Poems Teachers Ask For Volume I Part 13

All things bright and beautiful, All creatures great and small, All things wise and wonderful,-- The Lord G.o.d made them all.

Each little flower that opens, Each little bird that sings,-- He made their glowing colors, He made their tiny wings.

The rich man in his castle, The poor man at his gate, G.o.d made them, high or lowly, And ordered their estate.

The purple-headed mountain, The river running by, The morning, and the sunset That lighteth up the sky,

The cold wind in the winter, The pleasant summer sun, The ripe fruits in the garden,-- He made them, every one.

The tall trees in the greenwood, The meadows where we play, The rushes by the water We gather every day,--

He gave us eyes to see them, And lips that we might tell How great is G.o.d Almighty, Who hath made all things well.

_Cecil Frances Alexander._

An Order for a Picture

Oh, good painter, tell me true, Has your hand the cunning to draw Shapes of things that you never saw?

Aye? Well, here is an order for you.

Woods and cornfields, a little brown,-- The picture must not be over-bright,-- Yet all in the golden and gracious light Of a cloud, when the summer sun is down.

Alway and alway, night and morn, Woods upon woods, with fields of corn Lying between them, not quite sere, And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom, When the wind can hardly find breathing-room, Under their ta.s.sels,--cattle near, Biting shorter the short green gra.s.s, And a hedge of sumach and sa.s.safras, With bluebirds twittering all around,-- (Ah, good painter, you can't paint sound!)-- These, and the little house where I was born, Low and little, and black and old, With children, many as it can hold, All at the windows, open wide,-- Heads and shoulders clear outside, And fair young faces all ablush: Perhaps you have seen, some day, Roses crowding the self-same way, Out of a wilding, wayside bush.

Listen closer. When you have done With woods and cornfields and grazing herds, A lady, the loveliest ever the sun Looked down upon you must paint for me: Oh, if I could only make you see The clear blue eyes, the tender smile, The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace, The woman's soul, and the angel's face That are beaming on me all the while, I need not speak these foolish words: Yet one word tells you all I would say,-- She is my mother: you will agree That all the rest may be thrown away.

Two little urchins at her knee You must paint, sir: one like me,-- The other with a clearer brow, And the light of his adventurous eyes Flas.h.i.+ng with boldest enterprise: At ten years old he went to sea,-- G.o.d knoweth if he be living now; He sailed in the good s.h.i.+p "Commodore,"-- n.o.body ever crossed her track To bring us news, and she never came back.

Ah, it is twenty long years and more Since that old s.h.i.+p went out of the bay With my great-hearted brother on her deck: I watched him till he shrank to a speck, And his face was toward me all the way.

Bright his hair was, a golden brown, The time we stood at our mother's knee: That beauteous head, if it did go down, Carried suns.h.i.+ne into the sea!

Out in the fields one summer night We were together, half afraid Of the corn-leaves' rustling, and of the shade Of the high hills, stretching so still and far,-- Loitering till after the low little light Of the candle shone through the open door, And over the hay-stack's pointed top, All of a tremble and ready to drop, The first half-h.o.a.r, the great yellow star, That we, with staring, ignorant eyes, Had often and often watched to see Propped and held in its place in the skies By the fork of a tall red mulberry-tree, Which close in the edge of our flax-field grew,-- Dead at the top, just one branch full Of leaves, notched round, and lined with wool, From which it tenderly shook the dew Over our heads, when we came to play In its hand-breadth of shadow, day after day.

Afraid to go home, sir; for one of us bore A nest full of speckled and thin-sh.e.l.led eggs,-- The other, a bird, held fast by the legs, Not so big as a straw of wheat: The berries we gave her she wouldn't eat, But cried and cried, till we held her bill, So slim and s.h.i.+ning, to keep her still.

At last we stood at our mother's knee.

Do you think, sir, if you try, You can paint the look of a lie?

If you can, pray have the grace To put it solely in the face Of the urchin that is likest me: I think 'twas solely mine, indeed: But that's no matter,--paint it so; The eyes of our mother--(take good heed)-- Looking not on the nestful of eggs, Nor the fluttering bird, held so fast by the legs, But straight through our faces down to our lies, And, oh, with such injured, reproachful surprise!

I felt my heart bleed where that glance went, as though A sharp blade struck through it.

You, sir, know That you on the canvas are to repeat Things that are fairest, things most sweet,-- Woods and cornfields and mulberry-tree,-- The mother,--the lads, with their bird at her knee: But, oh, that look of reproachful woe!

High as the heavens your name I'll shout, If you paint me the picture, and leave that out.

_Alice Cary._

Who Won the War?

Who won the war?

'T was little Belgium stemmed the tide Of ruthless hordes who thought to ride Her borders through and prostrate France Ere yet she'd time to raise her lance.

'T was plucky Belgium.

Who won the war?

Italia broke the galling chain Which bound her to the guilty twain; Then fought 'gainst odds till one of these Lay p.r.o.ne and shattered at her knees.

'T was gallant Italy.

Who won the war?

Old England's watch dogs of the main Their vigil kept, and not in vain; For not a s.h.i.+p their wrath dared brave Save those which skulked beneath the wave.

'T was mighty England.

Who won the war?

'T was France who wrote in n.o.ble rage The grandest words on history's page, "They shall not pa.s.s"--the devilish Hun; And he could never pa.s.s Verdun.

'T was st.u.r.dy France.

Who won the war?

In darkest hour there rose a cry, "Liberty, sweet Liberty, thou shalt not die!"

Thank G.o.d! they came across the sea, Two million men and victory!

'T was glorious America.

Who won the war?

No one of these; not one, but all Who answered Freedom's clarion call.

Each humble man who did his bit In G.o.d's own book of fame is writ.

These won the war.

_Woodbury Pulsifer._

Mothers of Men

The bravest battle that ever was fought!

Shall I tell you where and when?

On the map of the world you will find it not, 'Twas fought by the mothers of men.

Nay, not with cannon or battle shot, With sword or n.o.bler pen, Nay, not with eloquent words or thought From mouths of wonderful men;

But deep in the walled-up woman's heart-- Of woman that would not yield, But bravely, silently, bore her part-- Lo, there is the battle field!

No marshaling troup, no bivouac song, No banner to gleam or wave, But oh, these battles, they last so long-- From babyhood to the grave.

Yet, faithful as a bridge of stars, She fights in her walled-up town-- Fights on and on in the endless wars, Then, silent, unseen, goes down.