Poems Teachers Ask For Volume I Part 45

Ere yet the lifeblood, warm and wet, Has dimmed the glistening bayonet, Each soldier eye shall brightly turn To where thy sky-born glories burn, And, as his springing steps advance, Catch war and vengeance from the glance.

And when the cannon-mouthings loud Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud, And gory sabres rise and fall Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall, Then shall thy meteor glances glow, And cowering foes shall shrink beneath Each gallant arm that strikes below That lovely messenger of death.

Flag of the seas! on ocean wave Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave; When death, careering on the gale, Sweeps darkly 'round the bellied sail, And frighted waves rush wildly back Before the broadside's reeling rack, Each dying wanderer of the sea Shall look at once to heaven and thee, And smile to see thy splendors fly In triumph o'er his closing eye.

Flag of the free heart's hope and home!

By angel hands to valor given; Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, And all thy hues were born in heaven.

Forever float that standard sheet!

Where breathes the foe but falls before us, With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us?

_Joseph Rodman Drake._

Golden Keys

A bunch of golden keys is mine To make each day with gladness s.h.i.+ne.

"Good morning!" that's the golden key That unlocks every door for me.

When evening comes, "Good night!" I say, And close the door of each glad day.

When at the table "If you please"

I take from off my bunch of keys.

When friends give anything to me, I'll use the little "Thank you" key.

"Excuse me," "Beg your pardon," too, When by mistake some harm I do.

Or if unkindly harm I've given, With "Forgive me" key I'll be forgiven.

On a golden ring these keys I'll bind, This is its motto: "Be ye kind."

I'll often use each golden key, And so a happy child I'll be.

The Four-leaf Clover

I know a place where the sun is like gold, And the cherry blooms burst like snow; And down underneath is the loveliest nook, Where the four-leaf clovers grow.

One leaf is for faith, and one is for hope, And one is for love, you know; And G.o.d put another one in for luck-- If you search, you will find where they grow.

But you must have faith and you must have hope, You must love and be strong, and so If you work, if you wait, you will find the place Where the four-leaf clovers grow.

_Ella Higginson._

Telling the Bees

NOTE: A remarkable custom, brought from the Old Country, formerly prevailed in the rural districts of New England. On the death of a member of the family, the bees were at once informed of the event, and their hives dressed in mourning. This ceremonial was supposed to be necessary to prevent the swarms from leaving their hives and seeking a new home.

Here is the place; right over the hill Runs the path I took; You can see the gap in the old wall still.

And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook.

There is the house, with the gate red-barred, And the poplars tall; And the barn's brown length, and the cattle-yard, And the white horns tossing above the wall.

There are the beehives ranged in the sun; And down by the brink Of the brook are her poor flowers, weed-o'errun, Pansy and daffodil, rose and pink.

A year has gone, as the tortoise goes, Heavy and slow; And the same rose blows, and the same sun glows, And the same brook sings of a year ago.

There's the same sweet clover-smell in the breeze; And the June sun warm Tangles his wings of fire in the trees, Setting, as then, over Fernside farm.

I mind me how with a lover's care From my Sunday coat I brushed off the burs, and smoothed my hair, And cooled at the brookside my brow and throat.

Since we parted, a month had pa.s.sed,-- To love, a year; Down through the beeches I looked at last On the little red gate and the well-sweep near.

I can see it all now,--the slantwise rain Of light through the leaves, The sundown's blaze on her window-pane, The bloom of her roses under the eaves.

Just the same as a month before,-- The house and the trees, The barn's brown gable, the vine by the door,-- Nothing changed but the hives of bees.

Before them, under the garden wall, Forward and back, Went drearily singing the ch.o.r.e-girl small, Draping each hive with a shred of black.

Trembling, I listened; the summer sun Had the chill of snow; For I knew she was telling the bees of one Gone on the journey we all must go!

Then I said to myself, "My Mary weeps For the dead to-day: Haply her blind grandsire sleeps The fret and pain of his age away."

But her dog whined low; on the doorway sill, With his cane to his chin, The old man sat; and the ch.o.r.e-girl still Sung to the bees stealing out and in.

And the song she was singing ever since In my ear sounds on:-- "Stay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence!

Mistress Mary is dead and gone!"

_John G. Whittier._

"Not Understood"

Not understood, we move along asunder, Our paths grow wider as the seasons creep Along the years. We marvel and we wonder, Why life is life, and then we fall asleep, Not understood.