Poems Teachers Ask For Volume II Part 54

Picciola

It was a sergeant old and gray, Well singed and bronzed from siege and pillage.

Went tramping in an army's wake Along the turnpike of the village.

For days and nights the winding host Had through the little place been marching, And ever loud the rustics cheered, Till every throat was hoa.r.s.e and parching.

The squire and farmer, maid and dame, All took the sight's electric stirring, And hats were waved and staves were sung, And kerchiefs white were countless whirring.

They only saw a gallant show Of heroes stalwart under banners, And, in the fierce heroic glow, 'Twas theirs to yield but wild hosannas.

The sergeant heard the shrill hurrahs, Where he behind in step was keeping; But, glancing down beside the road, He saw a little maid sit weeping.

"And how is this?" he gruffly said, A moment pausing to regard her;-- "Why weepest thou, my little chit?"

And then she only cried the harder.

"And how is this, my little chit?"

The st.u.r.dy trooper straight repeated, "When all the village cheers us on, That you, in tears, apart are seated?

"We march two hundred thousand strong, And that's a sight, my baby beauty, To quicken silence into song And glorify the soldier's duty."

"It's very, very grand, I know,"

The little maid gave soft replying; "And father, mother, brother too, All say 'Hurrah' while I am crying;

"But think, oh, Mr. Soldier, think, How many little sisters' brothers Are going all away to fight, And may be killed, as well as others!"

"Why, bless thee, child," the sergeant said, His brawny hand her curls caressing, "'Tis left for little ones like thee To find that war's not all a blessing."

And "Bless thee!" once again he cried, Then cleared his throat and looked indignant And marched away with wrinkled brow To stop the struggling tear benignant.

And still the ringing shouts went up From doorway, thatch, and fields of tillage; The pall behind the standard seen By one alone of all the village.

The oak and cedar bend and writhe When roars the wind through gap and braken; But 'tis the tenderest reed of all That trembles first when Earth is shaken.

_Robert Henry Newell._

The King's Ring

Once in Persia reigned a king Who upon his signet ring Graved a maxim true and wise Which, if held before his eyes, Gave him counsel at a glance Fit for every change and chance.

Solemn words; and these are they: "Even this shall pa.s.s away."

Trains of camels through the sand Brought him gems from Samarcand, Fleets of galleys through the seas Brought him pearls to match with these; But he counted not his gain-- Treasurer of the mine and main, "What is wealth?" the king would say; "Even this shall pa.s.s away."

In the revels of his court At the zenith of the sport, When the palms of all his guests Burned with clapping at his jests, He, amid his figs and wine, Cried: "O loving friends of mine!

Pleasures come, but not to stay, Even this shall pa.s.s away."

Fighting on a furious field Once a javelin pierced his s.h.i.+eld; Soldiers with loud lament Bore him bleeding to his tent, Groaning with his tortured side.

"Pain is hard to bear," he cried; "But with patience day by day, Even this shall pa.s.s away."

Struck with palsy, sere and old, Waiting at the gates of gold, Spake he with his dying breath: "Life is done, but what is death?"

Then, in answer to the king, Fell a sunbeam on his ring, Showing by a heavenly ray: "Even this shall pa.s.s away."

_Theodore Tilton._

Leaving the Homestead

You're going to leave the homestead, John, You're twenty-one to-day: And very sorry am I, John, To see you go away.

You've labored late and early, John, And done the best you could; I ain't going to stop you, John, I wouldn't if I could.

Yet something of your feelings, John, I s'pose I'd ought to know, Though many a day has pa.s.sed away-- 'Twas forty years ago-- When hope was high within me, John, And life lay all before, That I, with strong and measured stroke, "Cut loose" and pulled from sh.o.r.e.

The years they come and go, my boy, The years they come and go; And raven locks and tresses brown Grow white as driven snow.

My life has known its sorrows, John, Its trials and troubles sore; Yet G.o.d withal has blessed me, John, "In basket and in store."

But one thing let me tell you, John, Before you make a start, There's more in being honest, John, Twice o'er than being smart.

Though rogues may seem to flourish, John, And sterling worth to fail, Oh! keep in view the good and true; 'Twill in the end prevail.

Don't think too much of money, John, And dig and delve and plan, And rake and sc.r.a.pe in every shape, To h.o.a.rd up all you can.

Though fools may count their riches, John, In dollars and in cents, The best of wealth is youth and health, And good sound common sense.

And don't be mean and stingy, John, But lay a little by Of what you earn; you soon will learn How fast 'twill multiply.

So when old age comes creeping on, You'll have a goodly store Of wealth to furnish all your needs-- And maybe something more.

There's shorter cuts to fortune, John, We see them every day; But those who save their self-respect Climb up the good old way.

"All is not gold that glitters," John, And makes the vulgar stare, And those we deem the richest, John, Have oft the least to spare.

Don't meddle with your neighbors, John, Their sorrows or their cares; You'll find enough to do, my boy, To mind your own affairs.

The world is full of idle tongues-- You can afford to s.h.i.+rk!

There's lots of people ready, John, To do such dirty work.

And if amid the race for fame You win a s.h.i.+ning prize, The humbler work of honest men You never should despise; For each one has his mission, John, In life's unchanging plan-- Though lowly be his station, John, He is no less a man.

Be good, be pure, be n.o.ble, John; Be honest, brave, be true; And do to others as you would That they should do to you; And put your trust in G.o.d, my boy, Though fiery darts be hurled; Then you can smile at Satan's rage, And face a frowning world.

Good-by! May Heaven guard and bless Your footsteps day by day; The old house will be lonesome, John, When you are gone away.

The cricket's song upon the hearth Will have a sadder tone; The old familiar spots will be So lonely when you're gone.