Poems Teachers Ask For Volume I Part 39

"Halt!" once more came the voice of dread; "Halt! or your blood be on your head!"

Then, no one answering to the calls, Sped after her a volley of b.a.l.l.s.

They pa.s.sed her in her rapid flight, They screamed to her left, they screamed to her right; But, rus.h.i.+ng still o'er the slippery track, She sent no token of answer back, Except a silvery laughter-peal, Brave, merry-hearted Jennie M'Neal.

So on she rushed, at her own good will, Through wood and valley, o'er plain and hill; The gray horse did his duty well, Till all at once he stumbled and fell, Himself escaping the nets of harm, But flinging the girl with a broken arm.

Still undismayed by the numbing pain, She clung to the horse's bridle-rein And gently bidding him to stand, Petted him with her able hand; Then sprung again to the saddle bow, And shouted, "One more trial now!"

As if ashamed of the heedless fall, He gathered his strength once more for all, And, galloping down a hillside steep, Gained on the troopers at every leap; No more the high-bred steed did reel, But ran his best for Jennie M'Neal.

They were a furlong behind, or more, When the girl burst through the colonel's door, Her poor arm helpless hanging with pain, And she all drabbled and drenched with rain, But her cheeks as red as fire-brands are, And her eyes as bright as a blazing star, And shouted, "Quick! be quick, I say!

They come! they come! Away! away!"

Then, sunk on the rude white floor of deal, Poor, brave, exhausted Jennie M'Neal.

The startled colonel sprung, and pressed The wife and children to his breast, And turned away from his fireside bright, And glided into the stormy night; Then soon and safely made his way To where the patriot army lay.

But first he bent in the dim firelight, And kissed the forehead broad and white, And blessed the girl who had ridden so well To keep him out of a prison-cell.

The girl roused up at the martial din, Just as the troopers came rus.h.i.+ng in, And laughed, e'en in the midst of a moan, Saying, "Good sirs, your bird has flown.

'Tis I who have scared him from his nest; So deal with me now as you think best."

But the grand young captain bowed, and said, "Never you hold a moment's dread.

Of womankind I must crown you queen; So brave a girl I have never seen.

Wear this gold ring as your valor's due; And when peace comes I will come for you."

But Jennie's face an arch smile wore, As she said, "There's a lad in Putnam's corps, Who told me the same, long time ago; You two would never agree, I know.

I promised my love to be as true as steel,"

Said good, sure-hearted Jennie M'Neal.

_Will Carleton._

The Hand That Rules the World

They say that man is mighty, he governs land and sea; He wields a mighty scepter o'er lesser powers that be; By a mightier power and stronger, man from his throne is hurled, And the hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world.

Blessings on the hand of woman! angels guard its strength and grace, In the palace, cottage, hovel, oh, no matter where the place!

Would that never storms a.s.sailed it, rainbows ever gently curled; For the hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world.

Infancy's the tender fountain, power may with beauty flow; Mother's first to guide the streamlets, from them souls unresting grow; Grow on for the good or evil, suns.h.i.+ne streamed or darkness hurled; For the hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world.

Woman, how divine your mission here upon our natal sod!

Keep, oh, keep the young heart open always to the breath of G.o.d!

All true trophies of the ages are from mother-love impearled, For the hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world.

Blessings on the hand of woman! fathers, sons and daughters cry, And the sacred song is mingled with the wors.h.i.+p in the sky-- Mingles where no tempest darkens, rainbows evermore are curled; For the hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world.

_William Ross Wallace._

What I Live For

I live for those who love me, Whose hearts are kind and true, For the heaven that smiles above me, And awaits my spirit, too; For the human ties that bind me, For the task by G.o.d a.s.signed me, For the bright hopes left behind me, And the good that I can do.

I live to learn their story Who've suffered for my sake, To emulate their glory, And to follow in their wake; Bards, patriots, martyrs, sages, The n.o.ble of all ages, Whose deeds crowd history's pages, And Time's great volume make.

I live to hold communion With all that is divine, To feel there is a union 'Twixt Nature's heart and mine; To profit by affliction, Reap truths from fields of fiction, Grow wiser from conviction, And fulfill each grand design.

I live to hail that season, By gifted minds foretold, When men shall rule by reason, And not alone by gold; When man to man united, And every wrong thing righted, The whole world shall be lighted As Eden was of old.

I live for those who love me, For those who know me true, For the heaven that smiles above me, And awaits my spirit, too; For the cause that lacks a.s.sistance, For the wrong that needs resistance, For the future in the distance, And the good that I can do.

_George Linnaeus Banks._

My Love s.h.i.+p

If all the s.h.i.+ps I have at sea Should come a-sailing home to me, Weighed down with gems, and silk and gold, Ah! well, the harbor would not hold So many s.h.i.+ps as there would be, If all my s.h.i.+ps came home from sea.

If half my s.h.i.+ps came home from sea, And brought their precious freight to me, Ah! well, I should have wealth as great As any king that sits in state, So rich the treasure there would be In half my s.h.i.+ps now out at sea.

If but one s.h.i.+p I have at sea Should come a-sailing home to me, Ah! well, the storm clouds then might frown, For, if the others all went down, Still rich and glad and proud I'd be If that one s.h.i.+p came home to me.

If that one s.h.i.+p went down at sea And all the others came to me Weighed down with gems and wealth untold, With honor, riches, glory, gold, The poorest soul on earth I'd be If that one s.h.i.+p came not to me.

O skies, be calm; O winds, blow free!

Blow all my s.h.i.+ps safe home to me, But if thou sendest some awrack, To nevermore come sailing back, Send any, all that skim the sea, But send my love s.h.i.+p home to me.

_Ella Wheeler Wilc.o.x._

The Man With the Hoe

_(Written after seeing Millet's famous painting.)_

G.o.d made man in His own image; in the image of G.o.d made he him.--GENESIS.

Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground, The emptiness of ages in his face, And on his back the burden of the world.

Who made him dead to rapture and despair, A thing that grieves not and that never hopes, Stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox?

Who loosened and let down this brutal jaw?

Whose was the hand that slanted back this brow?

Whose breath blew out the light within this brain?

Is this the Thing, the Lord G.o.d made and gave To have dominion over sea and land; To trace the stars and search the heavens for power; To feel the pa.s.sion of Eternity?

Is this the dream He dreamed who shaped the suns And pillared the blue firmament with light?