Poems Teachers Ask For Volume II Part 48

Laugh, and the world laughs with you, Weep, and you weep alone; For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth, But has trouble enough of its own.

Sing, and the hills will answer, Sigh, it is lost on the air; The echoes bound to a joyful sound, But s.h.i.+rk from voicing care.

Rejoice and men will seek you; Grieve, and they turn and go; They want full measure of all your pleasure, But they do not need your woe.

Be glad, and your friends are many; Be sad, and you lose them all, There are none to decline your nectar'd wine, But alone you must drink life's gall.

Feast, and your halls are crowded; Fast, and the world goes by; Succeed and give, and it helps you live, But no man can help you die.

There is room in the halls of pleasure For a large and lordly train, But one by one we must all file on Through the narrow aisle of pain.

_Ella Wheeler Wilc.o.x._

Sin of the Coppenter Man

The coppenter man said a wicked word, When he hitted his thumb one day, En I know what it was, because I heard, En it's somethin' I da.s.sent say.

He growed us a house with rooms inside it, En the rooms is full of floors It's my papa's house, en when he buyed it, It was nothin' but just outdoors.

En they planted stones in a hole for seeds, En that's how the house began, But I guess the stones would have just growed weeds, Except for the coppenter man.

En the coppenter man took a board and said He'd skin it and make some curls, En I hung 'em onto my ears en head, En they make me look like girls.

En he squinted along one side, he did, En he squinted the other side twice, En then he told me, "You squint it, kid,"

'Cause the coppenter man's reel nice.

But the coppenter man said a wicked word, When he hitted 'his thumb that day; He said it out loud, too, 'cause I heard, En it's something I da.s.sent say.

En the coppenter man said it wasn't bad, When you hitted your thumb, kerspat!

En there'd be no coppenter men to be had, If it wasn't for words like that.

_Edmund Vance Cooke_.

The Bells of Ostend

No, I never, till life and its shadows shall end, Can forget the sweet sound of the bells of Ostend!

The day set in darkness, the wind it blew loud, And rung as it pa.s.sed through each murmuring shroud.

My forehead was wet with the foam of the spray, My heart sighed in secret for those far away; When slowly the morning advanced from the east, The toil and the noise of the tempest had ceased; The peal from a land I ne'er saw, seemed to say, "Let the stranger forget every sorrow to-day!"

Yet the short-lived emotion was mingled with pain, I thought of those eyes I should ne'er see again; I thought of the kiss, the last kiss which I gave, And a tear of regret fell unseen on the wave; I thought of the schemes fond affection had planned, Of the trees, of the towers, of my own native land.

But still the sweet sounds, as they swelled to the air, Seemed tidings of pleasure, though mournful to bear, And I never, till life and its shadows shall end, Can forget the sweet sound of the bells of Ostend!

_W.L. Bowles._

You Put No Flowers on My Papa's Grave

With sable-draped banners and slow measured tread, The flower laden ranks pa.s.s the gates of the dead; And seeking each mound where a comrade's form rests Leave tear-bedewed garlands to bloom, on his breast.

Ended at last is the labor of love; Once more through the gateway the saddened lines move-- A wailing of anguish, a sobbing of grief, Falls low on the ear of the battle-scarred chief; Close crouched by the portals, a sunny-haired child Besought him in accents with grief rendered wild:

"Oh! sir, he was good, and they say he died brave-- Why, why, did you pa.s.s by my dear papa's grave?

I know he was poor, but as kind and as true As ever marched into the battle with you; His grave is so humble, no stone marks the spot, You may not have seen it. Oh, say you did not!

For my poor heart will break if you knew he was there, And thought him too lowly your offerings to share.

He didn't die lowly--he poured his heart's blood In rich crimson streams, from the top-crowning sod Of the breastworks which stood in front of the fight-- And died shouting, 'Onward! for G.o.d and the right!'

O'er all his dead comrades your bright garlands wave, But you haven't put _one_ on _my_ papa's grave.

If mamma were here--but she lies by his side, Her wearied heart broke when our dear papa died!"

"Battalion! file left! countermarch!" cried the chief, "This young orphaned maid hath full cause for her grief."

Then up in his arms from the hot, dusty street, He lifted the maiden, while in through the gate The long line repa.s.ses, and many an eye Pays fresh tribute of tears to the lone orphan's sigh.

"This way, it is--here, sir, right under this tree; They lie close together, with just room for me."

"Halt! Cover with roses each lowly green mound; A love pure as this makes these graves hallowed ground."

"Oh! thank you, kind sir! I ne'er can repay The kindness you've shown little Daisy to-day; But I'll pray for you here, each day while I live, 'Tis all that a poor soldier's orphan can give.

I shall see papa soon and dear mamma, too-- I dreamed so last night, and I know 'twill come true; And they will both bless you, I know, when I say How you folded your arms round their dear one to-day; How you cheered her sad heart and soothed it to rest, And hushed its wild throbs on your strong, n.o.ble breast; And when the kind angels shall call _you_ to come We'll welcome you there to our beautiful home Where death never comes his black banners to wave, And the beautiful flowers ne'er weep o'er a grave."

_C.E.L. Holmes._

The Two Little Stockings

Two little stockings hung side by side, Close to the fireside broad and wide.

"Two?" said Saint Nick, as down he came, Loaded with toys and many a game.

"Ho, ho!" said he, with a laugh of fun, "I'll have no cheating, my pretty one.

"I know who dwells in this house, my dear, There's only one little girl lives here."

So he crept up close to the chimney place, And measured a sock with a sober face; Just then a wee little note fell out And fluttered low, like a bird, about.

"Aha! What's this?" said he, in surprise, As he pushed his specs up close to his eyes, And read the address in a child's rough plan.

"Dear Saint Nicholas," so it began, "The other stocking you see on the wall I have hung up for a child named Clara Hall.

"She's a poor little girl, but very good, So I thought, perhaps, you kindly would Fill up her stocking, too, to-night, And help to make her Christmas bright.

If you've not enough for both stockings there, Please put all in Clara's, I shall not care."

Saint Nicholas brushed a tear from his eye, And, "G.o.d bless you, darling," he said with a sigh; Then softly he blew through the chimney high A note like a bird's, as it soars on high, When down came two of the funniest mortals That ever were seen this side earth's portals.

"Hurry up," said Saint Nick, "and nicely prepare All a little girl wants where money is rare."