Poems Teachers Ask For Volume II Part 5

The old man slowly raised his head, a sign that he did hear, And on his cheek the trio caught the glitter of a tear; His feeble hands pushed back the locks white as the silky snow, As he answered the committee in a voice both sweet and low:

"I've sung the psalms of David nearly eighty years," said he; "They've been my staff and comfort all along life's dreary way; I'm sorry I disturb the choir, perhaps I'm doing wrong; But when my heart is filled with praise, I can't keep back a song.

"I wonder if beyond the tide that's breaking at my feet, In the far-off heav'nly temple, where the Master I shall greet-- Yes, I wonder when I try to sing the songs of G.o.d up high'r, If the angel band will church me for disturbing heaven's choir."

A silence filled the little room; the old man bowed his head; The carriage rattled on again, but Brother Eyer was dead!

Yes, dead! his hand had raised the veil the future hangs before us, And the Master dear had called him to the everlasting chorus.

The choir missed him for a while, but he was soon forgot, A few church-goers watched the door; the old man entered not.

Far away, his voice no longer cracked, he sang his heart's desires, Where there are no church committees and no fas.h.i.+onable choirs!

_T.C. Harbaugh._

Duty

The sweetest lives are those to duty wed, Whose deeds, both great and small, Are close knit strands of an unbroken thread, Whose love enn.o.bles all.

The world may sound no trumpet, ring no bells; The book of life, the s.h.i.+ning record tells.

Thy love shall chant its own beat.i.tudes, After its own life-working. A child's kiss Set on thy singing lips shall make thee glad; A poor man served by thee shall make thee rich; A sick man helped by thee shall make thee strong; Thou shalt be served thyself by every sense Of service thou renderest.

_Robert Browning._

The Last Leaf

I saw him once before, As he pa.s.sed by the door, And again The pavement stones resound, As he totters o'er the ground With his cane.

They say that in his prime, Ere the pruning-knife of Time Cut him down, Not a better man was found By the Crier on his round Through the town.

But now he walks the streets, And he looks at all he meets Sad and wan, And he shakes his feeble head, That it seems as if he said "They are gone."

The mossy marbles rest On the lips that he has prest In their bloom, And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb.

My grandmamma has said,-- Poor old lady, she is dead Long ago,-- That he had a Roman nose, And his cheek was like a rose In the snow.

But now his nose is thin, And it rests upon his chin.

Like a staff, And a crook is in his back, And a melancholy crack In his laugh.

I know it is a sin For me to sit and grin At him here; But the old three-cornered hat, And the breeches, and all that, Are so queer!

And if I should live to be The last leaf upon the tree In the spring, Let them smile, as I do now, At the old forsaken bough Where I cling.

_Oliver Wendell Holmes._

Old Flag Forever

She's up there--Old Glory--where lightnings are sped; She dazzles the nations with ripples of red; And she'll wave for us living, or droop o'er us dead,-- The flag of our country forever!

She's up there--Old Glory--how bright the stars stream!

And the stripes like red signals of liberty gleam!

And we dare for her, living, or dream the last dream, 'Neath the flag of our country forever!

She's up there--Old Glory--no tyrant-dealt scars, No blur on her brightness, no stain on her stars!

The brave blood of heroes hath crimsoned her bars.

She's the flag of our country forever!

_Frank L. Stanton._

The Death of the Flowers

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear.

Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the withered leaves lie dead; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread.

The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrub the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day.

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?

Alas! they all are in their graves; the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours.

The rain is falling where they lie; but the cold November rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow; But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sun-flower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade and glen.

And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home, When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers, whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side, In the cold, moist earth we laid her when the forest cast the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief; Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours, So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.

_W.C. Bryant._

The Heritage

The rich man's son inherits lands, And piles of brick, and stone, and gold, And he inherits soft white hands, And tender flesh that fears the cold, Nor dares to wear a garment old; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee.