Poems Teachers Ask For Volume II Part 52

And rearing Lindis backward pressed, Shook all her trembling bankes amaine, Then madly at the eygre's breast Flung uppe her weltering walls again.

Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout-- Then beaten foam flew round about-- Then all the mighty floods were out.

So farre, so fast the eygre drave, The heart had hardly time to beat, Before a shallow seething wave Sobbed in the gra.s.ses at oure feet.

The feet had hardly time to flee Before it brake against the knee, And all the world was in the sea.

Upon the roofe we sat that night, The noise of bells went sweeping by; I marked the lofty beacon light Stream from the church tower, red and high,-- A lurid mark and dread to see; And awesome bells they were to mee, That in the dark rang "Enderby."

They rang the sailor lads to guide From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed; And I--my sonne was at my side, And yet the ruddy beacon glowed; And yet he moaned beneath his breath, "Oh, come in life, or come in death!

Oh, lost! my love, Elizabeth."

And didst thou visit him no more?

Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare; The waters laid thee at his doore, Ere yet the early dawn was clear; Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, The lifted sun shone on thy face, Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place.

That flow strewed wrecks about the gra.s.s, That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea; A fatal ebbe and flow, alas!

To manye more than myne and me: But each will mourn his own (she saith), And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.

I shall never hear her more By the reedy Lindis sh.o.r.e, "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling Ere the early dews be falling; I shall never hear her song, "Cusha! Cusha!" all along, Where the sunny Lindis floweth, Goeth, floweth; From the meads where melick groweth, When the water winding down, Onward floweth to the town.

I shall never see her more Where the reeds and rushes quiver, s.h.i.+ver, quiver; Stand beside the sobbing river, Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling To the sandy lonesome sh.o.r.e; I shall never hear her calling, "Leave your meadow gra.s.ses mellow, Mellow, mellow; Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot; Quit your pipes of parsley hollow, Hollow, hollow; Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow; Lightfoot, Whitefoot, From your clovers lift the head; Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow, Jetty, to the milking-shed."

_Jean Ingelow._

September Days

O month of fairer, rarer days Than Summer's best have been; When skies at noon are burnished blue, And winds at evening keen; When tangled, tardy-blooming things From wild waste places peer, And drooping golden grain-heads tell That harvest-time is near.

Though Autumn tints amid the green Are gleaming, here and there, And spicy Autumn odors float Like incense on the air, And sounds we mark as Autumn's own Her nearing steps betray, In gracious mood she seems to stand And bid the Summer stay.

Though 'neath the trees, with fallen leaves The sward be lightly strown, And nests deserted tell the tale Of summer bird-folk flown; Though white with frost the lowlands lie When lifts the morning haze, Still there's a charm in every hour Of sweet September days.

_Helen L. Smith_

The New Year

Who comes dancing over the snow, His soft little feet all bare and rosy?

Open the door, though the wild wind blow, Take the child in and make him cozy, Take him in and hold him dear, Here is the wonderful glad New Year.

_Dinah M. Craik_

An "If" For Girls

(_With apologies to Mr. Rudyard Kipling_.)

If you can dress to make yourself attractive, Yet not make puffs and curls your chief delight; If you can swim and row, be strong and active, But of the gentler graces lose not sight; If you can dance without a craze for dancing, Play without giving play too strong a hold, Enjoy the love of friends without romancing, Care for the weak, the friendless and the old;

If you can master French and Greek and Latin, And not acquire, as well, a priggish mien, If you can feel the touch of silk and satin Without despising calico and jean; If you can ply a saw and use a hammer, Can do a man's work when the need occurs, Can sing when asked, without excuse or stammer, Can rise above unfriendly snubs and slurs;

If you can make good bread as well as fudges, Can sew with skill and have an eye for dust, If you can be a friend and hold no grudges, A girl whom all will love because they must;

If sometime you should meet and love another And make a home with faith and peace enshrined, And you its soul--a loyal wife and mother-- You'll work out pretty nearly to my mind The plan that's been developed through the ages, And win the best that life can have in store, You'll be, my girl, the model for the sages-- A woman whom the world will bow before.

_Elizabeth Lincoln Otis._

Boy and Girl of Plymouth

Little la.s.s of Plymouth,--gentle, shy, and sweet; Primly, trimly tripping down the queer old street; Homespun frock and ap.r.o.n, clumsy buckled shoe; Skirts that reach your ankles, just as Mother's do; Bonnet closely clinging over braid and curl; Modest little maiden,--Plymouth's Pilgrim girl!

Little lad of Plymouth, stanchly trudging by; Strong your frame, and st.u.r.dy; kind and keen your eye; Clad in belted doublet, buckles at your knee; Every garment fas.h.i.+oned as a man's might be; Shoulder-cloak and breeches, hat with bell-shaped crown; Manly little Pilgrim,--boy of Plymouth town!

Boy and girl of Plymouth, brave and blithe, and true; Finer task than yours was, children never knew; Sharing toil and hards.h.i.+p in the strange, new land; Hope, and help, and promise of the weary band; Grave the life around you, scant its meed of joy; Yours to make it brighter,--Pilgrim girl and boy!

_Helen L. Smith_.

Work: A Song of Triumph

Work!

Thank G.o.d for the might of it, The ardor, the urge, the delight of it, Work that springs from the heart's desire, Setting the brain and the soul on fire-- Oh, what is so good as the heat of it, And what is so glad as the beat of it, And what is so kind as the stern command, Challenging brain and heart and hand?

Work!

Thank G.o.d for the pride of it, For the beautiful, conquering tide of it, Sweeping the life in its furious flood, Thrilling the arteries, cleansing the blood, Mastering stupor and dull despair, Moving the dreamer to do and dare-- Oh, what is so good as the urge of it, And what is so glad as the surge of it, And what is so strong as the summons deep, Rousing the torpid soul from sleep?

Work!

Thank G.o.d for the pace of it, For the terrible, swift, keen race of it, Fiery steeds in full control, Nostrils a-quiver to reach the goal.

Work, the power that drives behind, Guiding the purposes, taming the mind, Holding the runaway wishes back, Reining the will to one steady track, Speeding the energies, faster, faster, Triumphing ever over disaster; Oh, what is so good as the pain of it, And what is so great as the gain of it, And what is so kind as the cruel goad, Forcing us on through the rugged road?

Work!

Thank G.o.d for the swing of it, For the clamoring, hammering ring of it, Pa.s.sion of labor daily hurled On the mighty anvils of the world.

Oh, what is so fierce as the flame of it?