Poems Teachers Ask For Volume I Part 64

Into the moonlight, Whiter than snow, Waving so flower-like When the winds blow;

Into the starlight Rus.h.i.+ng in spray, Happy at midnight, Happy by day;

Ever in motion, Blithesome and cheery, Still climbing heavenward, Never aweary;

Glad of all weathers, Still seeming best, Upward or downward, Motion thy rest;

Full of a nature Nothing can tame, Changed every moment, Ever the same;

Ceaseless aspiring, Ceaseless content, Darkness or suns.h.i.+ne Thy element;

Glorious fountain, Let my heart be Fresh, changeful, constant, Upward, like thee!

_James Russell Lowell._

The Leak in the Dike

The good dame looked from her cottage At the close of the pleasant day, And cheerily called to her little son, Outside the door at play: "Come, Peter, come! I want you to go, While there is light to see.

To the hut of the blind old man who lives Across the dike, for me; And take these cakes I made for him-- They are hot and smoking yet; You have time enough to go and come Before the sun is set."

Then the good-wife turned to her labor, Humming a simple song, And thought of her husband, working hard At the sluices all day long; And set the turf a-blazing, And brought the coa.r.s.e black bread, That he might find a fire at night And find the table spread.

And Peter left the brother With whom all day he had played, And the sister who had watched their sports In the willow's tender shade; And told them they'd see him back before They saw a star in sight, Though he wouldn't be afraid to go In the very darkest night!

For he was a brave, bright fellow, With eye and conscience clear; He could do whatever a boy might do, And he had not learned to fear.

Why, he wouldn't have robbed a bird's nest, Nor brought a stork to harm, Though never a law in Holland Had stood to stay his arm!

And now with his face all glowing, And eyes as bright as the day With the thoughts of his pleasant errand, He trudged along the way; And soon his joyous prattle Made glad a lonesome place-- Alas! if only the blind old man, Could have seen that happy face!

Yet he somehow caught the brightness Which his voice and presence lent; And he felt the suns.h.i.+ne come and go As Peter came and went.

And now, as the day was sinking, And the winds began to rise, The mother looked from her door again, Shading her anxious eyes, And saw the shadows deepen And birds to their homes come back, But never a sign of Peter Along the level track.

But she said, "He will come at morning, So I need not fret nor grieve-- Though it isn't like my boy at all To stay without my leave."

But where was the child delaying?

On the homeward way was he, Across the dike while the sun was up An hour above the sea.

He was stopping now to gather flowers, Now listening to the sound, As the angry waters dashed themselves Against their narrow bound.

"Ah! well for us," said Peter, "That the gates are good and strong, And my father tends them carefully, Or they would not hold you long!

You're a wicked sea," said Peter,"

"I know why you fret and chafe; You would like to spoil our lands and homes, But our sluices keep you safe!

But hark! Through the noise of waters Comes a low, clear, trickling sound; And the child's face pales with terror, And his blossoms drop to the ground, He is up the bank in a moment, And, stealing through the sand, He sees a stream not yet so large As his slender, childish hand.

'Tis a leak in the dike! He is but a boy, Unused to fearful scenes; But, young as he is, he has learned to know The dreadful thing that means.

A leak in the dike! The stoutest heart Grows faint that cry to hear, And the bravest man in all the land Turns white with mortal fear; For he knows the smallest leak may grow To a flood in a single night; And he knows the strength of the cruel sea When loosed in its angry might.

And the boy! He has seen the danger And shouting a wild alarm, He forces back the weight of the sea With the strength of his single arm!

He listens for the joyful sound Of a footstep pa.s.sing nigh; And lays his ear to the ground, to catch The answer to his cry.

And he hears the rough winds blowing, And the waters rise and fall, But never an answer comes to him Save the echo of his call.

He sees no hope, no succor, His feeble voice is lost; Yet what shall he do but watch and wait, Though he perish at his post!

So, faintly calling and crying Till the sun is under the sea; Crying and moaning till the stars Come out for company; He thinks of his brother and sister, Asleep in their safe warm bed; He thinks of his father and mother, Of himself as dying--and dead; And of how, when the night is over, They must come and find him at last; But he never thinks he can leave the place Where duty holds him fast.

The good dame in the cottage Is up and astir with the light, For the thought of her little Peter Has been with her all night.

And now she watches the pathway, As yester eve she had done; But what does she see so strange and black Against the rising sun?

Her neighbors are bearing between them Something straight to her door; Her child is coming home, but not As he ever came before!

"He is dead!" she cries, "my darling!"

And the startled father hears.

And comes and looks the way she looks, And fears the thing she fears; Till a glad shout from the bearers Thrills the stricken man and wife-- "Give thanks, for your son, has saved our land, And G.o.d has saved his life!"

So, there in the morning suns.h.i.+ne They knelt about the boy; And every head was bared and bent In tearful, reverent joy.

'Tis many a year since then, but still, When the sea roars like a flood, Their boys are taught what a boy can do Who is brave and true and good; For every man in that country Takes his son by the hand, And tells him of little Peter Whose courage saved the land.

They have many a valiant hero Remembered through the years; But never one whose name so oft Is named with loving tears; And his deed shall be sung by the cradle, And told to the child on the knee, So long as the dikes of Holland Divide the land from the sea!

_Phoebe Cary._

Robert of Lincoln

Merrily swinging on briar and weed, Near to the nest of his little dame, Over the mountain-side or mead, Robert of Lincoln is telling his name: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Snug and safe is that nest of ours, Hidden among the summer flowers.

Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln is gaily drest, Wearing a bright black wedding coat; White are his shoulders and white his crest, Hear him call in his merry note: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Look, what a nice new coat is mine, Sure there was never a bird so fine.

Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, Pa.s.sing at home a patient life, Broods in the gra.s.s while her husband sings: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Brood, kind creature; you need not fear Thieves and robbers while I am here.

Chee, chee, chee.

Modest and shy as a nun is she; One weak chirp is her only note.

Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, Pouring boasts from his little throat: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Never was I afraid of man; Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can.

Chee, chee, chee.

Six white eggs on a bed of hay, Flecked with purple, a pretty sight!

There as the mother sits all day, Robert is singing with all his might: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Nice, good wife, that never goes out, Keeping the house while I frolic about.

Chee, chee, chee.

Soon as the little ones chip the sh.e.l.l Six wide mouths are open for food; Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, Gathering seeds for the hungry brood.

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; This new life is likely to be Hard for a gay young fellow like me.

Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln at length is made Sober with work, and silent with care; Off is his holiday garment laid, Half forgotten that merry air, Bob-o'-link, Bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; n.o.body knows but my mate and I Where our nest and our nestlings lie.

Chee, chee, chee.

Summer wanes; the children are grown; Fun and frolic no more he knows; Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone; Off he flies, and we sing as he goes: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; When you can pipe that merry old strain, Robert of Lincoln, come back again.