Poems Teachers Ask For Volume I Part 3

Joe still toiled in the little shop. Somebody clicked the gate; A neighbor-lad brought in the mail and laid it on the floor, But I sat half-stunned by my heavy grief crouched over the empty grate, Till I heard--the crack of a pistol-shot; and I sprang to the workshop door.

That door was locked and the bolt shut fast. I could not cry, nor speak, But I s.n.a.t.c.hed my boy from the corner there, sick with a sudden dread, And carried him out through the garden plot, forgetting my arms were weak, Forgetting the rainy torrent that beat on my bare young head;

The front door yielded to my touch. I staggered faintly in, Fearing--_what_? He stood unharmed, though the wall showed a jagged hole.

In his trembling hand, his aim had failed, and the great and deadly sin Of his own life's blood was not yet laid on the poor man's tortured soul.

But the pistol held another charge, I knew; and like something mad I shook my fist in my poor man's face, and shrieked at him, fierce and wild, "How can you dare to rob us so?"--and I seized the little lad; "How can you dare to rob your wife and your little helpless child?"

All of a sudden, he bowed his head, while from his nerveless hand That hung so limp, I almost feared to see the pistol fall.

"Maggie," he said in a low, low voice, "you see me as I stand A hopeless man. My plan has failed. That letter tells you all."

Then for a moment the house was still as ever the house of death; Only the drip of the rain outside, for the storm was almost o'er; But no;--there followed another sound, and I started, caught my breath; As a stalwart man with a heavy step came in at the open door.

I shall always think him an angel sent from heaven in a human guise; He must have guessed our awful state; he couldn't help but see There was something wrong; but never a word, never a look in his eyes Told what he thought, as in kindly way he talked to Joe and me.

He was come from a thriving city firm, and they'd sent him here to say That _one_ of Joe's inventions was a great, successful thing; And which do you think? His window-catch that he'd tinkered up one day; And we were to have a good per cent on the sum that each would bring.

And then the pleasant stranger went, and we wakened as from a dream.

My man bent down his head and said, "Little woman, you've saved my life!"

The worn look gone from his dear gray eyes, and in its place, a gleam From the sun that has shone so brightly since, on Joe and his happy wife!

_Jeannie Pendleton Ewing._

The Two Gla.s.ses

There sat two gla.s.ses filled to the brim On a rich man's table, rim to rim, One was ruddy and red as blood, And one was clear as the crystal flood.

Said the Gla.s.s of Wine to his paler brother: "Let us tell tales of the past to each other; I can tell of banquet and revel and mirth, Where I was king, for I ruled in might; For the proudest and grandest souls of earth Fell under my touch, as though struck with blight.

From the heads of kings I have torn the crown; From the heights of fame I have hurled men down.

I have blasted many an honored name; I have taken virtue and given shame; I have tempted youth with a sip, a taste, That has made his future a barren waste.

Far greater than any king am I, Or than any army beneath the sky.

I have made the arm of the driver fail, And sent the train from the iron rail.

I have made good s.h.i.+ps go down at sea.

And the shrieks of the lost were sweet to me.

Fame, strength, wealth, genius before me fall; And my might and power are over all!

Ho, ho, pale brother," said the Wine, "Can you boast of deeds as great as mine?"

Said the Water Gla.s.s: "I cannot boast Of a king dethroned, or a murdered host; But I can tell of hearts that were sad, By my crystal drops made bright and glad; Of thirsts I have quenched and brows I have laved, Of hands I have cooled, and souls I have saved.

I have leaped through the valley, dashed down the mountain, Slipped from the suns.h.i.+ne, and dripped from the fountain, I have burst my cloud-fetters, and dropped from the sky, And everywhere gladdened the prospect and eye; I have eased the hot forehead of fever and pain, I have made the parched meadows grow fertile with grain.

I can tell of the powerful wheel of the mill, That ground out the flour, and turned at my will.

I can tell of manhood debased by you That I have uplifted and crowned anew; I cheer, I help, I strengthen and aid, I gladden the heart of man and maid; I set the wine-chained captive free, And all are better for knowing me."

These are the tales they told each other, The Gla.s.s of Wine, and its paler brother, As they sat together, filled to the brim, On a rich man's table, rim to rim.

_Ella Wheeler Wilc.o.x._

Abraham Lincoln

(_Written after Lincoln's death by Tom Taylor, famous cartoonist of the London "Punch."_)

_You_ lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier!

_You_, who with mocking pencil wont to trace, Broad for the self-complacent British sneer, His length of shambling limb, his furrowed face,

His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling hair, His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease, His lack of all we prize as debonair, Of power or will to s.h.i.+ne, of art to please!

_You_, whose smart pen backed up the pencil's laugh, Judging each step, as though the way were plain; Reckless, so it could point its paragraph, Of chief's perplexity, or people's pain!

Beside this corpse, that bears for winding-sheet The Stars and Stripes he lived to rear anew, Between the mourners at his head and feet-- Say, scurril jester, is there room for you?

Yes, he had lived to shame me from my sneer-- To lame my pencil and confute my pen-- To make me own this hind, of princes peer, This rail-splitter, a true-born king of men.

My shallow judgment I had learned to rue, Noting how to occasion's height he rose; How his quaint wit made home-truth seem more true, How, iron-like, his temper grew by blows;

How humble, yet how hopeful he could be; How in good fortune and in ill the same; Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he, Thirsty for gold, nor feverish for fame.

He went about his work--such work as few Ever had laid on head, and heart, and hand-- As one who knows where there's a task to do, Man's honest will must Heaven's good grace command;

Who trusts the strength will with the burden grow, That G.o.d makes instruments to work His will, If but that will we can arrive to know, Nor tamper with the weights of good and ill.

So he went forth to battle, on the side That he felt clear was Liberty's and Right's, As in his peasant boyhood he had plied His warfare with rude nature's thwarting mights;--

The uncleared forest, the unbroken soil, The iron bark that turns the lumberer's axe, The rapid, that o'erbears the boatman's toil, The prairie, hiding the mazed wanderer's tracks,

The ambushed Indian and the prowling bear-- Such were the needs that helped his youth to train: Rough culture--but such trees large fruit may bear, If but their stocks be of right girth and grain.

So he grew up, a destined work to do, And lived to do it: four long, suffering years Ill-fate, ill-feeling, ill-report, lived through, And then he heard the hisses change to cheers,

The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise, And took both with the same unwavering mood; Till, as he came on light, from darkling days, And seemed to touch the goal from where he stood,

A felon hand, between the goal and him, Beached from behind his back, a trigger prest-- And those perplexed and patient eyes were dim, Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to rest!

The words of mercy were upon his lips, Forgiveness in his heart and on his pen, When this vile murderer brought swift eclipse To thoughts of peace on earth, goodwill to men.

The Old World and the New, from sea to sea, Utter one voice of sympathy and shame!

Sore heart, so stopped when it at last beat high; Sad life, cut short as its triumph came!

The Old Clock on the Stairs