Poems Teachers Ask For Volume I Part 18

There are hermit souls that live withdrawn In the peace of their self-content; There are souls, like stars, that dwell apart, In a fellowless firmament; There are pioneer souls that blaze their paths Where highways never ran; But let me live by the side of the road And be a friend to man.

Let me live in a house by the side of the road, Where the race of men go by, The men who are good and the men who are bad, As good and as bad as I.

I would not sit in the scorner's seat, Or hurl the cynic's ban; Let me live in a house by the side of the road And be a friend to man.

I see from my house by the side of the road, By the side of the highway of life, The men who press with the ardor of hope, The men who are faint with the strife.

But I turn not away from their smiles nor their tears, Both parts of an infinite plan; Let me live in my house by the side of the road And be a friend to man.

I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead And mountains of wearisome height; That the road pa.s.ses on through the long afternoon And stretches away to the night.

But still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice, And weep with the strangers that moan.

Nor live in my house by the side of the road Like a man who dwells alone.

Let me live in my house by the side of the road Where the race of men go by; They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong, Wise, foolish--so am I.

Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat, Or hurl the cynic's ban?

Let me live in my house by the side of the road And be a friend to man.

_Sam Walter Foss._

Asleep at the Switch

The first thing that I remember was Carlo tugging away, With the sleeve of my coat fast in his teeth, pulling, as much as to say: "Come, master, awake, attend to the switch, lives now depend upon you.

Think of the souls in the coming train, and the graves you are sending them to.

Think of the mother and the babe at her breast, think of the father and son, Think of the lover and the loved one too, think of them doomed every one To fall (as it were by your very hand) into yon fathomless ditch, Murdered by one who should guard them from harm, who now lies asleep at the switch."

I sprang up amazed--scarce knew where I stood, sleep had o'ermastered me so; I could hear the wind hollowly howling, and the deep river das.h.i.+ng below, I could hear the forest leaves rustling, as the trees by the tempest were fanned, But what was that noise in the distance? That, I could not understand.

I heard it at first indistinctly, like the rolling of some m.u.f.fled drum, Then nearer and nearer it came to me, till it made my very ears hum; What is this light that surrounds me and seems to set fire to my brain?

What whistle's that, yelling so shrill? Ah! I know now; it's the train.

We often stand facing some danger, and seem to take root to the place; So I stood--with this demon before me, its heated breath scorching my face; Its headlight made day of the darkness, and glared like the eyes of some witch,-- The train was almost upon me before I remembered the switch.

I sprang to it, seizing it wildly, the train das.h.i.+ng fast down the track; The switch resisted my efforts, some devil seemed holding it back; On, on came the fiery-eyed monster, and shot by my face like a flash; I swooned to the earth the next moment, and knew nothing after the crash.

How long I lay there unconscious 'twas impossible for me to tell; My stupor was almost a heaven, my waking almost a h.e.l.l,-- For then I heard the piteous moaning and shrieking of husbands and wives, And I thought of the day we all shrink from, when I must account for their lives; Mothers rushed by me like maniacs, their eyes glaring madly and wild; Fathers, losing their courage, gave way to their grief like a child; Children searching for parents, I noticed, as by me they sped, And lips, that could form naught but "Mamma," were calling for one perhaps dead.

My mind was made up in a moment, the river should hide me away, When, under the still burning rafters I suddenly noticed there lay A little white hand; she who owned it was doubtless an object of love To one whom her loss would drive frantic, though she guarded him now from above; I tenderly lifted the rafters and quietly laid them one side; How little she thought of her journey when she left for this dark, fatal ride!

I lifted the last log from off her, and while searching for some spark of life, Turned her little face up in the starlight, and recognized--Maggie, my wife!

O Lord! my scourge is a hard one, at a blow thou hast shattered my pride; My life will be one endless nightmare, with Maggie away from my side.

How often I'd sat down and pictured the scenes in our long, happy life; How I'd strive through all my lifetime, to build up a home for my wife; How people would envy us always in our cozy and neat little nest; How I should do all the labor, and Maggie should all the day rest; How one of G.o.d's blessings might cheer us, how some day I perhaps should be rich:-- But all of my dreams had been shattered, while I lay there asleep at the switch!

I fancied I stood on my trial, the jury and judge I could see; And every eye in the court room was steadily fixed upon me; And fingers were pointed in scorn, till I felt my face blus.h.i.+ng blood-red, And the next thing I heard were the words, "Hanged by the neck until dead."

Then I felt myself pulled once again, and my hand caught tight hold of a dress, And I heard, "What's the matter, dear Jim? You've had a bad nightmare, I guess!"

And there stood Maggie, my wife, with never a scar from the ditch, I'd been taking a nap in my bed, and had not been "asleep at the switch."

_George Hoey._

Each in His Own Tongue

A fire-mist and a planet, A crystal and a cell, A jellyfish and a saurian, And caves where the cavemen dwell; Then a sense of law and beauty, And a face turned from the clod,-- Some call it Evolution, And others call it G.o.d.

A haze in the far horizon, The infinite, tender sky; The ripe, rich tints of the cornfields, And the wild geese sailing high; And all over upland and lowland The charm of the goldenrod,-- Some of us call it Nature, And others call it G.o.d.

Like tides on a crescent sea-beach, When the moon is new and thin, Into our hearts high yearnings Come welling and surging in,-- Come from the mystic ocean.

Whose rim no foot has trod,-- Some of us call it Longing, And others call it G.o.d.

A picket frozen on duty, A mother starved for her brood, Socrates drinking the hemlock, And Jesus on the rood; The millions who, humble and nameless, The straight, hard pathway trod,-- Some call it Consecration, And others call it G.o.d.

_William Herbert Carruth._

How Cyrus Laid the Cable

Come, listen all unto my song; It is no silly fable; 'Tis all about the mighty cord They call the Atlantic Cable.

Bold Cyrus Field he said, says he, I have a pretty notion That I can run the telegraph Across the Atlantic Ocean.

Then all the people laughed, and said They'd like to see him do it; He might get half-seas over, but He never could go through it;

To carry out his foolish plan He never would be able; He might as well go hang himself With his Atlantic Cable.

But Cyrus was a valiant man, A fellow of decision; And heeded not their mocking words, Their laughter and derision.

Twice did his bravest efforts fail, And yet his mind was stable; He wa'n't the man to break his heart Because he broke his cable.

"Once more, my gallant boys!" he cried; "_Three times!_--you know the fable,-- (_I'll make it thirty_," muttered he, "But I will lay this cable!")

Once more they tried--hurrah! hurrah!

What means this great commotion?

The Lord be praised! the cable's laid Across the Atlantic Ocean.

Loud ring the bells,--for, flas.h.i.+ng through Six hundred leagues of water, Old Mother England's benison Salutes her eldest daughter.

O'er all the land the tidings speed, And soon, in every nation, They'll hear about the cable with Profoundest admiration!

And may we honor evermore The manly, bold, and stable; And tell our sons, to make them brave, How Cyrus laid the cable.

_John G. Saxe._