little yellow 
 head jammed in the window, with its mouth and eyes 
 very wide open indeed. 
 
 " Hollo ! " said the little gentleman, " that 's not the 
 way to answer the door ; I 'm wet, let me in." 
 
 To do the little gentleman justice, he was wet. His 
 feather hung down, dripping like an unbrella; and 
 from the ends of his moustaches the water was run- 
 ning into his waistcoat pockets, and out again like a 
 mill stream. 
 
 " I beg pardon, sir," said Gluck, " I 'm very sorry, 
 but I really can't." 
 
 " Can't what ? " said the old gentleman. 
 
 " I can't let you in, sir, I can't indeed ; my bro- 
 thers would beat me to death, sir, if I thought of such 
 a thing. What do you want, sir ? " 
 
 "Want?" said the old gentleman, petulantly. "I 
 want fire and shelter ; and there 's your great fire 
 there, blazing, crackling, and dancing on the walls, 
 with nobody to feel it. Let me in, I say ; I only want 
 to warm myself." 
 
SIXTH YEAR 65 
 
 Gluck had had his head so long out of the window 
 by this time that he began to feel it was really un- 
 pleasantly cold, and when he turned and saw the beau- 
 tiful fire rustling and roaring, and throwing long 
 bright tongues up the chimney, as if it were licking 
 its chops at the savory smell of the leg of mutton, his 
 heart melted within him that it should be burning 
 away for nothing. " He does look very wet," said little 
 Gluck ; " I '11 just let him in for a quarter of an hour." 
 .Bound he went to the door and opened it ; and as the 
 little gentleman walked in there came a gust of wind 
 through the house that made the old chimneys totter. 
 
 "That's a good boy," said the little gentleman. 
 " Never mind your brothers. I '11 talk to them." 
 
 " Pray, sir, don't do any such thing," said Gluck. 
 " I can't let you stay till they come ; they 'd be the 
 death of me." 
 
 " Dear me," said the old gentleman, "I'm very sorry 
 to hear that. How long may I stay?" 
 
 " Only till the mutton 's done, sir," replied Gluck, 
 " and it 's very brown." 
 
 Then the old gentleman walked into the kitchen, 
 and sat himself down on the hob, with the top of his 
 cap accommodated up the chimney, for it was a great 
 deal too high for the roof. 
 
 " You '11 soon dry there, sir," said Gluck, and sat 
 down again to turn the mutton. But the old gentle- 
 man did not dry there, but went on drip, drip, dripping 
 among the cinders, and the fire fizzed, and sputtered, 
 and began to look very black and uncomfortable. 
 Never was such a cloak ; every fold in it ran like a 
 gutter. 
 
 "I beg pardon, sir," said Gluck at length, after 
 watching for a quarter of an hour the water spread- 
 
66 SIXTH YEAR 
 
 ing in long, quicksilver-like streams over the floor ; 
 "may n't I take your cloak? " 
 
 " No, thank you," said the old gentleman. 
 
 " Your cap, sir ? " 
 
 " I am all right, thank you," said the old gentle- 
 man, rather gruffly. 
 
 " But, sir, I 'm very sorry," said Gluck, hesitat- 
 ingly ; " but really, sir, you 're putting the fire 
 out." 
 
 " It '11 take longer to do the mutton, then," replied 
 his visitor, dryly. 
 
 Gluck was much puzzled by the behavior of his 
 guest ; it was such a strange mixture of coolness and 
 humility. He turned away at the string meditatively 
 for another five minutes. 
 
 " That mutton looks very nice," said the old gentle- 
 man at length. " Can't you give me a little bit ? " 
 
 " Impossible, sir," said Gluck. 
 
 " I 'm very hungry," continued the old gentleman ; 
 " I 've had nothing to eat yesterday nor to-day. They 
 surely could n't miss a bit from the knuckle ! " 
 
 He spoke in so very melancholy a tone that it quite 
 melted Gluck's heart. " They promised me one slice 
 to-day, sir," said he ; " I can give you that, but not a 
 bit more." 
 
 " That 's a good boy," said the old gentleman again. 
 
 Then Gluck warmed a plate, and sharpened a knife, 
 " I don't care if I do get beaten for it," thought he. 
 Just as he had cut a large slice out of the mutton, 
 there came a tremendous rap at the door. The old 
 gentleman jumped off the hob, as if it had suddenly 
 become inconveniently warm. Gluck fitted the slice 
 into the mutton again, with desperate efforts at exacti- 
 tude, and ran to open the door. 
 
SIXTH YEAR 67 
 
 44 What did you keep us waiting in the rain for?" 
 said Schwartz, as he walked in, throwing his umbrella 
 in Gluck's face. 
 
 44 Ay ! what for, indeed, you little vagabond ? " said 
 Hans, administering an educational box on the ear, as 
 he followed his brother into the kitchen. 
 
 44 Bless my soul ! " said Schwartz, when he opened 
 the door. 
 
 44 Amen," said the little gentleman, who had taken 
 his cap off, and was standing in the middle of the 
 kitchen, bowing with the utmost possible velocity. 
 
 44 Who 's that ? " said Schwartz, catching up a roll- 
 ing-pin, and turning to Gluck with a fierce frown. 
 
 44 1 don't know, indeed, brother," said Gluck in 
 great terror. 
 
 44 How did he get in ? " roared Schwartz. 
 
 44 My dear brother," said Gluck, deprecatingly, 44 he 
 was so very wet ! " 
 
 The rolling-pin was descending on Gluck's head ; 
 but, at the instant, the old gentleman interposed his 
 conical cap, on which it crashed with a shock that 
 shook the water out of it all over the room. What was 
 very odd, the rolling-pin no sooner touched the cap 
 than it flew out of Schwartz's hand, spinning like a 
 straw in a high wind, and fell into the corner at the 
 farther end of the room. 
 
 44 Who are you, sir ? " demanded Schwartz, turning 
 upon him. 
 
 44 What 's your business ? " snarled Hans. 
 
 44 I'm a poor old man, sir," the little gentleman 
 began very modestly, 44 and I saw your fire through 
 the 'window, and begged shelter for a quarter of an 
 hour." 
 
 44 Have the goodness to walk out again, then," said 
 
68 SIXTH YEAR 
 
 Schwartz. " We've quite enough water in our kitchen 
 without making it a drying-house." 
 
 " It is a cold day to turn an old man out in, sir ; 
 look at my gray hairs." They hung down to his shoul- 
 ders, as I told you before. 
 
 " Ay ! " said Hans, " there are enough of them to 
 keep you warm. Walk ! " 
 
 " I 'm very, very hungry, sir ; could n't you spare 
 me a bit of bread before I go? " 
 
 " Bread, indeed ! " said Schwartz ; "do you suppose 
 we 've nothing to do with our bread but to give it to 
 such red-nosed fellows as you ? " 
 
 " Why don't you sell your feather," said Hans, 
 sneeringly. " Out with you ! " 
 
 " A little bit " said the old gentleman. 
 
 "Be off!" said Schwartz. 
 
 " Pray, gentlemen 
 
 " Off, and be hanged ! " cried Hans, seizing him by 
 the collar. But he had no sooner touched the old gen- 
 tleman's collar, than away he went after the rolling- 
 pin, spinning round and round, till he fell into the 
 corner on the top of it. Then Schwartz was very an- 
 gry, and ran at the old gentleman to turn him out ; 
 but he also had hardly touched him, when away he 
 went after Hans and the rolling-pin, and hit his head 
 against the wallas he tumbled into the corner. And so 
 there they lay, all three. 
 
 Then the old gentleman spun himself round with 
 velocity in the opposite direction ; clapped his cap on 
 his head, gave an additional twist to his corkscrew 
 moustaches, and replied with perfect coolness : " Gen- 
 tlemen, I wish you a very good-morning. At twelve 
 o'clock to-night I '11 call again ; after such a refusal of 
 hospitality as I have just experienced, you will not be 
 surprised if that visit is the last I ever pay you." 
 
SIXTH YEAR 69 
 
 MAIZE, THE NATION'S EMBLEM 
 
 CELIA THAXTEB 
 
 UPON a hundred thousand plains 
 
 Its banners rustle in the breeze, 
 O'er all the nation's wide domains 
 
 From coast to coast betwixt the seas. 
 
 It storms the hills and fills the vales, 5 
 
 It marches like an army grand, 
 The continent its presence hails, 
 
 Its beauty brightens all the land. 
 
 Far back through history's shadowy page 
 
 It shines, a power of boundless good, 10 
 
 The people's prop from age to age, 
 The one unfailing wealth of food. 
 
 God's gift to the New World's great need 
 That helped to build the nation's strength, 
 
 Up through beginnings rude to lead 15 
 
 A higher race of men at length. 
 
 How straight and tall and stately stand 
 Its serried stalks upright and strong ! 
 
 How nobly are its outlines planned, 
 
 What grace and charm to it belong ! 20 
 
 What splendor in its rustling leaves ! 
 
 What richness in its close-set gold ! 
 What largess in its clustered sheaves, 
 
 New every year, though ages old I 
 
 America, from thy broad breast, 25 
 
 It sprang, beneficent and bright, 
 
70 SIXTH YEAR 
 
 Of all thy gifts from heaven the best, 
 For the world's succor .and delight. 
 
 Then do it honor, give it praise ! 
 
 A noble emblem should be ours ; 30 
 
 Upon thy fair shield set thy Maize, 
 
 More glorious than a myriad flowers. 
 
 And let thy States their garland bring, 
 Each its own lovely blossom-sign, 
 
 But leading all let Maize be king, 35 
 
 Holding its place by right divine. 
 
 THE CLOUD 
 PERCY BYSSHB SHELLEY 
 
 I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, 
 
 From the seas and the streams ; 
 I bear light shade for the leaves when laid 
 
 In their noonday dreams. 
 From my wings are shaken the dews that waken 5 
 
 The sweet buds every one, 
 When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, 
 
 As she dances about the sun. 
 I wield the flail of the lashing hail, 
 
 And whiten the green plains under, 10 
 
 And then again I dissolve it in rain, 
 
 And laugh as I pass in thunder. 
 
 I sift the snow on the mountains below, 
 And their great pines groan aghast ; 
 
 And all the night 't is my pillow white, 15 
 
 While I sleep in the arms of the blast. 
 
 Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers, 
 Lightning my pilot sits ; 
 
SIXTH YEAR 71 
 
 In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, 
 
 It struggles and howls at fits ; 20 
 
 Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, 
 
 This pilot is guiding me, 
 Lured by the love of the genii that move 
 
 In the depths of the purple sea ; 
 Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, 25 
 
 Over the lakes and the plains, 
 Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, 
 
 The Spirit he loves remains ; 
 And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, 
 
 Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 30 
 
 The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, 
 
 And his burning plumes outspread, 
 Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, 
 
 When the morning-star shines dead ; 
 As on the jag of a mountain crag, 35 
 
 Which an earthquake rocks and swings, 
 An eagle alit one moment may sit 
 
 In the light of its golden wings. 
 And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea 
 beneath, 
 
 Its ardors of rest and of love, 40 
 
 And the crimson pall of eve may fall 
 
 From the depth of heaven above, 
 With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest, 
 
 As still as a brooding dove. 
 
 That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, 45 
 
 Whom mortals call the moon, 
 Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, 
 
 By the midnight breezes strewn ; 
 And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, 
 
72 SIXTH YEAR 
 
 Which only the angels hear, 50 
 
 May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, 
 
 The stars peep behind her and peer ; 
 And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, 
 
 Like a swarm of golden bees, 
 When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, 55 
 
 Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, 
 Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, 
 
 Are each paved with the moon and these. 
 
 I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, 
 
 And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ; 60 
 The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, 
 
 When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. 
 From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, 
 
 Over a torrent sea, 
 Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, 65 
 
 The mountains its columns be. 
 The triumphal aivh through which I march, 
 
 With hurricane, fire, and snow, 
 When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, 
 
 Is the million-colored bow ; 70 
 
 The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove, 
 
 While the moist earth was laughing below. 
 
 I am the daughter of earth and water, 
 
 And the nursling of the sky ; 
 I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores ; 75 
 
 I change, but I cannot die. 
 For after the rain, when with never a stain 
 
 The pavilion of heaven is bare, 
 And the winds and sunbeams with their convex 
 gleams, 
 
 Build up the blue dome of air, 80 
 
SIXTH YEAR 73 
 
 I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, 
 
 And out of the caverns of rain, 
 Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the 
 
 tomb, 
 I arise and unbuild it again. 
 
 CHRISTMASTIDE 
 
 RICHARD BURTON 
 
 CHRISTMAS time is a time of cold, 
 
 Of weathers bleak and of winds a-blow ; 
 
 Never a flower fold on fold 
 
 Of grace and beauty tops the snow 
 
 Or breaks the black and bitter mold. 5 
 
 And yet 't is warm for the chill and gloom 
 Glow with love and with childhood's glee ; 
 
 And yet 't is sweet with the rich perfume 
 Of sacrifice and of charity. 
 
 Where are flowers more fair to see? 10 
 
 Christmas tide, it is warm and sweet ; 
 A whole world's heart at a Baby's feet ! 
 
 KING SOLOMON AND THE ANTS 
 JOHN GREBNLEAF WHITTIBB 
 
 OUT from Jerusalem 
 
 The king rode with his great 
 War chiefs and lords of state, 
 
 And Sheba's queen with them ; 
 
 Comely, but black withal, 5 
 
 To whom, perchance, belongs 
 
74 SIXTH YEAR 
 
 That wondrous Song of songs, 
 Sensuous and mystical, 
 
 Whereto devout souls turn 
 
 In fond, ecstatic dream, 10 
 
 And through its earth-born theme 
 
 The Love of loves discern. 
 
 Proud in the Syrian sun, 
 
 In gold and purple sheen, 
 
 The dusky Ethiop queen 15 
 
 Smiled on King Solomon. 
 
 Wisest of men, he knew 
 
 The languages of all 
 
 The creatures great or small 
 That trod the earth or flew. 20 
 
 Across an ant-hill led 
 
 The king's path, and he heard 
 Its small folk, and their word 
 
 He thus interpreted : 
 
 " Here comes the king men greet 25 
 
 As wise and good and just, 
 To crush us in the dust 
 Under his heedless feet." 
 
 The great king bowed his head, 
 
 And saw the wide surprise 30 
 
 Of the Queen of Sheba's eyes 
 
 As he told her what they said. 
 
 ** O king ! " she whispered sweet, 
 " Too happy fate have they 
 
SIXTH YEAR 75 
 
 Who perish in thy way 35 
 
 Beneath thy gracious feet ! 
 
 " Thou of the God-lent crown, 
 Shall these vile creatures dare 
 Murmur against thee where 
 The knees of kings kneel down ? " 40 
 
 " Nay," Solomon replied, 
 
 " The wise and strong should seek 
 The welfare of the weak," 
 And turned his horse aside. 
 
 His train, with quick alarm, 45 
 
 Curved with their leader round 
 The ant-hill's peopled mound, 
 
 And left it free from harm. 
 
 The jewelled head bent low ; 
 
 " O king ! " she said, " henceforth 50 
 
 The secret of thy worth 
 And wisdom well I know. 
 
 " Happy must be the State 
 Whose ruler heedeth more 
 The murmurs of the poor 55 
 
 Than flatteries of the great." 
 
 SELECTIONS FROM SNOW-BOUND 
 
 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIEB 
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 OUR mother, while she turned her wheel 
 Or run the new-knit stocking-heel, 
 Told how the Indian hordes came down 
 
70 SIXTH YEAR 
 
 At midnight on Cocheco town, 
 
 And how .her own great-uncle bore 5 
 
 His cruel scalp-mark to fourscore. 
 
 Recalling, in her fitting phrase, 
 
 So rich and picturesque and free 
 
 (The common unrhymed poetry 
 Of simple life and country ways), 10 
 
 The story of her early days, 
 She made us welcome to her home ; 
 Old hearths grew wide to give us room ; 
 We stole with her a frightened look 
 At the gray wizard's conjuring-book, 15 
 
 The fame whereof went far and wide 
 Through all the simple country-side ; 
 We heard the hawks at twilight play, 
 The boat-horn on Piscataqua, 
 The loon's weird laughter far away ; 20 
 
 We fished her little trout-brook, knew 
 What flowers in wood and meadow grew, 
 What sunny hillsides autumn-brown 
 She climbed to shake the ripe nuts down, 
 Saw where in sheltered cove and bay 25 
 
 The ducks' black squadron anchored lay, 
 And heard the wild geese calling loud 
 Beneath the gray November cloud. 
 
 THE SISTERS 
 
 THERE, too, our elder sister plied 
 
 Her evening task the stand beside ; 
 
 A full, rich nature, free to trust, 
 
 Truthful and almost sternly just, 
 
 Impulsive, earnest, prompt to act, 5 
 
 4. Dover in New Hampshire. 
 
SIXTH YEAR 77 
 
 And make her generous thought a fact, 
 Keeping with many a slight disguise 
 The secret of self-sacrifice. 
 
 heart sore-tried ! thou hast the best 
 
 That Heaven itself could give thee, rest, 10 
 Rest from all bitter thoughts and things ! 
 How many a poor one's blessing went 
 With thee beneath the low green tent 
 Whose curtain never outward swings ! 
 
 As one who held herself a part 15 
 
 Of all she saw, and let her heart 
 
 Against the household bosom lean, 
 Upon the motley-braided mat 
 Our youngest and our dearest sat, 
 Lifting her large, sweet, asking eyes, 20 
 
 Now bathed in the unfading green 
 And holy peace of Paradise. 
 Oh, looking from some heavenly hill, 
 
 Or from the shade of saintly palms, 
 
 Or silver reach of river calms, 25 
 
 Do those large eyes behold me still ? 
 With me one little year ago : 
 The chill weight of the winter snow 
 
 For months upon her grave has lain ; 
 And now, when summer south-winds blow 30 
 
 And brier and harebell bloom again, 
 
 1 tread the pleasant paths we trod, 
 I see the violet-sprinkled sod 
 Whereon she leaned, too frail and weak, 
 
 The hillside flowers she loved to seek, 35 
 
 Yet following me where'er I went 
 With dark eyes full of love's content. 
 The birds are glad ; the brier-rose fills 
 
78 SIXTH YEAR 
 
 The air with sweetness ; all the hills 
 Stretch green to June's unclouded sky; 40 
 
 But still I wait with ear and eye 
 For something gone which should be nigh, 
 A loss in all familiar, things, 
 In flower that blooms, and bird that sings. 
 And yet, dear heart ! remembering thee, 45 
 
 Am I not richer than of old? 
 
 THE SCHOOLMASTER 
 
 BRISK wielder of the birch and rule, 
 
 The master of the district school 
 
 Held at the fire his favorite place. 
 
 Its warm glow lit a laughing face 
 
 Fresh-hued and fair, where scarce appeared 5 
 
 The uncertain prophecy of beard. 
 
 He teased the mitten-blinded cat, 
 
 Played cross-pins on my uncle's hat, 
 
 Sang songs, and told us what befalls 
 
 In classic Dartmouth's college halls. 10 
 
 Born the wild Northern hills among, 
 
 From whence his yeoman father wrung 
 
 By patient toil subsistence scant, 
 
 Not competence and yet not want, 
 
 He early gained the power to pay 15 
 
 His cheerful, self-reliant way ; 
 
 Could doff at ease his scholar's gown 
 
 To peddle wares from town to town ; 
 
 Or through the long vacation's reach 
 
 In lonely lowland districts teach, 20 
 
 Where all the droll experience found 
 
 At stranger hearths in boarding round, 
 
 The moonlit skater's keen delight, 
 
SIXTH YEAR 79 
 
 The sleigh-drive through the frosty night, 
 
 The rustic party, with its rough 25 
 
 Accompaniment of blind-man's-buff, 
 
 And whirling-plate, and forfeits paid, 
 
 His winter task a pastime made. 
 
 Happy the snow-locked homes wherein 
 
 He tuned his merry violin, 30 
 
 Or played the athlete in the barn, 
 
 Or held the good dame's winding-yarn, 
 
 Or mirth-provoking versions told 
 
 Of classic legends rare and old, 
 
 Wherein the scenes of Greece and Rome 35 
 
 Had all the commonplace of home, 
 
 And little seemed at best the odds 
 
 'Twixt Yankee pedlers and old gods ; 
 
 Where Pindus-born Arachthus took 
 
 The guise of any grist-mill brook, 40 
 
 And dread Olympus at his will 
 
 Became a huckleberry hill. 
 
 A careless boy that night he seemed ; 
 But at his desk he had the look 
 
 And air of one who wisely schemed, 45 
 
 And hostage from the future took 
 In trained thought and lore of book. 
 
 Large-brained, clear-eyed, of such as he 
 
 Shall Freedom's young apostles be, 
 
 Who, following in War's bloody trail, 50 
 
 Shall every lingering wrong assail ; 
 
 All chains from limb and spirit strike, 
 
 Uplift the black and white alike ; 
 
 Scatter before their swift advance 
 
 The darkness and the ignorance, 55 
 
 The pride, the lust, the squalid sloth, 
 
80 MXTH YEAR 
 
 Which nurtured Treason's monstrous growth, 
 
 Made murder pastime, and the hell 
 
 Of prison-torture possible ; 
 
 The cruel lie of caste refute, 60 
 
 Old forms remould, and substitute 
 
 For Slavery's lash the freeman's will, 
 
 For blind routine, wise-handed skill : 
 
 A school-house plant on every hill, 
 
 Stretching in radiate nerve-lines thence 65 
 
 The quick wires of intelligence ; 
 
 Till North and South together brought 
 
 Shall own the same electric thought, 
 
 In peace a common flag salute, 
 
 And, side by side in labor's free 70 
 
 And unresentful rivalry, 
 
 Harvest the fields wherein they fought. 
 
 WASHINGTON 
 
 (From Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte) 
 LORD BYRON 
 
 THE Roman, when his burning heart 
 Was slaked with blood of Rome, 
 
 Threw down the dagger dared depart, 
 In savage grandeur, home. 
 
 He dared depart in utter scorn 5 
 
 Of men that such a yoke had borne, 
 Yet left him such a doom ! 
 
 His only glory was that hour 
 
 Of self-upheld abandon \1 power. 
 
 The Spaniard, when the lust of sway 10 
 
 Had lost its quickening spell, 
 
SIXTH YEAR 81 
 
 Cast crowns for rosaries away, 
 
 An empire for a cell ; 
 A strict accountant of his beads, 
 A subtle disputant on creeds, 15 
 
 His dotage trifled well : 
 Yet better had he neither known 
 A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne. 
 
 Weighed in the balance, hero dust 
 
 Is vile as vulgar clay ; 20 
 
 Thy scales, Mortality ! are just 
 
 To all that pass away : 
 But yet methought the living great 
 Some higher sparks should animate, 
 
 To dazzle and dismay : 25 
 
 Nor seem'd Contempt could thus make mirth 
 Of these, the Conquerors of the earth. 
 
 Where may the wearied eye repose 
 
 When gazing on the Great ; 
 Where neither guilty glory glows, 30 
 
 Nor despicable state ? 
 
 Yes one the first the last the best 
 The Cincinnatus of the West, 
 
 Whom envy dared not hate, 
 
 Bequeathed the name of Washington, 35 
 
 To make men blush there was but one I 
 
SIXTH YEAR 
 THE LEGEND OF THE CROSSBILL 
 
 (From the German of Julius Mosen) 
 HRKBT WAMWORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 ON the cross the dying Saviour 
 Heavenward lifts his eyelids calm, 
 
 Feels, but scarcely feels, a trembling 
 In his pierced and bleeding palm. 
 
 And by nil the world forsaken, 5 
 
 Srr- I If how with y.e.'ilnus care 
 At tin- ruthless nail of iron 
 A little bird is striving there. 
 
 Stained with blood and never tiring, 
 
 With its beak it doth not cease, 10 
 
 From the cross *t would free the Saviour, 
 Its Creator's Son release. 
 
 And the Saviour speaks in mildness : 
 
 14 Blest be thou of all the good ! 
 Bear, as token of this moment, 15 
 
 Marks of blood and holy rood I " 
 
 And that bird is called the crossbill ; 
 
 Covered all with blood so clear, 
 In the groves of pine it singeth 
 
 Songs, like legends, strange to hear. 20 
 
SIXTH YEAR 83 
 
 THE RUBY-CROWNED KINGLET 1 
 HENRY VAN DYKE 
 
 I 
 
 WHERE 's your kingdom, little king ? 
 Where 's the land you call your own, 
 Where 's the palace, and your throne ? 
 Fluttering lightly on the wing 
 
 Through the blossom-world of May, 5 
 
 Whither lies your royal way? 
 Where 's the realm that owns your sway, 
 Little king ? 
 
 Far to northward lies a land, 
 
 Where the trees together stand 10 
 
 Closer than the blades of wheat, 
 
 When the summer is complete. 
 
 Like a robe the forests hide 
 
 Lonely vale and mountain side : 
 
 Balsam, hemlock, spruce, and pine, 15 
 
 All those mighty trees are mine. 
 
 There 's a river flowing free ; 
 
 All its waves belong to me. 
 
 There 's a lake so clear and bright 
 
 Stars shine out of it all night, 20 
 
 And the rowan-berries red 
 
 Round it like a girdle spread. 
 
 Feasting plentiful and fine, 
 
 Air that cheers the heart like wine, 
 
 Royal pleasures by the score, 25 
 
 Wait for me in Labrador. 
 
 There I '11 build my dainty nest ; 
 
 1 From The Toiling of Felix and Other Poems. Copyright, 1900, 
 by Charles Scribner's Sons. 
 
84 SIXTH YEAR 
 
 There I '11 fix my court and rest ; 
 
 There from dawn to dark I '11 sing : 
 
 Happy kingdom ! Lucky king ! 30 
 
 ii 
 
 Back again, my little king ! 
 Is your happy kingdom lost 
 To that rebel knave, Jack Frost? 
 
 Have you felt the snow-flakes sting ? 
 
 Autumn is a rude disrober ; 35 
 
 1 1 "useless, homeless in October, 
 \V hither now ? Your plight is sober, 
 Exiled king! 
 
 Far to southward lie the regions 
 
 Where my loyal flower-legions 40 
 
 I l"ld possession of the year, 
 
 Filling every month with cheer. 
 
 Christmas wakes the winter rose ; 
 
 New Year daffodils unclose ; 
 
 Yellow jasmine through the woods 45 
 
 Runs in March with golden floods, 
 
 Dropping from the tallest trees 
 
 Shining streams that never freeze. 
 
 Tliith.T I must find my way, 
 
 Fly by night and feed by day, 50 
 
 Till I see the southern moon 
 
 Glistening on the broad lagoon, 
 
 Where the cypress* vivid green, 
 
 And the dark magnolia's sheen, 
 
 Weave a shelter round my home. 55 
 
 There the snow-storms never come : 
 
 There the bannered mosses gray 
 
 In the breezes gently sway, 
 
SIXTH YEAR 85 
 
 Hanging low on every side 
 
 Round the covert where I hide. 60 
 
 There I hold my winter court, 
 
 Full of merriment and sport : 
 
 There I take my ease and sing: 
 
 Happy kingdom! Lucky king! 
 
 in 
 
 Little boaster, vagrant king ! 65 
 
 Neither north nor south is yours : 
 You Ve no kingdom that endures. 
 Wandering every fall and spring, 
 With your painted crown so slender, 
 And your talk of royal splendor, 70 
 
 Must I call you a Pretender, 
 Landless king? 
 
 Never king by right divine 
 
 Ruled a richer realm than mine I 
 
 What are lands and golden crowns, 75 
 
 Armies, fortresses, and towns, 
 
 Jewels, sceptres, robes, and rings, 
 
 What are these to song and wings ? 
 
 Everywhere that I can fly, 
 
 There I own the earth and sky; 80 
 
 Everywhere that I can sing, 
 
 There I 'm happy as a king. 
 
 TO A WATERFOWL 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 
 
 WHITHER, midst falling dew, 
 While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, 
 Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue 
 
 Thy solitary way ? 
 
86 SIXTH YEAR 
 
 Vainly the fowler's eye 5 
 
 Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, 
 As, darkly seen against the crimson sky, 
 
 Thy figure floats along. 
 
 Seek'st thou the plashy brink 
 
 Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, 10 
 
 Or where the rocking billows rise and sink 
 
 On the chafed ocean side ? 
 
 There is a Power whose care 
 Teaches thy way along that pathless coast 
 The desert and illimitable air 15 
 
 Lone wandering, but not lost. 
 
 All day thy wings have fanned, 
 At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, 
 Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, 
 
 Though the dark night is near. 20 
 
 And soon that toil shall end ; 
 Soon shalt thou find a sunnm-r home, and rest, 
 And scream among thy fellows ; reeds shall bend, 
 
 Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. 
 
 Thou 'rt gone ! the abyss of heaven 25 
 
 Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet, on my heart 
 Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, 
 
 And shall not soon depart. 
 
 He, who, from zone to zone, 
 
 Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, 
 In the long way that I must tread alone, 31 
 
 Will lead my steps aright. 
 
SIXTH YEAR 87 
 
 THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD 
 THEODORE O'HARA 
 
 THE muffled drum's sad roll has beat 
 
 The soldier's last tattoo ; 
 No more on Life's parade shall meet 
 
 That brave and fallen few. 
 On Fame's eternal camping-ground 5 
 
 Their silent tents are spread, 
 And Glory guards, with solemn round, 
 
 The bivouac of the dead. 
 
 No rumor of the foe's advance 
 
 Now swells upon the wind ; 10 
 
 No troubled thought at midnight haunts 
 
 Of loved ones left behind ; 
 No vision of the morrow's strife 
 
 The warrior's dream alarms ; 
 No braying horn nor screaming fife 15 
 
 At dawn shall call to arms. 
 
 Their shivered swords are red with rust, 
 
 Their plumed heads are bowed ; 
 Their haughty banner, trailed in dust, 
 
 Is now their martial shroud. 20 
 
 And plenteous funeral tears have washed 
 
 The red stains from each brow, 
 And the proud forms, by battle gashed, 
 
 Are free from anguish now. 
 
 The neighing troop, the flashing blade, 25 
 
 The bugle's stirring blast, 
 The charge, the dreadful cannonade, 
 
 The din and shout, are past ; 
 
88 SIXTH YEAR 
 
 Nor war's wild note nor glory's peal 
 
 Shall thrill with fierce delight 30 
 
 Those breasts that nevermore may feel 
 The rapture of the fight. 
 
 Like the fierce northern hurricane 
 
 That sweeps his great plateau, 
 Flushed with the triumph yet to gain, 35 
 
 Came down the serried foe. 
 Who heard the thunder of the fray 
 
 Break o'er the field beneath, 
 Knew well the watchword of that day 
 
 Was * 4 Victory or Death." 40 
 
 Long had the doubtful conflict raged 
 
 O'er all that stricken plain, 
 For never fiercer fight had waged 
 
 The vengeful blood of Spain ; 
 And still the storm of battle blew, 45 
 
 Still swelled the gory tide ; 
 Not long, our stout old chieftain knew, 
 
 Such odds his strength could bide. 
 
 'T was in that hour his stern command 
 
 Called to a martyr's grave 50 
 
 The flower of his beloved land, 
 
 The nation's flag to save. 
 By rivers of their fathers' gore 
 
 His first-born laurels grew, 
 And well he deemed the sons would pour 55 
 
 Their lives for glory too. 
 
 Full many a norther's breath has swept 
 O'er Angostura's plain, 
 
SIXTH YEAR 89 
 
 And long the pitying sky has wept 
 
 Above its mouldered slain. 60 
 
 The raven's scream, or eagle's flight, 
 
 Or shepherd's pensive lay, 
 Alone awakes each sullen height 
 
 That frowned o'er that dread fray. 
 
 Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground, 65 
 
 Ye must not slumber there, 
 Where stranger steps and tongues resound 
 
 Along the heedless air. 
 Your own proud land's heroic soil 
 
 Shall be your fitter grave : .70 
 
 She claims from war his richest spoil 
 
 The ashes of her brave. 
 
 Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest, 
 
 Far from the gory field, 
 Borne to a Spartan mother's breast 75 
 
 On many a bloody shield ; 
 The sunshine of their native sky 
 
 Smiles sadly on them here, 
 And kindred eyes and hearts watch by 
 
 The heroes' sepulchre. 80 
 
 Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead ! 
 
 Dear as the blood ye gave ; 
 No impious footstep here shall tread 
 
 The herbage of your grave ; 
 Nor shall your glory be forgot 85 
 
 While Fame her record keeps, 
 Or Honor points the hallowed spot 
 
 Where Valor proudly sleeps. 
 
90 SIXTH YEAR 
 
 Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone 
 
 In deathless song shall tell, 90 
 
 When many a vanished age hath flown, 
 
 The story how ye fell : 
 Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight 
 
 Nor Time's remorseless doom, 
 Shall dim one ray of glory's light 95 
 
 That gilds your deathless tomb. 
 

 
SEVENTH YEAR 
 
 YUSSOUF 
 
 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 
 
 A STRANGER came one night to Yussouf's tent, 
 
 Saying, " Behold one outcast and in dread, 
 
 Against whose life the bow of power is bent, 
 
 Who flies, and hath not where to lay his head ; 
 
 I come to thee for shelter and for food, 5 
 
 To Yussouf, called through all our tribes 'The Good.'" 
 
 " This tent is mine," said Yussouf, " but no more 
 
 Than it is God's ; come in, and be at peace ; 
 
 Freely shalt thou partake of all my store 
 
 As I of His who buildeth over these 10 
 
 Our tents his glorious roof of night and day, 
 
 And at whose door none ever yet heard Nay." 
 
 So Yussouf entertained his guest that night, 
 
 And, waking him ere day, said : " Here is gold ; 
 
 My swiftest horse is saddled for thy flight ; 15 
 
 Depart before the prying day grow bold." 
 
 As one lamp lights another, nor grows less, 
 
 So nobleness enkindleth nobleness. 
 
 That inward light the stranger's face made grand, 
 Which shines from all self -con quest ; kneeling low, 20 
 He bowed his forehead upon Yussouf's hand, 
 Sobbing : " O Sheik, I cannot leave thee so ; 
 
92 SEVENTH YEAR 
 
 I will repay thee ; all this thoti hast done 
 Unto that Ibrahim who slew thy son ! " 
 
 " Take thrice the gold," said Yussouf , " for with thee 
 Into the desert, never to return, 26 
 
 My one black thought shall ride away from me ; 
 First born, for whom by day and night I yearn, 
 Balanced and just are all of God's decrees ; 
 Thou art avenged, my first-born, sleep in peace ! " 30 
 
 PSALM XIX 
 
 1HK BIBLE 
 
 THE heavens declare the glory of God ; and the fir- 
 mament showeth his bandy work. 
 
 Day unto day uttereth speech, and night unto night 
 showeth knowledge. 
 
 There is no speech nor language where their voice 
 is not heard. 
 
 Their line is gone out through all the earth, and 
 their words to the end of the world. In th.-m hath he 
 set a tabernacle for the sun ; which is as a bridegroom 
 coming out of his chamber, and rejoiceth as a strong 
 man to run 'a race. 
 
 His going forth is from the end of the heaven, and 
 iii- circuit unto the ends of it: and there is nothing 
 hid from the beat thei 
 
 The law of the Lord is perfect, converting the soul: 
 the testimony of the Lord is sure, making \vi>- tl,- 
 simple : the statutes of the Lord are right, rejoicing 
 the heart : the commandment of the Lord is pure, 
 enlightening the eyes : the fear of the Lord is clean, 
 enduring for ever : the judgments of the Lord are true 
 and righteous altogether. 
 
SEVENTH YEAR 93 
 
 More to be desired are they than gold, yea, than 
 much fine gold ; sweeter also than honey, and the 
 honey-comb. 
 
 Moreover by them is thy servant warned : and in 
 keeping of them there is great reward. 
 
 Who can understand his errors ? Cleanse thou me 
 from secret faults. 
 
 Keep back thy servant also from presumptuous sins ; 
 let them not have dominion over me : then shall I be 
 upright, and I shall be innocent from the great trans- 
 gression. 
 
 Let the words of my mouth, and the meditation of 
 my heart, be acceptable in thy sight, O Lord, my 
 strength, and my redeemer. 
 
 THE HUSKERS 
 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIEB 
 
 IT was late in mild October, and the long autumnal 
 rain 
 
 Had left the summer harvest-fields all green with grass 
 again ; 
 
 The first sharp frosts had fallen, leaving all the wood- 
 lands gay 
 
 With the hues of summer's rainbow, or the meadow- 
 flowers of May. 
 
 Through a thin, dry mist, that morning, the sun rose 
 broad and red, 5 
 
 At first a rayless disk of fire, he brightened as he 
 sped; 
 
 Yet, even his noontide glory fell chastened and sub- 
 dued, 
 
94 SEVKNTII YEAR 
 
 On the cornfields and the orchards, and softly pictured 
 wood. 
 
 And all that quiet afternoon, slow sloping to the 
 
 night, 
 He wove with golden shuttle the haze with yellow 
 
 light : 10 
 
 Slanting through the painted beeches, he glorified the 
 
 hill: 
 And, beneath it, pond and meadow lay brighter, 
 
 greener still. 
 
 And shouting boys in woodland haunts caught glimpses 
 
 of that sky, 
 Flecked by the many-tinted leaves, and laughed, they 
 
 knew not why ; 
 And school-girls, gay with aster-flowers, beside the 
 
 meadow brooks, 15 
 
 Mingled the glow of autumn with the sunshine of 
 
 sweet looks. 
 
 From spire and barn looked westerly the patient 
 
 weathercocks ; 
 But even the birches on the hill stood motionless as 
 
 rocks. 
 No sound was in the woodlands, save the squirel's 
 
 dropping shell, 
 And the yellow leaves among the boughs, low rustling 
 
 as they fell. 20 
 
 The summer grains were harvested ; the stubble-fields 
 
 lay dry, 
 Where June winds rolled, in light and shade, the pale 
 
 green waves of rye ; 
 
SEVENTH YEAR 95 
 
 But still, on gentle hill-slopes, in valleys fringed with 
 
 wood, 
 Ungathered, bleaching in the sun, the heavy corn crop 
 
 stood. 
 
 Bent low, by autumn's wind and rain, through husks 
 
 that, dry and sere, 25 
 
 Unfolded from their ripened charge, shone out the 
 
 yellow ear; 
 Beneath, the turnip lay concealed, in many a verdant 
 
 fold, 
 And glistened in the slanting light the pumpkin's 
 
 sphere of gold. 
 
 There wrought the busy harvesters ; and many a creak- 
 ing wain 
 
 Bore slowly to the long barn-floor its load of husk 
 and grain ; 30 
 
 Till broad and red, as when he rose, the sun sank 
 down, at last, 
 
 And like a merry guest's farewell, the day in bright- 
 ness passed. 
 
 And lo ! as through the western pines, on meadow, 
 
 stream, and pond, 
 
 Flamed the red radiance of a sky, set all afire beyond, 
 Slowly o'er the eastern sea-bluffs a milder glory 
 
 shone, 35 
 
 And the sunset and the moonrise were mingled into 
 
 one! 
 
 As thus into the quiet night the twilight lapsed away, 
 And deeper in the brightening moon the tranquil 
 shadows lay ; 
 
96 SEVENTH YEAR 
 
 From many a brown old farm-house, and hamlet with- 
 out name, 
 
 Their milking and their home-tasks done, the merry 
 buskers came. 40 
 
 Swung o'er the heaped-up harvest, from pitchforks 
 
 in the mow, 
 Shone dimly down the lanterns on the pleasant scene 
 
 below; 
 The growing pile of husks behind, the golden ears 
 
 before, 
 And laughing eyes and busy hands and brown cheeks 
 
 glimmering o'er. 
 
 Half hidden, in a quiet nook, serene of look and 
 heart, 45 
 
 Talking their old times over, the old men sat apart : 
 
 While up and down the unhusked pile, or nestling in 
 its shade, 
 
 At hi<le-nml-seek, with laugh and shout, the happy 
 children played. 
 
 Urged by the good host's daugbter,'a maiden young 
 
 and fair, 
 Lifting to light her sweet blue eyes and pride of soft 
 
 brown hair, 50 
 
 The master of the village school, sleek of hair and 
 
 smooth of tongue, 
 To the quaint tune of some old psalm, a husking- 
 
 ballad sung. 
 
SEVENTH YEAR 97 
 
 WENDELL PHILLIPS 
 JAMBS RUSSELL LOWELL 
 
 HE stood upon the world's broad threshold ; wide 
 
 The din of battle and of slaughter rose ; 
 
 He saw God stand upon the weaker side, 
 
 That sank in seeming loss before his foes : 
 
 Many there were who made great haste and sold 5 
 
 Unto the cunning enemy their swords, 
 
 He scorned their gifts of fame, and power, and gold, 
 
 And, underneath their soft and flowery words, 
 
 Heard the cold serpent hiss ; therefore he went 
 
 And humbly joined him to the weaker part, 10 
 
 Fanatic named, and fool, yet well content 
 
 So he could be the nearer to God's heart, 
 
 And feel its solemn pulses sending blood 
 
 Through all the widespread veins of endless good. 
 
 MIDNIGHT 
 
 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 
 
 THE moon shines white and silent 
 On the mist, which, like a tide 
 
 Of some enchanted ocean, 
 
 O'er the wide marsh doth glide, 
 
 Spreading its ghost-like billows 5 
 
 Silently far and wide. 
 
 A vague and starry magic 
 
 Makes all things mysteries, 
 And lures the earth's dumb spirit 
 
 Up to the longing skies ; 10 
 
98 SEVENTH YEAR 
 
 I seem to hear dim whispers, 
 And tremulous replies. 
 
 The fireflies o'er the meadow 
 
 In pulses come and go ; 
 The elm-trees' heavy shadow 15 
 
 Weighs on the grass below ; 
 And faintly from the distance 
 
 The dreaming cock doth crow. 
 
 All things look strange and mystic, 
 
 The very bushes swell 20 
 
 And take wild shapes and motions, 
 As if beneath a spell ; 
 
 They seem not the same lilacs 
 From childhood known so welL 
 
 The snow of deepest silence 25 
 
 O'er everything doth fall, 
 So beautiful and quiet, 
 
 And yet so like a pall ; 
 As if all life were ended, 
 
 And rest were come to all. 30 
 
 O wild and wondrous midnight, 
 
 There is a might in thee 
 To make the charmed body 
 
 Almost likr spirit be, 
 
 And give it some faint glimpses 35 
 
 Of immortality! 
 
SEVENTH YEAR 99 
 
 THE PRESENT CRISIS 
 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 
 
 WHEN a deed is done for Freedom, through the broad 
 
 earth's aching breast 
 Runs a thrill of joy prophetic, trembling on from east 
 
 to west, 
 And the slave, where'er he cowers, feels the soul within 
 
 him climb 
 
 To the awful verge of manhood, as the energy sublime 
 Of a century bursts full-blossomed on the thorny stem 
 
 of Time. 5 
 
 Through the walls of hut and palace shoots the instan- 
 taneous throe, 
 
 When the travail of the Ages wrings earth's systems 
 to and fro ; 
 
 At the birth of each new Era, with a recognizing start, 
 
 Nation wildly looks at nation, standing with mute lips 
 apart, 
 
 And glad Truth's yet mightier man-child leaps beneath 
 the Future's heart. 10 
 
 So the Evil's triumph sendeth, with a terror and a 
 
 chill, 
 Under continent to continent, the sense of coming 
 
 HI, 
 
 And the slave, where'er he cowers, feels his sympathies 
 
 with God 
 In hot tear-drops ebbing earthward, to be drunk up by 
 
 the sod, 
 Till a corpse crawls round unburied, delving in the 
 
 nobler clod. 15 
 
100 SEVENTH YEAR 
 
 For mankind are one in spirit, and an instinct bears 
 
 along, 
 Round the earth's electric circle, the swift flash of 
 
 right or wrong ; 
 Whether conscious or unconscious, yet Humanity's 
 
 vast frame 
 Through its ocean-sundered fibres feels the gush of joy 
 
 or shame ; 
 In the gain or loss of one race all the rest have equal 
 
 claim. 20 
 
 Once to every man and nation comes the moment to 
 
 decide, 
 lo the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or 
 
 evil side ; 
 Some great cause, God's new Messiah, offering each 
 
 the bloom or blight, 
 Parts the goats upon the left hand, and the sheep upon 
 
 the right, 
 And the choice goes by forever 'twixt that darkness 
 
 and that light. 25 
 
 Hast thou chosen, O my people, on whose party thou 
 
 shalt stand, 
 Ere the Doom from its worn sandals shakes the dust 
 
 against our land ? 
 Though the cause of Evil prosper, yet 't is Truth alone 
 
 is strong. 
 And, albeit she wander outcast now, I see around her 
 
 throng 
 Troops of beautiful, tall angels, to enshield her from 
 
 all wrong. 30 
 
 Backward look across the ages and the beacon-moments 
 
SEVENTH YEAK 101 
 
 That, like peaks of some sunk continent, jut through 
 
 Oblivion's sea ; 
 Not an ear in court or market for the low foreboding 
 
 cry 
 Of those Crises, God's stern winnowers, from whose 
 
 feet earth's chaff must fly ; 
 Never shows the choice momentous till the judgment 
 
 hath passed by. 35 
 
 Careless seems the great Avenger ; history's pages but 
 
 record 
 One death-grapple in the darkness 'twixt old systems 
 
 and the Word ; 
 Truth forever on the scaffold, Wrong forever on the 
 
 throne, 
 Yet that scaffold sways the future, and, behind the 
 
 dim unknown, 
 Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above 
 
 his own. 40 
 
 We see dimly in the Present what is small and what is 
 
 great, 
 Slow of faith how weak an arm may turn the iron helm 
 
 of fate, 
 
 But the soul is still oracular ; amid the market's din, 
 List the ominous stern whisper from the Delphic cave 
 
 within, 
 " They enslave their children's children who make 
 
 compromise with sin." 45 
 
 Slavery, the earth-born Cyclops, fellest of the giant 
 
 brood, 
 Sons of brutish Force and Darkness, who have drenched 
 
 the earth with blood, 
 
102 SEVENTH YEAR 
 
 Famished in his self-made desert, blinded by our purer 
 
 day, 
 Gropes in yet unblasted regions for his miserable 
 
 prey;- 
 Shall we guide his gory fingers where our helpless 
 
 children play ? 50 
 
 Then to side with Truth is noble when we share her 
 wretched crust, 
 
 Ere her cause bring fame and profit, and 't is prosper- 
 ous to be just ; 
 
 Then it is the brave man chooses, while the coward 
 stands aside, 
 
 Doubting in his abject spirit, till his Lord is crucified, 
 
 And the multitude make virtue of the faith they had 
 denied. 55 
 
 Count me o'er earth's chosen heroes, they were 
 souls that stood alone, 
 
 While the men they agonized for hurled the contume- 
 lious stone, 
 
 Stood serene, and down the future saw the golden 
 beam incline 
 
 To the side of perfect justice, mastered by their faith 
 <li vine, 
 
 By one man's plain truth to manhood and to God's 
 supreme design. 60 
 
 By the light of burning heretics Christ's bleeding feet 
 I track, 
 
 Toiling up new Calvaries ever with the cross that turns 
 not back, 
 
 And these mounts of anguish number how each gen- 
 eration learned 
 
 One new word of that grand Credo which in prophet- 
 hearts hath burned 
 
SEVENTH YEAR 103 
 
 Since the first man stood God-conquered with his face 
 to heaven upturned. 65 
 
 For Humanity sweeps onward : where to-day the mar- 
 tyr stands, 
 
 On the morrow crouches Judas with the silver in his 
 hands ; 
 
 Far in front the cross stands ready and the crackling 
 fagots burn, 
 
 While the hooting mob of yesterday in silent awe 
 return 
 
 To glean up the scattered ashes into History's golden 
 urn. 70 
 
 'T is as easy to be heroes as to sit the idle slaves 
 
 Of a legendary virtue carved upon our fathers' graves, 
 
 Worshippers of light ancestral make the present light 
 
 a crime ; 
 Was the Mayflower launched by cowards, steered by 
 
 men behind their time ? 
 Turn those tracks toward Past or Future, that make 
 
 Plymouth Rock sublime ? 75 
 
 They were men of present valor, stalwart old icono- 
 clasts, 
 
 Unconvinced by axe or gibbet that all virtue was the 
 Past's ; 
 
 But we make their truth our falsehood, thinking that 
 hath made us free, 
 
 Hoarding it in mouldy parchments, while our tender 
 spirits flee 
 
 The rude grasp of that great Impulse which drove 
 them across the sea. 80 
 
104 SEVENTH YEAR 
 
 They have rights who dare maintain them ; we are 
 
 traitors to our sires, 
 Smothering in their holy ashes Freedom's new-lit 
 
 altar-fires ; 
 Shall we make their creed our jailer ? Shall we, in 
 
 our haste to slay, 
 From the tombs of the old prophets steal the funeral 
 
 lamps away 
 To light up the martyr-fagots round the prophets of 
 
 to-day? 85 
 
 New occasions teach new duties; Time makes ancient 
 
 good uncouth : 
 They must upward still, and onward, who would keep 
 
 abreast of Truth , 
 Lo, before us gleam her camp-fires ! we ourselves must 
 
 Pilgrims be, 
 Launch our Mayflower, and steer boldly through the 
 
 (IrsjMTate wintrr sell, 
 
 Nor attempt the Future's portal with the Past's blood- 
 rusted key. 90 
 
 THE FROST SPIRIT 
 JOHN GHKKKLKAF WHITHER 
 
 HE comes, he comes, the Frost Spirit comes! You 
 
 may trace his footsteps now 
 On the naked woods and the blasted fields and the 
 
 brown hill's withered brow. 
 He has smitten the leaves of the gray old trees where 
 
 their pleasant green came forth, 
 And the winds, which follow wherever he goes, have 
 
 shaken them down to earth. 
 
SEVENTH YEAR 105 
 
 He comes, he comes, the Frost Spirit comes ! from 
 
 the frozen Labrador, 5 
 
 From the icy bridge of the Northern seas, which the 
 
 white bear wanders o'er, 
 Where the fisherman's sail is stiff with ice, and the 
 
 luckless forms below 
 In the sunless cold of the lingering night into marble 
 
 statues grow ! 
 
 He comes, he comes, the Frost Spirit comes ! on 
 the rushing Northern blast, 
 
 And the dark Norwegian pines have bowed as his fear- 
 ful breath went past. 10 
 
 With an un scorched wing he has hurried on, where the 
 fires of Hecla glow 
 
 On the darkly beautiful sky above and the ancient ice 
 below. 
 
 He comes, he comes, the Frost Spirit comes! and 
 the quiet lake shall feel 
 
 The torpid touch of his glazing breath, and ring to the 
 skater's heel ; 
 
 And the streams which danced on the broken rocks, or 
 sang to the leaning grass, 15 
 
 Shall bow again to their winter chain, and in mourn- 
 ful silence pass. 
 
 He comes, he comes, the Frost Spirit comes! Let 
 
 us meet him as we may, 
 And turn with the light of the parlor-fire his evil power 
 
 away ; 
 And gather closer the circle round, when that firelight 
 
 dances high, 
 And laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend as his 
 
 sounding wing goes by ! 20 
 
106 SEVENTH YKAR 
 
 THOSE EVKMN<; BELLS 
 THOMAS MOORE 
 
 THOSE evening bells! those evening bells! 
 How many a tale their music tells, 
 Of youth, and home, and that sweet time 
 When last I heard their soothing chime! 
 
 Those joyous hours are passed away ; 5 
 
 And many a heart, that thru was gay, 
 Within the tomb now darkly dw< 
 And hears no more those evening bells. 
 
 And so 't will be when I am gone ; 
 That tuneful peal will still ring on, 10 
 
 While other bards shall walk these dells 
 And sing your praise, sweet evening bells! 
 
 GETTYSBURG SPEECH 
 ABRAHAM LIMCOLX 
 
 FOURSCORE and seven years ago, on rfathrr> brought 
 
 forth mi thU continent a new nat inn, r>nrri\ rd in lil- 
 erty, and drdi-at-d to the jirnpn^it inn that all mm 
 are creatrd -<|nal. Now we are engaged in a gnat 
 civil war, testing whether that nat ion, m- any nation 10 
 conceived and so dedicated, can long end me. We are 
 met on a great battlefield of that war. We have come 
 to dedicate a portion of that field as a final renting- 
 place for those who here gave their lives that that na- 
 tion might live. It is altogether fitting and proper 
 that we should do this. But in a larger sense \v .-an- 
 

SEVENTH YEAR 107 
 
 not dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow 
 this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who 
 struggled here, have consecrated it far above our poor 
 power to add or detract. The world will little note, 
 nor long remember, what we say here, but it can never 
 forget what they did here. It is for us, the living, 
 rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished work 
 which they who fought here have thus far so nobly ad- 
 vanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to 
 the great task remaining before us, that from these 
 honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause 
 for which they gave the last full measure of devotion, 
 that we here highly resolve that these dead shall 
 not have died in vain, that this nation, under God, 
 shall have a new birth of freedom, and that govern- 
 ment of the people, by the people, for the people, shall 
 not perish from the earth. 
 
 THE OAK 
 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 
 
 WHAT gnarled stretch, what depth of shade, is his I 
 
 There needs no crown to mark the forest's king; 
 How in his leaves outshines full summer's bliss ! 
 
 Sun, storm, rain, dew, to him their tribute bring, 
 Which he with such benignant royalty 5 
 
 Accepts, as overpayeth what is lent ; 
 All nature seems his vassal proud to be, 
 
 And cunning only for his ornament. 
 
 How towers he, too, amid the billowed snows, 
 
 An unquelled exile from the summer's throne, 10 
 
 Whose plain, uncinctured front more kingly shows, 
 Now that the obscuring courtier leaves are flown. 
 
108 SEVENTH YEAR 
 
 His boughs make music of the winter air, 
 
 Jewelled with sleet, like some cathedral front 
 
 Where clinging snow-flakes with quaint art repair 15 
 The dints and furrows of time's envious brunt. 
 
 How doth his patient strength the rude March wind 
 
 Persuade to seem glad breaths of summer breeze, 
 And win the soil that fain would be unkind, 
 
 To swell his revenues with proud increase I 20 
 
 He is the gem ; and all the landscape wide 
 
 (So doth his grandeur isolate the sense) 
 Seems but the setting, worthless all beside, 
 
 An empty socket, were he fallen thence. 
 
 So, from oft convene with life's wintry gales, 25 
 
 Should man learn how to clasp with tougher roots 
 The inspiring earth ; how otherwise avails 
 
 The leaf-creating sap that sunward shoots ? 
 So every year that falls with noiseless flake 
 
 Should fill old scars up on the stormward side, 30 
 And make hoar age revered for age's sake, 
 
 Not for traditions of youth's leafy pride. 
 
 So, from the pinched soil of a churlish fate, 
 
 True hearts compel the sap of sturdier growth, 
 So between earth and heaven stand simply great, 35 
 
 That these shall seem but their attendants both ; 
 For nature's forces with obedient zeal 
 
 Wait on the rooted faith and oaken will ; 
 As quickly the pretender's cheat they feel, 
 
 And turn mad Pucks to flout and mock him si ill. 
 
 Lord ! all Thy works are lessons ; each contains 41 
 Some emblem of man's all-containing soul ; 
 40. See Shakespeare's A Midnummer Nighfg Dream. 
 
SEVENTH YEAR 109 
 
 Shall he make fruitless all Thy glorious pains, 
 Delving within Thy grace an eyeless mole ? 
 
 Make me the least of thy Dodona-grove, 45 
 
 Cause me some message of thy truth to bring, 
 
 Speak but a word through me, nor let thy love 
 Among my boughs disdain to perch and sing. 
 
 TO THE DANDELION 
 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 
 
 DEAR common flower, that grow'st beside the way, 
 Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold, 
 
 First pledge of blithesome May, 
 Which children pluck, and, full of pride uphold, 
 
 High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoyed that they 5 
 An Eldorado in the grass have found, 
 
 Which not the rich earth's ample round 
 May match in wealth, thou art more dear to me 
 Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be. 
 
 Gold such as thine ne'er drew the Spanish prow 10 
 Through the primeval hush of Indian seas, 
 
 Nor wrinkled the lean brow 
 Of age, to rob the lover's heart of ease ; 
 
 T is the Spring's largess, which she scatters now 
 To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand, 15 
 
 Though most hearts never understand 
 To take it at God's value, but pass by 
 The offered wealth with unrewarded eye. 
 
 Thou art my tropics and mine Italy ; 
 To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime ; 20 
 
 45. A grove of oaks at Dodona, in ancient Greece, was the 
 seat of a famous oracle. 
 
110 SEVKNTII VKAR 
 
 The eyes thou givest me 
 Are in the heart, and heed not space or time: 
 
 Not in mid June the golden-cuirassed bee 
 Feels a more summer-like warm ravishment 
 
 In the white lily's breezy tent, 25 
 
 His fragrant Sybaris, than I, when first 
 From the dark green thy yellow circles burst. 
 
 Then think I of deep shadows on the grass, 
 Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze, 
 
 Where, as the breezes pass, 30 
 
 The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways, 
 Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass, 
 Or whiten in the wind, of waters blue 
 
 That from the distance sparkle through 
 Some woodland gap, and of a sky above, 35 
 
 Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move. 
 
 My < -hi 1.1 hood's earliest thoughts are linked with 
 
 thee; 
 The sight of thee calls back the robin's song, 
 
 Who, from the dark old tree 
 Beside the door, sang clearly all day long, 40 
 
 And I, secure in childish piety, 
 Listened as if I heard an angel sing 
 
 With news from heaven, which he could bring 
 Fresh every day to my untainted ears 
 When birds and flowers and 1 were happy peers. 45 
 
 How like a prodigal doth nature seem, 
 When thou, for all thy gold, so common art I 
 
 Thou teachest me to deem 
 More sacredly of every human heart, 
 
SEVENTH YEAR 111 
 
 Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam 50 
 
 Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show, 
 
 Did we but pay the love we owe, 
 And with a child's undoubting wisdom look 
 On all these living pages of God's book. 
 
 TO WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON 
 
 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 
 
 " Some time afterward, it was reported to me by the city officers 
 that they had ferreted out the paper and its editor ; that his office was 
 an obscure hole, his only visible auxiliary a negro boy, and his sup- 
 porters a few very insignificant persons of all colors." Letter ofH. O. 
 Otis. 
 
 IN a small chamber, friendless and unseen, 
 
 Toiled o'er his types one poor, unlearned young man ; 
 
 The place was dark, unfurnitured, and mean ; 
 Yet there the freedom of a race began. 
 
 Help came but slowly ; surely no man yet 5 
 
 Put lever to the heavy world with less : 
 
 What need of help? He knew how types were set, 
 He had a dauntless spirit, and a press. 
 
 Such earnest natures are the fiery pith, 
 
 The compact nucleus, round which systems grow ; 10 
 Mass after mass becomes inspired therewith, 
 
 And whirls impregnate with the central glow. 
 
 O Truth ! O Freedom ! how are ye still born 
 In the rude stable, in the manger nurst ! 
 
 What humble hands unbar those gates of morn 15 
 Through which the splendors of the New Day burst ! 
 
 What ! shall one monk, scarce known beyond his cell, 
 Front Rome's far-reaching bolts, and scorn her 
 frown ? 
 
112 SEVENTH YEAR 
 
 Brave Luther answered YES; that thunder's swell 19 
 Rocked Europe, and discharraed the triple crown. 
 
 Whatever can be known of earth we know, 
 
 Sneered Europe's wise men, in their snail-shells 
 curled ; 
 
 No ! said one man in Genoa, and that No 
 
 Out of the darkness summoned this New World. 
 
 Who is it will not dare himself to trust ? 25 
 
 Who is it hath not strength to stand alone ? 
 
 Who is it thwarts and bilks the inward MUST? 
 
 He and his works, like sand, from earth are blown. 
 
 Men of a thousand shifts and wiles, look here ! 
 
 See one straightforward conscience put in pawn 30 
 To win a world ; see the obedient sphere 
 
 By bravery's simple gravitation drawn I 
 
 Shall we not heed the lesson taught of old, 
 And by the Present's lips repeated still, 
 
 In our own single manhood to be bold, 35 
 
 Fortressed in conscience and impregnable will? 
 
 We stride the river daily at its spring, 
 
 Nor, in our childish thoughtlessness, foresee, 
 
 \V hat myriad vassal streams shall tribute bring, 
 How like an equal it shall greet the sea. 40 
 
 O small beginnings, ye are great and strong, 
 Based on a faithful heart and weariless brain ! 
 
 Ye build the future fair, ye conquer wrong, 
 Ye earn the crown, and wear it not in vain. 
 
EIGHTH YEAR 
 
 RECESSIONAL 1 
 
 A VICTORIAN ODE 
 RUDTARD KIPLING 
 
 GOD of our fathers, kiiown of old 
 Lord of our far-flung battle line 
 
 Beneath whose awful hand we hold 
 Dominion over palm and pine 
 
 Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, 5 
 
 Lest we forget lest we forget ! 
 
 The tumult and the shouting dies 
 The Captains and the Kings depart 
 
 Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice, 
 
 An humble and a contrite heart. 10 
 
 Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, 
 
 Lest we forget lest we forget ! 
 
 Far-called our navies melt away 
 
 On dune and headland sinks the fire 
 
 Lo, all our pomp of yesterday 15 
 
 Is one with Nineveh and Tyre ! 
 
 Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, 
 
 Lest we forget lest we forget ! 
 
 If, drunk with sight of power, we loose 
 
 Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe 20 
 
 1 From The Collected Verse of Rudyard Kipling, published by 
 Doubleday, Page & Co. 
 
114 EIGHTH YEAR 
 
 Such boastings as the Gentiles use, 
 
 Or lesser breeds without the Law 
 Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, 
 Lest we forget lest we forget ! 
 
 For heathen heart that puts her trust 2o 
 
 In reeking tube and iron shard 
 
 All valiant dust that builds on dust, 
 And guarding calls not Thee to guard. 
 
 For frantic boast and foolish word, 
 
 Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord .' 30 
 
 Amen. 
 
 THE VILLAGE PREACHER 
 
 (Prom " The Deserted Village ") 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH 
 
 NEAR yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd, 
 And still where many a garden flower grows wild, 
 Tli. -re, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, 
 The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
 A man he was to all the country dear, 5 
 
 And passing rich with forty pounds a year. 
 Remote from towns he ran his godly race, 
 Nor e'er had chang'd, nor wish'd to change, his place ; 
 Tiipr.'K tis\l he to fawn, or seek for power, 
 By doctrines faahion'd to the varying hour ; 10 
 
 Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize, 
 More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise. 
 1 1U house was known to all the vagrant train, 
 He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain ; 
 The long-remembered .beggar was his guest, 15 
 
 Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; 
 
EIGHTH YEAR 115 
 
 The rnin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, 
 Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allowed. 
 The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 
 Sate by his fire, and talk'd the night away ; 20 
 
 Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, 
 Shoulder'd his crutch, and shew'd how fields were won. 
 Pleas'd with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow, 
 And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; 
 Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 25 
 
 His pity gave ere charity began. 
 
 Thus to relieve the wretches was his pride, 
 And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side: 
 But in his duty prompt at every call, 
 He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all. 30 
 And as a bird each fond endearment tries 
 To tempt its new-fledg'd offspring to the skies, 
 He tried each art, reprov'd each dull delay, 
 Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way. 
 
 Beside the bed where parting life was laid, 35 
 
 And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd, 
 The reverend champion stood. At his control, 
 Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; 
 Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, 
 And his last faltering accents whisper'd praise. 40 
 
 At church, with meek and unaffected grace, 
 His looks adorn'd the venerable place ; 
 Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway, 
 And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. 
 The service past, around the pious man, 45 
 
 With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran ; 
 Even children followed, with endearing wile, 
 
116 EIGHTH YEAR 
 
 And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile. 
 
 1 1 is ready smile a parent's warmth exprest, 
 
 Their welfare pleas' d him. and their cares distrest;50 
 
 To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were given, 
 
 But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven : 
 
 As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, 
 
 Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, 
 
 Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, 
 
 Eternal sunshine settles on its head. ." 
 
 ABRAHAM DAVENPORT 
 JOHX GREBVLEAF WHITTIKB 
 
 The famous Dark Day of New England, May 19, 1780, was a physi- 
 cal puzzle for many yean to our ancestors, but its occurrence brought 
 something more than philosophical speculation into the minds of those 
 who passed through it The incident of Colonel Abraham Davenport's 
 sturdy protest is a matter of history. 
 
 IN the old days (a custom laid aside 
 
 With breeches and cocked hats) the people sent 
 
 Their wisest men to make the public laws. 
 
 And so, from a brown homestead, where the Sound 
 
 Drinks the small tribute of the Mi anas, 5 
 
 Wav.-d OV.T 1y tin; woods of Kij.powains, 
 
 And hallowed by pure lives and tran-jnil deaths, 
 
 Stamford sent up to the councils of the State 
 
 W isdom and grace in Abraham Davenport. 
 
 'T was on a May-day of the far old year 10 
 
 Seventeen hundred eighty, that there Ml 
 Over the bloom and sweet life of the Spring, 
 Over the fresh earth and the heaven of noon, 
 
EIGHTH YEAR 117 
 
 A horror of great darkness, like the night 
 
 In day of which the Norland sagas tell, 15 
 
 The Twilight of the Gods. The low-hung sky 
 
 Was black with ominous clouds, save where its rim 
 
 Was fringed with a dull glow, like that which climbs 
 
 The crater's sides from the red hell below, 
 
 Birds ceased to sing, and all the barn-yard fowls 20 
 
 Eoosted ; the cattle at the pasture bars 
 
 Lowed, and looked homeward ; bats on leathern 
 
 wings 
 
 Flitted abroad ; the sounds of labor died ; 
 Men prayed, and women wept ; all ears grew sharp 
 To hear the doom-blast of the trumpet shatter 25 
 The black sky, that the dreadful face of Christ 
 Might look from the rent clouds, not as he looked 
 A loving guest at Bethany, but stern 
 As Justice and inexorable Law. 
 
 Meanwhile in the old State House, dim as 
 ghosts, 30 
 
 Sat the lawgivers of Connecticut, 
 Trembling beneath their legislative robes. 
 " It is the Lord's Great Day ! Let us adjourn,'* 
 Some said ; and then, as if with one accord, 
 All eyes were turned to Abraham Davenport. 36 
 He rose, slow cleaving with his steady voice 
 The intolerable hush. " This well may be 
 The Day of Judgment which the world awaits ; 
 But be it so or not, I only know 
 My present duty, and my Lord's command 40 
 
 To occupy till He come. So at the post 
 Where He hath set me in His Providence, 
 I choose, for one, to meet Him face to face, 
 No faithless servant frightened from my task, 
 
118 EIGHTH YEAR 
 
 But ready \\hon the Lord of thr harvest calls ; 45 
 And therefore, with all reverence, I would say, 
 Let God do His work, we will see to ours, 
 Bring in the candles." And they brought them in. 
 
 Then by the flaring lights the Speaker read, 
 Albeit with husky voice and shaking hands, 50 
 
 An act to amend an act to regulate 
 The shad and alewive fisheries. Whereupon 
 Wisely and well spake Abraham Davenport, 
 Straight to the question, with no figures of speech 
 Save the ten Arab signs, yet not without 55 
 
 The shrewd dry humor natural to the man : 
 His awestruck colleagues listening all the while, 
 Between the pauses of his argument, 
 To hear the thunder of the wrath of God 
 Break from the hollow trumpet of the cloud. 60 
 
 And there he stands in memory to this day, 
 Erect, self-poised, a rugged face, half seen 
 Against the background of unnatural dark, 
 A witness to the ages as they pass, 
 That simple duty hath no place for fear. 65 
 
 THB AMERICAN FLAG 
 JoflKPH RODMAN DBAHB 
 
 AN' 1 11 A Freedom from ln-r mountain height 
 Unfurled her standard to the air, 
 
 She tore the azure robe of nijrlit. 
 And set the stars of <Jory there. 
 
 She mingled with its gorgeous dyes 
 
 The milky baldric of the skies. 
 
 And striped its pure celestial white 
 
EIGHTH YEAR 119 
 
 With streakings of the morning light ; 
 
 Then from his mansion in the sun 
 
 She called her eagle bearer .down, 10 
 
 And gave into his mighty hand 
 
 The symbol of her chosen land. 
 
 Majestic monarch of the cloud, 
 
 Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, 
 To hear the tempest trurn pings loud 15 
 
 And see the lightning lances driven, 
 
 When strive the warriors of the storm, 
 And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven, 
 Child of the sun ! to thee 't is given 
 
 To guard the banner of the free, 20 
 
 To hover in the sulphur smoke, 
 To ward away the battle stroke, 
 And bid its blendings shine afar, 
 Like rainbows on the cloud of war, 
 
 The harbingers of victory ! 25 
 
 Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly, 
 
 The sign of hope and triumph high, 
 
 When speaks the signal trumpet tone, 
 
 And the long line conies gleaming on. 
 
 Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, 30 
 
 Has dimmed the glistening bayonet, 
 
 Each soldier eye shall brightly turn 
 
 To where thy sky-born glories burn, 
 
 And, as his springing steps advance, 
 
 Catch war and vengeance from the glance. 35 
 
 And when the cannon-mouthings loud 
 
 Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud, 
 
 And gory sabres rise and fall 
 
 Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall, 
 
120 EIGHTH YEAR 
 
 Then shall thy meteor glances glow, 40 
 
 And cowering foes shall shrink beneath 
 
 Kadi gallant arm that strikes below 
 That lovely messenger of death. 
 
 Flag of the seas ! on ocean wave 
 
 Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave ; 45 
 
 When death, careering on the gale, 
 
 Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, 
 
 And frighted waves rush wildly back, 
 
 Before the broadside's reeling rack, 
 
 Each dying wanderer of the sea 50 
 
 Shall look at once to heaven and thee, 
 
 And smile to see thy splendors fly 
 
 In triumph o'er his closing eye. 
 
 Flag of the free heart's hope and home! 
 
 By angel hands to valor given ; 55 
 
 Thy stars have lit the \vi-lkin dome, 
 
 And all thy hues were born in heaven. 
 Forever float that standard sheet ! 
 
 Where breathes the foe but falls before us, 
 With Freedom's soil beneath our -feet, 60 
 
 And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us? 
 
 FOR AN AUTUMN FESTIVAL 
 JOHN GRBBNLKAr WBITTIXB 
 
 THE Persian's flowery gifts, the shrine 
 Of fruitful Ceres charm no more ; 
 
 The woven wreaths of oak ;ml pine 
 Are dust along the Isthmian shore. 
 
 But beauty hath its homage still, 5 
 
 And nature holds us still in debt; 
 
EIGHTH YEAR 121 
 
 And woman's grace and household skill, 
 And manhood's toil are honored yet. 
 
 And we, to-day, amidst our flowers 
 
 And fruits, have come to own again 10 
 
 The blessings of the summer hours, 
 
 The early and the latter rain ; 
 
 To see our Father's hand once more 
 
 Reverse for us the plenteous horn 
 Of autumn, filled and running o'er 15 
 
 With fruit, and flower, and golden corn ! 
 
 Once more the liberal year laughs out 
 O'er richer stores than gems or gold ; 
 
 Once more with harvest-song and shout 
 
 Is Nature's bloodless triumph told. 20 
 
 Our common mother rests and sings, 
 
 Like Ruth, among her garnered sheaves ; 
 
 Her lap is full of goodly things, 
 
 Her brow is bright with autumn leaves. 
 
 Oh, favors every year made new ! 25 
 
 Oh, gifts with rain and sunshine sent ! 
 
 The bounty overruns our due, 
 
 The fulness shames our discontent. 
 
 We shut our eyes, the flowers bloom on ; 
 
 We murmur, but the corn -ears fill, 30 
 
 We choose the shadow, but the sun 
 
 That casts it shines behind us still. 
 
 God gives us with our rugged soil 
 
 The power to make it Eden-fair, 
 And richer fruits to crown our toil 35 
 
 Than summer-wedded islands bear. 
 
122 EIGHTH YEAR 
 
 Who murmurs at his lot to-day? 
 
 Who scorns his Dative fruit and bloom? 
 Or sighs for dainties far away, 
 
 Beside the bounteous board of home ? 40 
 
 Thank I haven, instead, that Freedom's arm 
 Can change a rocky soil to gold, 
 
 That brave and generous lives can warm 
 A clime with northern ices cold. 
 
 And let these altars, wreathed with flowers 45 
 And piled with fruits, awake again 
 
 Thanksgivings for the golden hours, 
 The early and the latter rain ! 
 
 THK DKAT1I OF 'HIE OLD YEAR 
 ALFRXD, LORD TKXHTBOM 
 
 FULL knee-deep lies the winter snow, 
 
 And tin- winter winds are wearily sighing; 
 
 Toll yt tli.- (lunch-bell sad and slow, 
 
 And tread softly and speak low, 
 
 For the old year lies a-dying. 5 
 
 Old year, you must not die; 
 
 You came to us so readily. 
 
 You lived with us so steadily, 
 
 Old year, you shall not die. 
 
 I It- lieth still, he doth not move ; 10 
 
 1 1* will not see the dawn of day. 
 
 He hath no other life above. 
 
 He gave me a friend, and a true true-love, 
 
EIGHTH YEAR 123 
 
 And the New-year will take 'em away. 
 
 Old year, you must not go ; 15 
 
 So long as you have been with us, 
 Such joy as you have seen with us, 
 Old year, you shall not go. 
 
 He f roth'd his bumpers to the brim ; 
 
 A jollier year we shall not see. 20 
 
 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, 25 
 
 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 30 
 
 His son and heir doth ride post-haste, 
 
 But he '11 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, 35 
 
 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; 40 
 
 7 T is nearly twelve o'clock. 
 
 Shake hands, before you die. 
 
 Old year, we '11 dearly rue for you. 
 
 What is it we can do for you? 
 
 Speak out before you die. 45 
 
124 EIGHTH YEAR 
 
 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, 50 
 
 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. 
 
 THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS 
 OUYXR WKXDELL HOLMES 
 
 " We need not trouble ourselves abont the distinction between this 
 [the Pearly Nautilus] and the Paper Nautili, the Argonauta of the 
 ancient*. The name applied to both shows that each haa long been 
 compared to a ship, as jou may see more f ull j in Webster's Dictionary 
 or the Encyclopaedia, to which he refers. If yon will look into Koget's 
 Bridgevater TrtaliM, yon will find a figure of one of these sheila, and 
 a section of it. The last will show yon the series of enlarging com- 
 partments successively dwelt in by the animal that inhabits the shell, 
 i. inbuilt in a widening spiral. . . . 
 
 I hare now and then found a naturalist who still worried over the 
 distinction between the Pearly Nautilus and the Paper Nautilus, or 
 Argonaut*. As the stories abont both are mere fables, attaching to 
 the Physalia, or Portuguese man-of-war, as well aa to these two nml- 
 Insks, It aeems orer-nice to quarrel with the poetical handling of a 
 fiction sufficiently justified by the name commonly applied to the nhip 
 of pearl aa well as the ship of paper." The Autocrat of the Break- 
 faa-TabU. 
 
 THIS is the ship of pear), which, poets feign, 
 
 Sails the unshadowed iu:iin. 
 
 The venturous bark that flings 
 On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings 
 In gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings, 5 
 
 And coral reefs lie hare, 
 
 Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming 
 hair. 
 
EIGHTH YEAR 125 
 
 Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl ; 
 
 Wrecked is the ship of pearl ; 
 
 And every chambered cell, 10 
 
 "Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, 
 As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, 
 
 Before thee lies revealed, 
 Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed ! 
 
 Year after year beheld the silent toil 15 
 
 That spread his lustrous coil ; 
 
 Still, as the spiral grew, 
 He left the past year's dwelling for the new, 
 Stole with soft step its shining archway through, 
 
 Built up its idle door, 20 
 
 Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no 
 more. 
 
 Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, 
 
 Child of the wandering sea, 
 
 Cast from her lap, forlorn ! 
 
 From thy dead lips a clearer note is born 25 
 
 Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn ! 
 
 While on mine ear it rings, 
 
 Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that 
 sings : 
 
 Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, 
 
 As the swift seasons roll ! 30 
 
 Leave thy low- vaulted past ! 
 
 Let each new temple, nobler than the last, 
 
 Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, 
 Till thou at length art free, 
 
 Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea ! 35 
 
126 EIGHTH YKAK 
 
 THE NEW YEAR 
 
 ADDRESSED TO THE PATRONS OF THE PENNSYLVANIA 
 
 FREEMAN 
 JOHN GRKKNLEAP WHITTIEB 
 
 THE wave is breaking on the shore, 
 The echo fading from the chime; 
 
 Again the shadow moveth o'er 
 The dial-plate of time ! 
 
 O seer-seen Angel ! waiting now, 5 
 
 With weary feet on sea and shore, 
 
 Impatient for the last dread vow 
 That time shall be no more ! 
 
 Once more across thy sleepless eye 
 
 The semblance of a smile has passed : 10 
 
 The year departing leaves more nigh 
 Time's fearfullest and last 
 
 Oh, in that dying year hath Wn 
 The sum of all since time began ; 
 
 The birth and death, the joy and pain, 15 
 
 Of Nature and of Man. 
 
 Spring, with her change of sun and shower, 
 And streams released from Winter's chain, 
 
 And bursting bud, and opening flower, 
 
 And greenly growing grain ; 20 
 
 And Summer's shade, and sunshine warm, 
 And rainbows o'er her hill-tops bowed, 
 
 And voices in her rising storm ; 
 God speaking from his cloud ! 
 
EIGHTH YEAR 127 
 
 And Autumn's fruits and clustering sheaves, 25 
 And soft, warm days of golden light, 
 
 The glory of her forest leaves, 
 And harvest-moon at night ; 
 
 And Winter with her leafless grove, 
 
 And prisoned stream, and drifting snow, 30 
 
 The brilliance of her heaven above 
 
 And of her earth below : 
 
 And man, in whom an angel's mind 
 With earth's low instincts finds abode, 
 
 The highest of the links which bind 35 
 
 Brute nature to her God ; 
 
 His infant eye hath seen the light, 
 
 His childhood's merriest laughter rung, 
 
 And active sports to manlier might 
 
 The nerves of boyhood strung ! 40 
 
 And quiet love, and passion's fires, 
 
 Have soothed or burned in manhood's breast, 
 And lofty aims and low desires 
 
 By turns disturbed his rest. 
 
 The wailing of the newly-born 45 
 
 Has mingled with the funeral knell ; 
 
 And o'er the dying's ear has gone 
 The merry marriage-bell. 
 
 And Wealth has filled his halls with mirth, 
 
 While Want, in many a humble shed, 50 
 
 Toiled, shivering by her cheerless hearth, 
 The live-long night for bread. 
 
128 EIGHTH YEAR 
 
 And worse than all, the human slave, 
 The sport of lust, and pride, and scorn! 
 
 Plucked off the crown his Maker gave, 55 
 
 I IIH regal manhood gone ! 
 
 Oh, still, my country! o'er thy plains, 
 Blackened with slavery's blight and ban, 
 
 That human chattel drags his chains, 
 
 An uncreated man ! 60 
 
 And still, where'er to sun and breeze, 
 
 My country, is thy flag unroll rd, 
 With scorn, the gazing stranger sees 
 
 A stain on every fold. 
 
 Oh, tear the gorgeous emblem down ! 66 
 
 It gathers scorn from every eye, 
 And despots smile and good men frown 
 
 Whene'er it passes by. 
 
 Shame ! shame ! its starry splendors glow 
 
 Above the slaver's loathsome jail ; 70 
 
 Its folds are ruffling even now 
 His crimson flag of Hale. 
 
 Still round our country's proudest hall 
 The trade in human flesh is driven. 
 
 And at each careless hammer-fall 75 
 
 A human heart is riven. 
 
 And this, too, sanctioned by the men 
 Vested with power to shield the right, 
 
 And throw each vile and robber den 
 
 Wide open to the light. 80 
 
EIGHTH YEAR 129 
 
 Yet, shame upon them ! there they sit, 
 Men of the North, subdued and still ; 
 
 Meek, pliant poltroons, only fit 
 To work a master's will. 
 
 Sold, bargained off for Southern votes, 85 
 
 A passive herd of Northern mules, 
 
 Just braying through their purchased throats 
 Whate'er their owner rules. 
 
 And he, the basest of the base, 
 
 The vilest of the vile, whose name, 90 
 
 Embalmed in infinite disgrace, 
 
 Is deathless in its shame ! 
 
 A tool, to bolt the people's door 
 
 Against the people clamoring there, 
 
 An ass, to trample on their floor 95 
 
 A people's right of prayer ! 
 
 Nailed to his self-made gibbet fast, 
 
 Self-pilloried to the public view, 
 A mark for every passing blast 
 
 Of scorn to whistle through ; 100 
 
 There let him hang, and hear the boast 
 Of Southrons o'er their pliant tool, 
 
 A new Stylites on his post, 
 " Sacred to ridicule ! " 
 
 Look we at home ! our noble hall, 105 
 
 To Freedom's holy purpose given, 
 Now rears its black and ruined wall 
 
 Beneath the wintry heaven, 
 
130 EIGHTH YKAR 
 
 Telling the story of its doom, 
 
 The fiendish mob, the prostrate law, 110 
 
 The fiery jet through midnight's gloom, 
 
 Our gazing thousands saw. 
 
 Look to our State ! the poor man's right 
 Torn from him : and the sons of those 
 
 Whose blood in Freedom's sternest fight 115 
 Sprinkled the Jersey's snows, 
 
 Outlawed within the land of Penn, 
 
 That Slavery's guilty fears might cease, 
 
 And those whom God created men 
 
 Toil on as brutes in peace. 120 
 
 Yet o'er the blackness of the storm 
 
 A bow of promise bends on high, 
 And gleams of sunshine, soft and warm, 
 
 Breakthrough our clouded sky. 
 
 East, West, and North, the shout is heard, 125 
 
 Of freemen rising for the right : 
 Each valley hath its rallying word, 
 
 Karli hill its signal light 
 
 O'er Massachusetts' rocks of gray 
 
 The strengthening light of freedom shines, 130 
 Rhode Island's Narragansett Bay, 
 
 And Vermont's snow-hung pines ! 
 
 From Hudson's frowning palisades 
 
 To Alleghany's laurelled crest, 
 O'er lakes and prairies, streams and glades, 135 
 
 It shines upon the West. 
 
EIGHTH YEAR 131 
 
 Speed on the light to those who dwell 
 
 In Slavery's land of woe and sin, 
 And through the blackness of that Hell 
 
 Let Heaven's own light break in. 140 
 
 So shall the Southern conscience quake 
 Before that light poured full and strong, 
 
 So shall the Southern heart awake 
 To all the bondman's wrong. 
 
 And from that rich and sunny land 145 
 
 The song of grateful millions rise, 
 Like that of Israel's ransomed band 
 
 Beneath Arabia's skies : 
 
 And all who now are bound beneath, 
 
 Our banner's shade, our eagle's wing, 150 
 
 From Slavery's night of moral death 
 To light and life shall spring. 
 
 Broken the bondman's chain, and gone 
 The master's guilt, and hate, and fear, 
 
 And unto both alike shall dawn 155 
 
 A New and Happy Year. 
 
 ICHABOD 
 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIEB 
 
 So fallen I so lost ! the light withdrawn 
 
 Which once he wore I 
 The glory from his gray hairs gone 
 
 Forevermore ! 
 
132 EIGHTH YKAR 
 
 Revile him not, the Tempter hath . 5 
 
 A snare for all ; 
 And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath, 
 
 Befit his fall! 
 
 Oh, dumb be passion's stormy rage, 
 
 When he who might 10 
 
 Have lighted up and led his age, 
 Falls back in night. 
 
 Scorn ! would the angels laugh, to mark 
 
 A bright soul driven, 
 Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark, 15 
 
 From hope and heaven! 
 
 Let not the land once proud of him 
 
 Insult him now, 
 Nor brand with deeper shame his dim, 
 
 Dishonored brow. 20 
 
 But let its humbled sons, instead, 
 
 From sea to lake, 
 A long lament, as for the dead, 
 
 In sadness make. 
 
 Of all we loved and honored, naught 25 
 
 Save power remains ; 
 A fallen angel's pride of thought, 
 
 Still strong in chains. 
 
 All else is gone ; from those great eyea 
 
 The soul has fled : 30 
 
 When faith is lost, when honor dies, 
 The man is dead ! 
 
EIGHTH YEAR 133 
 
 Then, pay the reverence of old days 
 
 To his dead fame ; 
 Walk backward, with averted gaze, 35 
 
 And hide the shame ! 
 
 SIR GALAHAD 
 
 ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 
 
 MY good blade carves the casques of men, 
 
 My tough lance thrusteth sure, 
 My strength is as the strength of ten, 
 
 Because my heart is pure. 
 The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, 5 
 
 The hard brands shiver on the steel, 
 The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly, 
 
 The horse and rider reel ; 
 They reel, they roll in clanging lists, 
 
 And when the tide of combat stands, 10 
 
 Perfume and flowers fall in showers, 
 
 That lightly rain from ladies' hands. 
 
 How sweet are looks that ladies bend 
 
 On whom their favors fall ! 
 For them I battle till the end, 15 
 
 To save from shame and thrall ; 
 But all my heart is drawn above, 
 
 My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine ; 
 I never felt the kiss of love, 
 
 Nor maiden's hand in mine. 20 
 
 More bounteous aspects on me beam, 
 
 Me mightier transports move and thrill ; 
 So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer 
 
 A virgin heart in work and will. 
 
134 EIGHTH YEAR 
 
 When down the stormy crescent goes, 25 
 
 A light before me swims, 
 Between dark stems the forest glows, 
 
 I hear a noise of hymns, 
 Then by some secret shrine I ride ; 
 
 I hear a voice, but none are there ; 30 
 
 The stalls are void, the doors are wide, 
 
 The tapers burning fair. 
 Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, 
 
 The silver vessels sparkle clean, 
 The shrill U-ll rin;s, the censer swings, 35 
 
 And solemn chaunts resound between. 
 
 Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres 
 
 1 find ;i ina-ir Lark. 
 I leap on board ; no helmsman steers ; 
 
 I float till all is dark. 40 
 
 A gentle sound, an awful light ' 
 
 Three angels bear the Holy Grail ; 
 With folded feet, in stoles of white, 
 
 On sleeping wings they sail. 
 Ah, blessed vision ! blood of God ! 45 
 
 My spirit beats her mortal bars, 
 As down dark tides the glory slides, 
 
 And starlike mingles with the stars. 
 
 When on my goodly charger borne 
 
 Thro 1 dreaming towns I go, 50 
 
 The cock crows ere the Christmas mom, 
 
 The streets are dumb with snow. 
 The tempest crackles on the leads, 
 
 And, ringing, springs from brand and mail ; 
 But o'er the dark a glory spreads, 55 
 
 And gilds the driving hail. 
 I leave the plain, I climb the height ; 
 
 No branchy thicket shelter yields ; 
 
EIGHTH YEAR 135 
 
 But blessed forms in whistling storms 
 
 Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields. 60 
 
 A maiden knight to me is given 
 
 Such hope, I know not fear ; 
 I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven 
 
 That often meet me here. 
 I muse on joy that will not cease, 65 
 
 Pure spaces clothed in living beams, 
 Pure lilies of eternal peace, 
 
 Whose odors haunt my dreams ; 
 And, stricken by an angel's hand, 
 
 This mortal armor that I wear, 70 
 
 This weight and size, this heart and eyes, 
 
 Are touch'd, and turn'd to finest air. 
 
 The clouds are broken in the sky, 
 
 And thro' the mountain-walls 
 A rolling organ-harmony 75 
 
 Swells up and shakes and falls. 
 Then move the trees, the copses nod, 
 
 Wings flutter, voices hover clear ; 
 "O just and faithful knight of God! 
 
 Ride on ! the prize is near." 80 
 
 So pass I hostel, hall, and grange ; 
 
 By bridge and ford, by park and pale, 
 All-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide, 
 
 Until I find the Holy Grail. 
 
 THE LITTLE LAND* 
 
 ROBERT Louis STEVENSON 
 
 WHEN at home alone I sit 
 And am very tired of it, 
 
 1 From Poems and Ballads. Copyright, 1895, 1896, by Charles 
 Scribner's Sons. 
 
136 EIGHTH VI \i: 
 
 I have just to shut my eyes 
 To go sailing through the skies 
 ' To go sailing far away 
 To the pleasant Land of Play ; 
 To the fairy land afar 
 Where tli. Little People are; 
 Where the clover- tops are trees, 
 And the rain-pools are the seas, 
 And the leaves like little ships 
 Sail about on tiny trips ; 
 And above the daisy tree 
 Through the grasses, 
 High overhead the Bumble Bee 
 Hums and passes. 
 
 In that forest to and fro 
 
 I can wander, I can go ; 
 
 See the spider and the fly. 
 
 And the ants p< uKm-Inni: l>y 
 
 Carrying parcels with their feet 
 
 Down the green and grassy street 
 
 I can in the sorrel sit 
 
 Where the ladybird alit. 
 
 I can climb the jointed grass ; 
 
 And on high 
 See the greater swallows pass 
 
 In tin- .sky, 
 
 And the round sun rolling by 
 Heeding no such things as I. 
 
 Through that forest I can pass 
 Till, as in a looking-glass, 
 Humming fly and daisy tree 
 And my tiny self I see. 
 
EIGHTH YEAR 137 
 
 Painted very clear and neat 35 
 
 On the rain-pool at my feet. 
 
 Should a leaflet come to land 
 
 Drifting near to where I stand, 
 
 Straight I '11 board that tiny boat 
 
 Round the rain-pool sea to float. 40 
 
 Little thoughtful creatures sit 
 
 On the grassy coasts of it; 
 
 Little things with lovely eyes 
 
 See me sailing with surprise. 
 
 Some are clad in armor green 45 
 
 (These have sure to battle been !) 
 
 Some are pied with ev'ry hue, 
 
 Black and crimson, gold and blue ; 
 
 Some have wings and swift are gone ; 
 
 But they all look kindly on. 50 
 
 When my eyes I once again 
 
 Open, and see all things plain : 
 
 High bare walls, great bare floor ; 
 
 Great big knobs on drawer and door ; 
 
 Great big people perched on chairs, 55 
 
 Stitching tucks and mending tears, 
 
 Each a hill that I could climb, 
 
 And talking nonsense all the time 
 
 O dear me, 
 
 That I could be 60 
 
 A sailor on the rain-pool sea, 
 A climber in the clover tree, 
 And just come back, a sleepy-head, 
 Late at night to go to bed. 
 
138 KICHTII YKAU 
 
 SELECTIONS FROM SNOW-BOUND 
 JOHN GBKEKLEAF WHITTIKB 
 
 1111. IN OLE 
 
 OUR uncle, innocent of hooka, 
 Was rich in lore of fields and brooks, 
 The ancient teacher^ never dumb 
 Of Nature's un housed lyceum. 
 In moons and tides and weather wise, 5 
 
 He read the elomU a> propheeies, 
 And foul or fair eonld \\ell divine, 
 By many an occult hint and sign, 
 Holding the cunning-warded keys 
 To all the woodcraft mysteries; 10 
 
 Himself to Nature's heart so near 
 That all her voices in his ear 
 Of beast or bird had meanings clear, 
 Lik ApoUonitti of <dd, 
 
 Who knew the tales the sparrows told, 15 
 
 Or Hermes, who int. M ; . t.-d 
 What the mige cranes of Nilns said; 
 A simple, guileless, ehildlik* ii,;,n. 
 Content to live when- lif' lie:in ; 
 Strong only on hi- native -rounds 20 
 
 The little world of sights and sounds 
 
 4. The meaaure requires the accent ly'ceum, but in stricter 
 use the accent is lyee'um. 
 
 14. A philosopher born in the first century of the Christian 
 era, of whom many strange stories were told, especially regard- 
 ing his converse with birds and animals. 
 
 16. Hermes Trismegistus, a celebrated Egyptian priest and 
 philosopher, to whom was attributed the revival of geometry, 
 arithmetic, and art among the Egyptians. He was little later 
 than Apollonius. 
 
EIGHTH YEAR 139 
 
 Whose girdle was the parish bounds, 
 
 Whereof his fondly partial pride 
 
 The common features magnified, 
 
 As Surrey hills to mountains grew, 25 
 
 In White of Selborne's loving view, 
 
 He told how teal and loon he shot, 
 
 And how the eagle's eggs he got, 
 
 The feats on pond and river done, 
 
 The prodigies of rod and gun ; 30 
 
 Till, warming with the tales he told, 
 
 Forgotten was the outside cold, 
 
 The bitter wind unheeded blew, 
 
 From ripening corn the pigeons flew, 
 
 The partridge drummed i' the wood, the mink 35 
 
 Went fishing down the river-brink. 
 
 In fields with bean or clover gay, 
 
 The woodchuck, like a hermit gray, 
 
 Peered from the doorway of his cell ; 
 The muskrat plied the mason's trade, 40 
 
 And tier by tier his mud-walls laid ; 
 And from the shagbark overhead 
 
 The grizzled squirrel dropped his shell. 
 
 THE AUNT 
 
 Next, the dear aunt, whose smile of cheer 
 
 And voice in dreams I see and hear, 
 
 The sweetest woman ever Fate 
 
 Perverse denied a household mate, 
 
 Who, lonely, homeless, not the less 5 
 
 26. Gilbert White, of Selborne, England, was a clergyman 
 who wrote the Natural History of Selborne, a minute, affection- 
 ate, and charming description of what could be seen as it were 
 from his own doorstep. The accuracy of his observation and 
 the delightfulness of his manner have kept the book a classic. 
 
140 KIGHTH YEAR 
 
 Fouml peace in love's unselfishness, 
 
 And welcome wlirreso'er she went, 
 
 A calm and gracious element, 
 
 Whose presence seemed the sweet income 
 
 And womanly atmosphere of home, 10 
 
 Called up her girlhood memories, 
 
 The huskings and the apple-bees, 
 
 The sleigh-rides and the summer sails, 
 
 Weaving through all the poor details 
 
 And homespun warp of cnvnm-tunce 15 
 
 A golden woof- thread of romance. 
 
 For well she kept her genial mood 
 
 And simple faith of maidenhood ; 
 
 Before her still a cloud-land lay, 
 
 The mirage loomed across her way ; 20 
 
 The morning dew, that dried so soon 
 
 With others, glistened at her noon ; 
 
 Through years of toil and soil and care, 
 
 From glossy tress to thin gray hair, 
 
 AH uu profaned the held apart 25 
 
 The virgin fancies of the heart. 
 
 Be shame to him of woman born 
 
 Who had for such but thought of scorn. 
 
 I UK END OF THE DAT 
 
 At last the great logs, rmmliling low, 
 
 Sent out a dull and duller glow, 
 
 The bull's-eye watch that hung in view, 
 
 Ticking its weary cm-nit through, 
 
 Pointed with mutely- warn ing sign 5 
 
 Its black hand to the hour of nine. 
 
 That sign the pleasant circle broke : 
 
 My uncle ceased his pipe to smoke, 
 
 Knocked from its bowl the refuse gray, 
 
EIGHTH YEAR 141 
 
 And laid it tenderly away, 10 
 
 Then roused himself to safely cover 
 
 The dull red brand with ashes over. 
 
 And while, with care, our mother laid 
 
 The work aside, her steps she stayed 
 
 One moment, seeking to express 15 
 
 Her grateful sense of happiness 
 
 For food and shelter, warmth and health, 
 
 And love's contentment more than wealth, 
 
 With simple wishes (not the weak, 
 
 Vain prayers which no fulfilment seek, 20 
 
 But such as warm the generous heart, 
 
 O'er-prompt to do with Heaven its part) 
 
 That none might lack, that bitter night, 
 
 For bread and clothing, warmth and light. 
 
 Within our beds, awhile we heard 25 
 
 The wind that round the gables roared, 
 
 With now and then a ruder shock, 
 
 Which made our very bedsteads rock. 
 
 We heard the loosened clapboards tost, 
 
 The board-nails snapping in the frost ; 30 
 
 And on us, through the un plastered wall, 
 
 Felt the lightsifted snow-flakes fall ; 
 
 But sleep stole on, as sleep will do 
 
 When hearts are light and life is new ; 
 
 Faint and more faint the murmurs grew, 35 
 
 Till in the summer-land of dreams 
 
 They softened to the sound of streams, 
 
 Low stir of leaves, and dip of oars, 
 
 And lapsing waves on quiet shores. 
 
 MORNING 
 
 Next morn we wakened with the shout 
 Of merry voices high and clear ; 
 
KK.HTH YKAR 
 
 And saw the teamsters drawing near 
 
 To break tin- <1 rifted highways out. 
 
 Down the long hillside treading slow 5 
 
 We saw tin* half !>urie<l oxen go, 
 
 Shaking the snow from heads uptost, 
 
 Their straining nostrils white with frost. 
 
 Before our door the straggling train 
 
 Drew up, an added train t gain. 10 
 
 The elders thresli.-d tln-ir hands a-cold, 
 Passed, with the cider-mug, their jokes 
 From lip to lip : the younger folks 
 
 Down the loose snow-banks, wrestling, rolled, 
 
 Then toiled again the cavalcade 15 
 
 O'er windy hill, through clogged ravine, 
 An<l woodland paths that wound between 
 
 Low drooping pine-boughs winter-weighed. 
 
 From every barn a team afoot, 
 
 At every house a new recruit. 20 
 
 Where, drawn by Nature's subtlest law, 
 
 Haply the watchful young men saw 
 
 Sweet doorway pictures of the cm U 
 
 And curious eyes of merry girls, 
 
 Lifting their hands in mock defence 25 
 
 Against the snow-ball*' compliments, 
 
 And reading in each missive tost 
 
 The charm which Eden never lost. 
 
 THE PARABLE OF THE SOWER 
 
 THE BIBLE 
 
 AND Jesus began again to teach by the sea-side : and 
 there was gathered unto him a great multitude, so 
 that he entered into a ship, and sat in the sea; and 
 
EIGHTH YEAR 143 
 
 the whole multitude was by the sea on the land. And 
 he taught them many things by parables, and said unto 
 them in his doctrine, Hearken ; Behold, there went 
 out a sower to sow : and it came to pass, as he sowed, 
 some fell by the way-side, and the fowls of the air came 
 and devoured it up. And some fell on stony ground, 
 where it had not much earth ; and immediately it sprang 
 up, because it had no depth of earth : but when the sun 
 was up, it was scorched ; and because it had no root, 
 it withered away. And some fell among thorns, and 
 the thorns grew up, and choked it, and it yielded no 
 fruit. And other fell on good ground, and did yield 
 fruit that sprang up and increased ; and brought forth, 
 some thirty, and some sixty, and some an hundred. 
 And he said unto them, He that hath ears to hear, let 
 him hear. 
 
 And when he was alone, they that were about him 
 with the twelve asked of him the parable. And he 
 said unto them, Unto you it is given to know the mys- 
 tery of the kingdom of God: but unto them that are 
 without, all these things are done in parables : that 
 seeing they may see, and not perceive ; and hearing 
 they may hear, and not understand ; lest at any time 
 they should be converted, and their sins should be 
 forgiven them. And he said unto them, Know ye 
 not this parable? and how then will ye know all par- 
 ables ? The sower soweth the word. And these are 
 they by the way-side, where the word is sown ; but, 
 when they have heard, Satan cometh immediately, and 
 taketh away the word that was sown in their hearts. 
 And these are they likewise which are sown on stony 
 ground ; who, when they have heard the word, imme- 
 diately receive it with gladness ; and have no root in 
 themselves, and so endure but for a time. Afterward, 
 
144 EIGHTH YEAR 
 
 when affliction or persecution ariseth for the word's 
 sake, inuni-diately they an- offended. And these are 
 they which are sown anmn^ thorny; such as hear the 
 word, and the cares of this world, and tin- deceitful- 
 Beit of riches, and tin- lusts of other things entering 
 in, choke the word, and it become th unfruitful. And 
 these are they which are ><>wn on good ground ; such 
 as hear the word, and receive it, and bring forth fruit, 
 some thirty-fold, some sixty, and some an hundred. 
 
 THE RETURN OF I HI BIRDS 
 WILLIAM CULLKN BRTAKT 
 
 I IIKAR, from many a little throat, 
 A warble interrupted long ; 
 
 I h.-ar th.- rol.in's Hute-like note, 
 The bluebird's slenderer song. 
 
 Brown meadows and the russet hill, 5 
 
 Not yet the haunt of grazing herds, 
 
 And thickets by the glimmering rill, 
 Are all alive with birds. 
 
 O choir of spring, why come so soon ? 
 
 On leafless grove and herbless lawn 10 
 
 Warm lie the yellow beams of moon ; 
 
 Yet winter is not gone. 
 
 For frost shall sheet the pools again ; 
 
 Again the blustering East shall blow 
 Whirl a white tempest through the glen, 15 
 
 And load the pines with snow. 
 
EIGHTH YEAR 145 
 
 Yet, haply, from the region where, 
 
 Waked by an earlier spring than here, 
 
 The blossomed wild-plum scents the air, 
 
 Ye come in haste and fear. 20 
 
 For there is heard the bugle-blast, 
 
 The booming gun, the jarring drum, 
 And on their chargers, spurring fast, 
 
 Armed warriors go and come. 
 
 There mighty hosts have pitched the camp 25 
 
 In valleys that were yours till then, 
 And Earth has shuddered to the tramp 
 
 Of half a million men ! 
 
 In groves where once ye used to sing, 
 
 In orchards where ye had your birth, 30 
 
 A thousand glittering axes swing 
 To smite the trees to earth. 
 
 Ye love the fields by ploughmen trod ; 
 
 But there, when sprouts the beechen spray, 
 The soldier only breaks the sod 35 
 
 To hide the slain away. 
 
 Stay, then, beneath our ruder sky; 
 
 Heed not the storm-clouds rising black, 
 Nor yelling winds that with them fly ; 
 
 Nor let them fright you back, 40 
 
 Back to the stifling battle-cloud, 
 To burning towns that blot the day, 
 
 And trains of mounting dust that shroud 
 The armies on their way. 
 
146 EIGHTH YEAR 
 
 Stay, for a tint of green shall creep 45 
 
 Soon o'er the orchard's grassy floor, 
 
 And from its bed the crocus peep 
 Beside the housewife's door. 
 
 Here build, and dread no harsher sound, 
 
 To scare you from the sheltering tree, 50 
 
 Thau winds that stir the branches round, 
 And murmur of the bee. 
 
 And we will pray that, ere again 
 
 The flowers of autumn bloom and die, 
 
 Our generals and their strong-iii-int-d men 
 May lay their weapons by. 
 
 Then may ye warble, unafraid, 
 
 \V here hands, that wear the fetter now, 
 
 Free as your wings shall ply the spade, 
 
 And guide the peaceful plough. 6C 
 
 MY NATIVE LAND 
 
 (Prom the Lay of the Lwt Mimtnl) 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
 BREATHES there the man, with soul so dead, 
 Who never to himself hath >:M, 
 
 This is my own, my native la i .!'.' 
 Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, 
 As home his footsteps he hath turned 
 
 From wandering on a foreign strand ? 
 If such there breathe, go, mark him well ; 
 For him no minstrel raptures swell ; 
 High though his titles, proud his name,- 
 
EIGHTH YEAR 147 
 
 Boundless his wealth as wish can claim ; 10 
 
 Despite those titles, power, and pelf, 
 
 The wretch, concentred all in self, 
 
 Living, shall forfeit fair renown, 
 
 And, doubly dying, shall go down 
 
 To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, 15 
 
 Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. 
 
 CROSSING THE BAR 
 ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 
 
 SUNSET and evening star, 
 
 And one clear call for me ! 
 And may there be no moaning of the bar, 
 
 When I put out to sea, 
 
 But such a tide as moving seems asleep, 5 
 
 Too full for sound and foam, 
 When that which drew from out the boundless deep 
 
 Turns again home. 
 
 Twilight and evening bell, 
 
 And after that the dark ! 10 
 
 And may there be no sadness of farewell, 
 
 When I embark ; 
 
 For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place 
 
 The flood may bear me far, 
 I hope to see my Pilot face to face 15 
 
 When I have crost the bar. 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS 
 
 ANDERSEN, HANS CHRISTIAN 
 
 The Ugly Duckling, 11. 
 BIBLE, THE 
 
 The Nineteenth Psalm, 92; The One Hundred and 
 
 Twenty-First Psalm, 31 ; The Parable of the Sower, 142. 
 BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN 
 
 Abraham Lincoln, 53 ; March, 9 ; The Return of the 
 
 Birds, 144 ; To a Waterfowl, 85. 
 BURTON, RICHARD 
 
 Christmastide, 73. 
 BYRON, LORD 
 
 Washington (from Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte), 80. 
 GARY, PHCEBE 
 
 The Leak in the Dike, 37 ; Little Gottlieb, 48. 
 DRAKE, JOSEPH RODMAN 
 
 The American Flag, 118. 
 FIELD, EUGENE 
 
 Dutch Lullaby, 22. 
 FINCH, FRANCIS MILES 
 
 The Blue and the Gray, 60. 
 GOLDSMITH, OLIVER 
 
 The Village Preacher (from The Deserted Village), 114. 
 HEMANS, FELICIA D. 
 
 The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers in New England, 
 
 46 ; The Voice of Spring, 34. 
 HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL 
 
 The Chambered Nautilus, 124 ; Old Ironsides, 32. 
 HOOD, THOMAS 
 
 I Remember, I Remember, 33. 
 JACKSON, HELEN HUNT 
 
 October's Bright Blue Weather, 2 ; September, 1. 
 
150 INDKX OF AITHORS 
 
 Ki v. FKAV is S< OTT 
 
 The St:n Spangled Banner, 54. 
 KIPLING, KUDYARD 
 
 The Recessional, 113. 
 LINCOLN, ABRAHAM 
 
 Gettysburg Speech, 106. 
 
 LONGFKLLOW, Hl.NKV WAD8WOBTH 
 
 The Children's Hour. 7 ; The Legend of the Crossbill, 
 
 82 ; Paul Revere's Ride, 55 ; The Village Blacksmith, 
 
 14 
 LOWELL. JAMKM RUSSELL 
 
 The First Snow-Fall, f> ; Midnight. 97 ; The Oak. 1<>7 ; 
 
 The Present Crisis, 99 : To the Dandelion, 109 ; To 
 
 William LUd < Jarrison, 111; Wnid.-!! Phillip*, 97; 
 
 Yussouf, 91. 
 MOORE, THOMAS 
 
 Those Evening Bells. 106. 
 MOBRJB, GEORGE POPE 
 
 Woodman, "Spare That Tree, 62. 
 NEWMAN, JOHN HENRY 
 
 Leadly, Kindly Light, 46. 
 O*HARA, THEODORE 
 
 The Bivouac of the Dead, 87. 
 RUSK IN, JOHN 
 
 Cluck's Visitor. 64. 
 s- "ii. Bin WALTER 
 
 My Native Land < t,,,,,, The Lay of the I M 
 
 146. 
 SHELLEY, PERCY BYBSHK 
 
 Th- Cl,,u, I. 70. 
 SMITH, SAMUEL FRANCIS 
 
 America, 52. 
 STKVKNSON, KOHKKT Lorn 
 
 The Little Land, Kr ; Winter-Time, 7. 
 TKNNYSMV, ALKI:KI. LOUD 
 
 The Brook, 17; Crossing the Bar, 147; The Death of 
 
 the Old Year, 122 ; Sir Galahad, 133 ; Sweet and Low, 10. 
 
INDEX OF TITLES 
 
 151 
 
 THAXTER, CELIA 
 
 Maize, The Nation's Emblem, 69 ; The Sparrows, 26. 
 
 VAN DYKE, HENRY 
 
 The Ruby-Crowned Kinglet, 83. 
 
 WHITTIER, JOHN GREENLEAF 
 
 Abraham Davenport, 116; Barbara Frietchie, 43; The 
 Barefoot Boy, 19; The Corn-Song, 3; For an Autumn 
 Festival, 120 ; The Frost Spirit, 104 ; The Huskei-s, 93 ; 
 Ichabod, 131 ; King Solomon and the Ants, 73 ; The 
 New Year, 126; Snow-Bound (Selections): The Aunt, 
 139 ; The End of the Day, 140 ; The Kitchen Scene, 
 29 ; Morning, 141 ; The Mother, 75 ; The Schoolmas- 
 ter, 78 ; The Sisters, 76 ; The Storm, 28 ; The Uncle, 
 138. 
 
 INDEX OF TITLES 
 
 Abraham Davenport, 116. 
 Abraham Lincoln, 53. 
 America, 52. 
 American Flag, The, 118. 
 
 Barbara Frietchie, 43. 
 Barefoot Boy, The, 19. 
 Bivouac of the Dead, The, 87. 
 Blue and the Gray, The, 60. 
 Brook, The, 17. 
 
 Chambered Nautilus, The, 124. 
 Children's Hour, The, 7. 
 Christmastide, 73. 
 Cloud, The, 70. . 
 Corn-Song, The, 3. 
 Crossing the Bar, 147. 
 
 Death of the Old Year, The, 122. 
 Dutch Lullaby, 22. 
 
 First Snow-Fall, The, 5. 
 
 For an Autumn Festival, 120. 
 
 Frost Spirit, The, 104. 
 
 Gettysburg Speech, 106. 
 Gluck's Visitor, 64. 
 
 Huskers, The, 93. 
 
 I Remember, I Remember, 33. 
 Ichabod, 131. 
 
 King Solomon and the Ants, 
 
 Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers 
 in New England, The, 40. 
 
 Lead, Kindly Light, 46. 
 
 Leak in the 'Dike, The, 37. 
 
 Legend of the Crossbill, Tin-. 
 82. 
 
 Little Gottlieb, 48. 
 
 Little Land, The, 135. 
 
 Maize, The Nation's Emblem, 
 
 69. 
 
 March, 9. 
 Midnight, 97. 
 
152 
 
 INDKX OF TITLES 
 
 My Native Land (from The 
 Lay of the Last Minstrel), 
 1445. 
 
 New Year, The, 126. 
 Nineteenth Psalm, The, 92. 
 
 Oak, The, 107. 
 
 October's Bright Blue Weather, 
 
 2. 
 Old Ironsides, 32. 
 
 OIH- 1 1 ii mired and Twenty-First 
 Psalm, The, .il 
 
 Parable of the Sower, The, 142. 
 Paul Revere** Ride, 66. 
 Present Crisis, The, 09. 
 
 Recessional, I 
 
 Return of the Birds, The, 144. 
 
 Ruby-Crowned Kinglet, The, 
 
 H,J. 
 
 September, 1. 
 
 Sir Galahad, 138. 
 
 Snow-Bound (Selections): The 
 Aunt, 139: The End of the 
 Day, 140; The K 
 
 29 ; Morning, 111; 
 
 The Mother, 75 ; The School- 
 master, 78 ; The Sisters. 76 j 
 The Storm, 28; The Urn-It- , 
 138. 
 
 Sparrows, The, 26. 
 
 Star-Spangled Banner, The, 64, 
 
 Sweet and Low, 10. 
 
 Those Evening Bells, 106. 
 
 To a Waterfowl, 86. 
 
 To the Dandelion, 109. 
 
 To William Lloyd Garrison, 
 
 111. 
 
 Ugly Duckling, The, 11. 
 
 Village Blacksmith, The, 24. 
 Village Preacher, The, (from 
 Deserted Village), 114 
 Voice of Spring, The, 34. 
 
 Washington (from Ode tc 
 Napoleon Buonaparte), 80 
 
 Wendell 1'hillipa, OT. 
 
 Winter-Time, 7. 
 
 Woodman, Spare That Tree, 
 62. 
 
 Yll.HHOIlf, 1U. 
 
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