Poems Teachers Ask For Volume II Part 51

Again I longed for that sweet time when friend shall meet with friend-- "When congregations ne'er break up, and Sabbaths have no end."

I hope to meet that minister--that congregation, too-- In that dear home beyond the stars that s.h.i.+ne from heaven's blue; I doubt not I'll remember, beyond life's evenin' gray, The happy hour of wors.h.i.+p in that model church today.

Dear wife, the fight will soon be fought; the vict'ry soon be won; The s.h.i.+nin' goal is just ahead; the race is nearly run; O'er the river we are nearin', they are throngin' to the sh.o.r.e, To shout our safe arrival where the weary weep no more.

_John H. Yates._

The Volunteer Organist

The gret big church wuz crowded full uv broadcloth an' of silk, An' satins rich as cream thet grows on our ol' brindle's milk; s.h.i.+ned boots, biled s.h.i.+rts, stiff d.i.c.keys, an' stove-pipe hats were there, An' doodes 'ith trouserloons so tight they couldn't kneel down in prayer.

The elder in his poolpit high, said, as he slowly riz: "Our organist is kept' to hum, laid up 'ith roomatiz, An' as we hev no subst.i.toot, as brother Moore ain't here, Will some 'un in the congregation be so kind's to volunteer?"

An' then a red-nosed, blear-eyed tramp, of low-toned, rowdy style, Give an interductory hiccup, an' then swaggered up the aisle.

Then thro' that holy atmosphere there crep' a sense er sin, An' thro' thet air of sanct.i.ty the odor uv ol' gin.

Then Deacon Purington he yelled, his teeth all set on edge: "This man perfanes the house of G.o.d! W'y, this is sacrilege!"

The tramp didn' hear a word he said, but slouched 'ith stumblin' feet, An' stalked an' swaggered up the steps, an' gained the organ seat.

He then went pawin' thro' the keys, an' soon there rose a strain Thet seemed to jest bulge out the heart, an' 'lectrify the brain; An' then he slapped down on the thing 'ith hands an' head an' knees, He slam-dashed his hull body down kerflop upon the keys.

The organ roared, the music flood went sweepin' high an' dry, It swelled into the rafters, an' bulged out into the sky; The ol' church shook and staggered, an' seemed to reel an' sway, An' the elder shouted "Glory!" an' I yelled out "Hooray!!"

An' then he tried a tender strain that melted in our ears, Thet brought up blessed memories and drenched 'em down 'ith tears; An' we dreamed uv ol' time kitchens, 'ith Tabby on the mat, Uv home an' luv an' baby days, an' Mother, an' all that!

An' then he struck a streak uv hope--a song from souls forgiven-- Thet burst from prison bars uv sin, an' stormed the gates uv heaven; The morning stars together sung--no soul wuz left alone-- We felt the universe wuz safe, an' G.o.d was on His throne!

An' then a wail of deep despair an' darkness come again, An' long, black c.r.a.pe hung on the doors uv all the homes uv men; No luv, no light, no joy, no hope, no songs of glad delight, An' then--the tramp, he swaggered down an' reeled out into the night!

But we knew he'd tol' his story, tho' he never spoke a word, An' it was the saddest story thet our ears had ever heard; He had tol' his own life history, an' no eye was dry thet day, W'en the elder rose an' simply said: "My brethren, let up pray."

_Sam Walter Foss._

The Finding of the Lyre

There lay upon the ocean's sh.o.r.e What once a tortoise served to cover; A year and more, with rush and roar, The surf had rolled it over, Had played with it, and flung it by, As wind and weather might decide it, Then tossed it high where sand-drifts dry Cheap burial might provide it.

It rested there to bleach or tan, The rains had soaked, the suns had burned it; With many a ban the fisherman Had stumbled o'er and spurned it; And there the fisher-girl would stay, Conjecturing with her brother How in their play the poor estray Might serve some use or other.

So there it lay, through wet and dry, As empty as the last new sonnet, Till by and by came Mercury, And, having mused upon it, "Why, here," cried he, "the thing of things In shape, material, and dimension!

Give it but strings, and, lo, it sings, A wonderful invention!"

So said, so done; the chords he strained, And, as his fingers o'er them hovered, The sh.e.l.l disdained a soul had gained, The lyre had been discovered.

O empty world that round us lies, Dead sh.e.l.l, of soul and thought forsaken, Brought we but eyes like Mercury's, In thee what songs should waken!

_James Russel Lowell._

The High Tide (1571)

(_Or "The Brides of Enderby"_)

The old mayor climbed the belfry tower, The ringers rang by two, by three; "Pull, if ye never pulled before; Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he.

"Play uppe, play uppe O Boston bells!

Play all your changes, all your swells, Play uppe 'The Brides of Enderby.'"

Men say it was a stolen tyde-- The Lord that sent it, He knows all; But in myne ears doth still abide The message that the bells let fall: And there was naught of strange, beside The flight of mews ans peewits pied By millions crouched on the old sea-wall.

I sat and spun within the doore, My thread break off, I raised myne eyes; The level sun, like ruddy ore, Lay sinking in the barren skies, And dark against day's golden death She moved where Lindis wandereth, My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth.

"Cusha! Cusha!" all along; Ere the early dews were falling, Farre away I heard her song.

"Cusha! Cusha!" all along; Where the reedy Lindis floweth, Floweth, floweth, From the meads where melick groweth Faintly came her milking song:

"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, "For the dews will soone be falling; Leave your meadow gra.s.ses mellow, Mellow, mellow; Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, Hollow, hollow; Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, From the clovers lift your head; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, Jetty, to the milking shed."

If it be long, ay, long ago, When I beginne to think howe long, Againe I hear the Lindis flow, Swift as an arrowe, sharp and strong; And all the aire, it seemeth mee, Bin full of floating bells (sayeth she), That ring the tune of Enderby.

Alle fresh the level pasture lay, And not a shadowe mote be seene, Save where full fyve good miles away The steeple towered from out the greene; And lo! the great bell farre and wide Was heard in all the country side That Sat.u.r.day at eventide.

The swanherds where there sedges are Moved on in sunset's golden breath, The shepherde lads I heard affare, And my sonne's wife, Elizabeth; Till floating o'er the gra.s.sy sea Came down that kindly message free, The "Brides of Mavis Enderby."

Then some looked uppe into the sky, And all along where Lindis flows To where the goodly vessels lie, And where the lordly steeple shows, They sayde, "And why should this thing be?

What danger lowers by land or sea?

They ring the tune of Enderby!

"For evil news from Mablethorpe, Of pyrate galleys warping downe; For s.h.i.+ppes ash.o.r.e beyond the scorpe, They have not spared to wake the towne; But while the west bin red to see, And storms be none, and pyrates flee, Why ring 'The Brides of Enderby'?"

I looked without, and lo! my sonne Came riding down with might and main: He raised a shout as he drew on, Till all the welkin rang again, "Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"

(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.)

"The old sea wall (he cried) is downe, The rising tide comes on apace, And boats adrift in yonder towne Go sailing uppe the market-place."

He shook as one that looks on death: "G.o.d save you, mother!" straight he saith, "Where is my wife, Elizabeth?"

"Good sonne, where Lindis winds away, With her two bairns I marked her long; And ere yon bells beganne to play Afar I heard her milking song."

He looked across the gra.s.sy lea, To right, to left, "Ho, Enderby!"

They rang "The Brides of Enderby"!

With that he cried and beat his breast; For, lo! along the river's bed A mighty eygre reared his crest, And uppe the Lindis raging sped.

It swept with thunderous noises loud; Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, Or like a demon in a shroud.