Poems Teachers Ask For Volume II Part 50

Thick were the platted locks, and long, And deftly hidden there Shone many a wedge of gold among The dark and crisped hair.

"Look, feast thy greedy eye with gold Long kept for sorest need: Take it--thou askest sums untold, And say that I am freed.

Take it--my wife, the long, long day Weeps by the cocoa-tree, And my young children leave their play, And ask in vain for me."

"I take thy gold--but I have made Thy fetters fast and strong, And ween that by the cocoa shade Thy wife will wait thee long,"

Strong was the agony that shook The captive's frame to hear, And the proud meaning of his look Was changed to mortal fear.

His heart was broken--crazed his brain; At once his eye grew wild; He struggled fiercely with his chain, Whispered, and wept, and smiled; Yet wore not long those fatal bands, And once, at shut of day, They drew him forth upon the sands, The foul hyena's prey.

_William Cullen Bryant._

He Who Has Vision

_Where there is no vision the people perish.--Prov. 29:17._

He who has the vision sees more than you or I; He who lives the golden dream lives fourfold thereby; Time may scoff and worlds may laugh, hosts a.s.sail his thought, But the visionary came ere the builders wrought; Ere the tower bestrode the dome, ere the dome the arch, He, the dreamer of the dream, saw the vision march!

He who has the vision hears more than you may hear, Unseen lips from unseen worlds are bent unto his ear; From the hills beyond the clouds messages are borne, Drifting on the dews of dream to his heart of morn; Time awaits and ages stay till he wakes and shows Glimpses of the larger life that his vision knows!

He who has the vision feels more than you may feel, Joy beyond the narrow joy in whose realm we reel-- For he knows the stars are glad, dawn and middleday, In the jocund tide that sweeps dark and dusk away, He who has the vision lives round and all complete, And through him alone we draw dews from combs of sweet.

_Folger McKinsey._

The Children We Keep

The children kept coming one by one, Till the boys were five and the girls were three.

And the big brown house was alive with fun, From the bas.e.m.e.nt floor to the old roof-tree, Like garden flowers the little ones grew, Nurtured and trained with tenderest care; Warmed by love's suns.h.i.+ne, bathed in dew, They blossomed into beauty rare.

But one of the boys grew weary one day, And leaning his head on his mother's breast, He said, "I am tired and cannot play; Let me sit awhile on your knee and rest."

She cradled him close to her fond embrace, She hushed him to sleep with her sweetest song, And rapturous love still lightened his face When his spirit had joined the heavenly throng.

Then the eldest girl, with her thoughtful eyes, Who stood where the "brook and the river meet,"

Stole softly away into Paradise E'er "the river" had reached her slender feet.

While the father's eyes on the graves were bent, The mother looked upward beyond the skies: "Our treasures," she whispered, "were only lent; Our darlings were angels in earth's disguise."

The years flew by, and the children began With longings to think of the world outside, And as each in turn became a man, The boys proudly went from the father's side.

The girls were women so gentle and fair, That lovers were speedy to woo and to win; And with orange-blooms in their braided hair, Their old home they left, new homes to begin.

So, one by one the children have gone-- The boys were five, the girls were three; And the big brown house is gloomy and alone, With but two old folks for its company.

They talk to each other about the past, As they sit together at eventide, And say, "All the children we keep at last Are the boy and girl who in childhood died."

_Mrs. E.V. Wilson._

The Stranger on the Sill

Between broad fields of wheat and corn Is the lowly home where I was born; The peach-tree leans against the wall, And the woodbine wanders over all; There is the shaded doorway still,-- But a stranger's foot has crossed the sill.

There is the barn--and, as of yore, I can smell the hay from the open door, And see the busy swallows throng, And hear the pewee's mournful song; But the stranger comes--oh! painful proof-- His sheaves are piled to the heated roof.

There is the orchard--the very trees Where my childhood knew long hours of ease, And watched the shadowy moments run Till my life imbibed more shade than sun: The swing from the bough still sweeps the air,-- But the stranger's children are swinging there.

There bubbles the shady spring below, With its bulrush brook where the hazels grow; 'Twas there I found the calamus root, And watched the minnows poise and shoot, And heard the robin lave his wing:-- But the stranger's bucket is at the spring.

Oh, ye who daily cross the sill, Step lightly, for I love it still!

And when you crowd the old barn eaves, Then think what countless harvest sheaves Have pa.s.sed within' that scented door To gladden eyes that are no more.

Deal kindly with these orchard trees; And when your children crowd your knees, Their sweetest fruit they shall impart, As if old memories stirred their heart: To youthful sport still leave the swing, And in sweet reverence hold the spring.

_Thomas Buchanan Read._

The Old Man In the Model Church

Well, wife, I've found the _model_ church! I wors.h.i.+ped there to-day!

It made me think of good old times before my hair was gray; The meetin'-house was fixed up more than they were years ago.

But then I felt, when I went in, it wasn't built for show.

The s.e.xton didn't seat me away back by the door; He knew that I was old and deaf, as well as old and poor; He must have been a Christian, for he led me boldly through The long aisle of that crowded church to find a pleasant pew.

I wish you'd heard that singin'; it had the old-time ring; The preacher said, with trumpet voice: "Let all the people sing!"

The tune was "Coronation," and the music upward rolled, Till I thought I heard the angels striking all their harps of gold.

My deafness seemed to melt away; my spirit caught the fire; I joined my feeble, trembling voice with that melodious choir, And sang as in my youthful days: "Let angels prostrate fall, Bring forth the royal diadem, and crown Him Lord of all."

I tell you, wife, it did me good to sing that hymn once more; I felt like some wrecked mariner who gets a glimpse of sh.o.r.e; I almost wanted to lay down this weatherbeaten form, And anchor in that blessed port forever from the storm.

_The preachin'_? Well, I can't just tell all that the preacher said; I know it wasn't written; I know it wasn't read; He hadn't time to read it, for the lightnin' of his eye Went flas.h.i.+n' long from pew to pew, nor pa.s.sed a sinner by.

The sermon wasn't flowery; 'twas simple Gospel truth; It fitted poor old men like me; it fitted hopeful youth; 'Twas full of consolation, for weary hearts that bleed; 'Twas full of invitations, to Christ and not to creed.

The preacher made sin hideous in Gentiles and in Jews; He shot the golden sentences down in the finest pews; And--though I can't see very well--I saw the falling tear That told me h.e.l.l was some ways off, and heaven very near.

How swift the golden moments fled within that holy place!

How brightly beamed the light of heaven from every happy face!