 Poems Every Child Should Know, edited by Mary E. Burt. Red for LibriVox.org by Kara Schellenberg. Section 1. Preface. Is this another collection of stupid poems that children cannot use? Will they look hopelessly through this volume for poems that suit them? Will they say despairingly, this is too long, and that is too hard, and I don't like that because it is not interesting. Are there three or four pleasing poems, and are all the rest put in to fill up the book? Nay, verily, the poems in this collection are those that children love. With the exception of seven they are short enough for children to commit to memory without wearying themselves or losing interest in the poem. If one boy learns the Overland Mail, or the Recruit, or Winkin' Blinkin' and Nod, or The Song in Camp, or Old Ironsides, or I Have a Little Shadow, or The Tournament, or The Duel, nine boys out of ten will be eager to follow him. I know, because I have tried it a dozen times. Every boy loves Paul Revere's ride. Alas, I have not been able to include it, and is ambitious to learn it, but only boys having a quick memory will persevere to the end. Shall the slower boy be deprived of the pleasure of reading the whole poem and getting its inspiring sentiment and learning as many stanzas as his mind will take? No indeed. Half of such a poem is better than none. Let the slow boy learn and recite as many stanzas as he can, and the boy of quick memory follow him up with the rest. It does not help the slow boy's memory to keep it down entirely or deprive it of its smaller activity because he cannot learn the whole. Some people will invariably give the slow child a very short poem. It is often better to divide a long poem among the children, letting each child learn his part. The sustained interest of a long poem is worthwhile. The Merman, the Battle of Ivory, Horatius at the Bridge, Crinkin, the Skeleton in Armour, the Raven, and Hervé Riel may all profitably be learned that way. Nevertheless, the child enjoys most the poem that is just long enough, and there is much to be said in favour of the selection that is adapted in length to the average mind, for the child hesitates in the presence of quantity rather than in the presence of subtle thought. I make claim for this collection that it is made up of poems that the majority of children will learn of their own free will. There are people who believe that in the matter of learning poetry there is no ought, but this is a false belief. There is a duty even there, for every American citizen ought to know the great national songs that keep alive the spirit of patriotism. Children should build for their future, and yet, while they are children, what only the fresh imagination of the child can assimilate. They should store up an untold wealth of heroic sentiment. They should acquire the habit of carrying a literary quality in their conversation. They should carry a heart full of the fresh and delightful associations and memories connected with poetry hours to bright and mature years. They should develop their memories while they have memories to develop. Will the boy who took every poetry hour for a whole school year to learn Henry of Navarre ever regret it, or will the children who listened to it? No, it was fresh every week, and they brought fresh interest in listening. The boy will always love it because he used to love it. There were boys who scrambled for the right to recite the tournament, the charge of the light brigade, the star-spangled banner, and so on. The boy who was first to reach the front had the privilege. The triumph of getting the chance to recite added to the zest of it. Will they ever forget it? I know, Lowell's, the finding of the liar. Attention, sir knights, see who can learn it first as I say it to you. But I find that I have forgotten the line of it, so you may open your books and teach it to me. Now I can recite every word of it. How much of it can you repeat from memory? One boy can say it all. Only every child has learned the most of it. Now it will be easy for you to learn it alone, and memory, the goddess-beautiful, will henceforth go with you to recall this happy hour. Mary E. Burt The John A. Browning School, 1904 End of Section 1 Read by Kara Schellenberg on October 8, 2006, in Oceanside, California Poems Every Child Should Know, edited by Mary E. Burt Section 2 Read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schellenberg This section contains the following poems. The arrow and the song, the baby, let dogs delight to bark and bite, little things, he prayeth best, twinkle, twinkle, little star, pippa, and the days of the month. Part 1 The Budding Moment The Arrow and the Song The Arrow and the Song by Longfellow, 1807-1882, is placed first in this volume out of respect to a little girl of six years who used to love to recite it to me. She knew many poems, but this was her favorite. I shot an arrow into the air, it fell to earth, I know not where, for so swiftly it flew the sight could not follow it in its flight. I breathed the song into the air, it fell to earth, I know not where, for who has sight so keen and strong that it can follow the flight of song? Long long afterward in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke, and the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend. Henry W. Longfellow The Baby I found The Baby in Steadman's Anthology. It is placed in this volume by permission of the poet Jeremiah Eames Rankin of Cleveland, born 1828, because it captured the heart of a ten-year-old boy whose fancy was greatly moved by the two beautiful lines. Her face is like an angel's face, I'm glad she has no wings. Nay, shun, to hide her tiny taze, nay, stockin' on her feet, her supple ankles, white a snot, or early blossom sweet, her simple dress of sprinkled pink, her double dimpled chin, her puckered lips and balmy mouth, whenay and tooth within. Her anes say like her mother's ane, twa, gentle, liquid things. Her face is like an angel's face, we're glad she has no wings. Jeremiah Eames Rankin Let Dogs Delight to Bark and Bite Let Dogs Delight to Bark and Bite by Isaac Watts, 1674-1748, and Little Drops of Water by Ebenezer Cobham Brewer, 1810-1897, are poems that the world cannot outgrow. Once in the mind they fasten, they were not born to die. Let Dogs Delight to Bark and Bite, for God hath made them so. Let Bears and Lions growl and fight, for it is their nature too. But children, you should never let such angry passions rise, your little hands were never made to tear each other's eyes. Isaac Watts Little Things Little drops of water, little grains of sand, make the mighty ocean and the pleasant land. Just the little minutes, humble though they be, make the mighty ages of eternity. Ebenezer Cobham Brewer He Prayeth Best These two stanzas, the very heart of that great poem, The Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 1772-1834, sum up the lesson of this masterpiece, insensibility is a crime. Farewell, farewell, but this I tell to thee, thou wedding guest, He prayeth well who loveth well, both man and bird and beast. He prayeth best who loveth best, all things both great and small. For the dear God who loveth us, he made and loveth all. Samuel T. Coleridge Twinkle, twinkle, little star, Twinkle, twinkle, little star, how I wonder what you are, up above the world so high like a diamond in the sky. When the glorious sun is set, when the grass with dew is wet, then you show your little light, twinkle, twinkle, all the night. In the dark blue sky you keep and often through my curtains, peep, for you never shut your eye till the sun is in the sky. As your bright and tiny spark guides the traveller in the dark, though I know not what you are, twinkle, twinkle, little star. Pippa Springs at the Mourn, from Pippa Passes by Robert Browning, 1812 to 1889, has become a very popular stanza with little folks. All's right with the world is a cheerful motto for the nursery and schoolroom. The years at the spring, the days in the morn, mornings at seven, the hillsides dew-pearled, the larks on the wing, the snails on the thorn, gods in his heaven, all's right with the world. Robert Browning The Days of the Month The Days of the Month is a useful bit of doggerel that we need all through life. It is anonymous. Thirty days, half September, April, June, and November. February has twenty-eight alone. All the rest have thirty-one, excepting leap year. That's the time when February's days are twenty-nine. Old Song End of section two. Read by Kara Schallenberg, www.kra.org, on October 8th, 2006, in Oceanside, California. Poems Every Child Should Know, edited by Mary E. Burt. Section three. Read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schallenberg. This section contains the following poems. True Royalty Playing Robinson Crusoe My Shadow And Little White Lily. Part one, continued. True Royalty True Royalty and Playing Robinson Crusoe are pleasing stanzas from The Just So Stories of Rudyard Kipling, born in 1865. There was never a queen like Balkus from here to the wide world's end. But Balkus talked to a butterfly as you would talk to a friend. There was never a king like Solomon not since the world began, but Solomon talked to a butterfly as a man would talk to a man. She was Queen of Sabea, and he was Asia's Lord, but both of them talked to butterflies when they took their walks abroad. Rudyard Kipling Playing Robinson Crusoe Pussy can sit by the fire and sing, Pussy can climb a tree, or play with a silly old cork and string to muse herself, not me. But I like Binky, my dog, because he knows how to behave. So Binky's the same as the first friend was, and I am the man in the cave. Pussy will play Man Friday till it's time to wet her paw and make her walk on the windowsill, for the footprint Crusoe saw. Then she fluffles her tail and mews and scratches and won't attend. But Binky will play whatever I choose, and he is my true first friend. Pussy will rub my knees with her head pretending she loves me hard, but the very minute I go to my bed Pussy runs out in the yard, and there she stays till the morning light, so I know it is only pretend. But Binky, he snores at my feet all night, and he is my firstest friend. My Shadow My Shadow, by Robert Louis Stevenson, 1850 to 1894, is one of the most popular short poems extant. I have taught it to a great many very young boys, and not one has ever tried to evade learning it. Older pupils like it equally well. I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me, and what can be the use of him is more than I can see. He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head, and I see him jump before me when I jump into my bed. The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow, not at all like proper children, which is always very slow, for he sometimes shoots up taller like an India rubber ball, and he sometimes gets so little that there's none of him at all. He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play, and can only make a fool of me in every sort of way. He stays so close beside me, he's a coward, you can see. I'd think shame to stick to mercy as that shadow sticks to me. One morning, very early, before the sun was up, I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup. But my lazy little shadow, like an errant sleepyhead, had stayed at home behind me, and was fast asleep in bed. Little White Lily This poem, by George MacDonald, born in 1828, finds a place in this volume because, as a child, I loved it. It completely filled my heart, and has made every member of the Lily family dear to me. George MacDonald's charming book, At the Back of the North Wind, also was my wonder and delight. Little White Lily sat by a stone, drooping and waiting till the sun shone. Little White Lily, sunshine has fed. Little White Lily is lifting her head. Little White Lily said, It is good. Little White Lily's clothing and food. Little White Lily dressed like a bride, shining with whiteness, and crowned beside. Little White Lily drooping with pain, waiting and waiting for the wet rain. Little White Lily holdeth her cup. Rain is fast falling and filling it up. Little White Lily said, Good again, when I am thirsty to have nice rain. Now I am stronger, now I am cool. Heat cannot burn me, my veins are so full. Little White Lily smells very sweet. On her head sunshine, rain at her feet. Thanks to the sunshine, thanks to the rain, Little White Lily is happy again. George McDonald. End of Section 3, read by Kara Schallenberg, www.kray.org, on October 8, 2006 in Oceanside, California. Poems Every Child Should Know, edited by Mary E. Burt. Section 4, read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schallenberg. This section contains the following poems. How the Leaves Came Down, We Willie Winky, and The Owl and the Pussycat. Part 1 continued. How the Leaves Came Down. How the Leaves Came Down by Susan Coolidge, born 1845, appeals to children because it helps to reconcile them to going to bed. I go to bed by day is one of the crosses of childhood. I'll tell you how the leaves came down, the great tree to his children said. You're getting sleepy, yellow and brown. Yes, very sleepy, little red. It is quite time to go to bed. Ah, begged each silly pouting leaf, let us a little longer stay. Dear Father Tree, behold our grief, it is such a very pleasant day. We do not want to go away. So for just one more merry day, to the great tree the leaflets clung, froliced and danced and had their way upon the autumn breezes swung, whispering all their sports among. Perhaps the great tree will forget and let us stay until the spring if we all beg and coax and fret. But the great tree did no such thing. He smiled to hear their whispering. Come, children, all to bed, he cried, and ere the leaves could urge their prayer, he shook his head, and far and wide, fluttering and rustling everywhere, down sped the leaflets through the air. I saw them, on the ground they lay, golden and red, a huddled swarm, waiting till one from far away, white bed clothes heaped upon her arm, should come to wrap them safe and warm. The great bear tree looked down and smiled. Good night, dear little leaves, he said, and from below each sleepy child replied, good night, and murmured, it is so nice to go to bed. Susan Coolidge. Wee-Willie. Wee-Willie Winky by William Miller, 1810 to 1872, is included in this volume out of respect to an eight-year-old child who chose it from among hundreds. We had one poetry hour every week, and he studied and recited it with unabated interest to the end of the year. Wee-Willie Winky rins through the town, upstairs and downstairs in his nichtgauen, turlin at the window, cryin at the lock. Are the wanes in their bed, for it's now ten o'clock? Hey, Willie Winky, are you coming, Ben? The cats singin' gay throms to the sleepin' hen. The dogs spell-dirt on the floor, and disney gear cheap. But here's a wow-cryph laddie that winna' far asleep. Onny thing but sleepy rogue, glowerin' like the moon, rattlin' in an airn' jug, wear an airn' spoon. Rumblin' pumlin' round about, crowin' like a cock, skirlin' like a canna-whot, walkin' and sleepin' folk. Hey, Willie Winky, the wanes in a creel, womblin' off a body's knee like a very eel, ruggin' at the cat's lug and ravlin' at her throms. Hey, Willie Winky, see there he comes. Where is the mither that has a story wean? A wee, strumpy, stousy, that canna' in his lane. That has a battle eye with sleep before he'll close an A, but a kiss fray off his rosy lips, gays strengthen you to me. William Miller. The Owl and the Pussycat. The Owl and the Pussycat by Edward Lear, 1812 to 1888, is placed here because I once found that a timid child was much strengthened and developed by learning it. It is a song that appeals to the imagination of children and they like to sing it. The Owl and the Pussycat went to sea in a beautiful pea-green boat. They took some honey and plenty of money wrapped up in a five-pound note. The Owl looked up to the moon above and sang to a small guitar. Oh, lovely Pussy, oh Pussy, my love, what a beautiful Pussy you are, you are, what a beautiful Pussy you are. Pussy said to the Owl, you elegant fowl, how wonderfully sweet you sing. Oh, let us be married, too long we have tarried, but what shall we do for a ring? They sailed away for a year and a day to the land where the bong-tree grows, and there in a wood a piggy-wig stood with a ring in the end of his nose, his nose, with a ring in the end of his nose. Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling your ring? Said the piggy, I will. So they took it away and were married next day by the turkey who lives on the hill. They dined on mints and slices of quints, which they ate with a runcible spoon, and hand in hand on the edge of the sand, they danced by the light of the moon, the moon, they danced by the light of the moon. Edward Lear, end of section four, read by Kara Schellenberg, www.kray.org, on October 8th, 2006, in Oceanside, California. Poems Every Child Should Know, edited by Mary E. Burt. Section five, read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schellenberg. This section contains two poems, Winken, Blinken, and Nod, and The Duel. Part one, continued, Winken, Blinken, and Nod. Winken, Blinken, and Nod by Eugene Field, 1850 to 1895, pleases children who are all by nature, sailors and adventurers. Winken, Blinken, and Nod, one night, sailed off in a wooden shoe, sailed on a river of crystal light into a sea of dew. Where are you going and what do you wish, the old moon asked the three? We have come to fish for the herring fish that live in this beautiful sea. Nets of silver and gold have we, said Winken, Blinken, and Nod. The old moon laughed and sang a song as they rocked in the wooden shoe, and the wind that sped them all night long ruffled the waves of dew. The little stars were the herring fish that lived in the beautiful sea. Now cast your nets wherever you wish, never afeard are we. So cried the stars to the fishermen three, Winken, Blinken, and Nod. All night long their nets they threw to the stars in the twinkling foam, then down from the skies came the wooden shoe bringing the fishermen home. It was all so pretty a sail, it seemed as if it could not be, and some folk thought it was a dream they dreamed of sailing that beautiful sea. But I shall name you the fisherman three, Winken, Blinken, and Nod. Winken and Blinken are two little eyes, and Nod is a little head, and the wooden shoe that sailed the skies is a wee one's trundle bed. So shut your eyes while mother sings of wonderful sights that be, and you shall see the beautiful things as you rock on the misty sea, where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three, Winken, Blinken, and Nod. Eugene Field, The Duel. The Duel by Eugene Field, 1850 to 1895, is almost the most popular humorous poem that has come under my notice. In making such a collection as this, it is not easy to find poems at once delicate, witty, and graphic. I have taught The Duel hundreds of times, and children invariably love it. The gingham dog and the calico cat side by side on the table sat. It was half past twelve, and what do you think? Nor one nor to other had slept a wink. The old Dutch clock and the Chinese plate appeared to know as sure as fate there was going to be a terrible spat. I wasn't there, I simply state what was told to me by the Chinese plate. The gingham dog went, ow, ow, ow, and the calico cat replied, meow. The air was littered an hour or so with bits of gingham and calico, while the old Dutch clock in the chimney place up with its hands before its face, for it always dreaded a family row. Now mind, I am only telling you what the old Dutch clock declares is true. The Chinese plate looked very blue and wailed, oh, dear, what shall we do? But the gingham dog and the calico cat wallowed this way and tumbled that, employing every tooth and claw in the awfulest way you ever saw, and, oh, how the gingham and calico flew. Don't fancy I exaggerate. I got my views from the Chinese plate. Next morning, where the two had sat, they found no trace of the dog or cat, and some folks think unto this day that burglars stole the pair away, but the truth about the cat and the pup is this, they ate each other up. Now what do you really think of that? The old Dutch clock, it told me so, and that is how I came to know. Eugene Field, end of section five, read by Kara Schellenberg on October 8th, 2006 in Oceanside, California. Poems Every Child Should Know, edited by Mary E. Burt. Section six, read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schellenberg. This section contains the following poems. The boy who never told a lie, love between brothers and sisters, the bluebells of Scotland, if I had but two little wings, and a farewell. Part one, continued. The boy who never told a lie. The boy who never told a lie, by anonymous, as well as whatever brawls disturbed the street by Isaac Watts, 1674 to 1748, are real gems. A few years ago, they were more in favor than the poorer verse that has been put forward, but they are sure to be revived. Once there was a little boy with curly hair and pleasant eye, a boy who always told the truth and never, never told a lie. And when he trotted off to school, the children all about would cry, there goes the curly-headed boy, the boy that never tells a lie. And everybody loved him so because he always told the truth that every day as he grew up, T'was said, there goes the honest youth. And when the people that stood near would turn to ask the reason why, the answer would be always this, because he never tells a lie. Love between brothers and sisters. Whatever brawls disturbed the street, there should be peace at home, where sisters dwell and brothers meet, quarrels should never come. Birds in their little nests agree and it is a shameful sight when children of one family fall out and chide and fight. Isaac Watts, the Bluebell of Scotland. Oh where and oh where is your Highland laddie gone? He's gone to fight the French for King George upon the throne and it's oh in my heart how I wish him safe at home. Oh where and oh where does your Highland laddie dwell? He dwells in Mary's Scotland at the sign of the Bluebell and it's oh in my heart that I love my laddie well. If I had but two little wings. If I had but two little wings by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 1772 to 1834 is recommended by a number of teachers and schoolgirls. If I had but two little wings and were a little feathery bird to you I'd fly my dear but thoughts like these are idle things and I stay here. But in my sleep to you I fly I'm always with you in my sleep. The world is all one's own and then one wakes and where am I? All, all alone. Samuel T. Coleridge, a farewell. A farewell by Charles Kingsley, 1819 to 1875 makes it seem worthwhile to be good. My fairest child, I have no song to give you. No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray. Yet ere we part one lesson I can leave you for every day. Be good, sweet maid and let who will be clever. Do noble things, not dream them all day long. And so make life, death and that vast forever one grand sweet song. Charles Kingsley, end of section six read by Kara Schellenberg on October 9th, 2006 in Oceanside, California. Poems Every Child Should Know, edited by Mary E. Burt. Section seven, read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schellenberg. This section contains two poems, Casabianca and The Captain's Daughter. Part one, continued. Casabianca, Casabianca by Felicia Hemmins, 1793 to 1835 is the portrait of a faithful heart an example of unreasoning obedience. It is right that a child should obey even to the death the commands of a loving parent. The boy stood on the burning deck whence all but him had fled. The flame that lit the battle's wreck shone round him or the dead. Yet beautiful and bright he stood as born to rule the storm, a creature of heroic blood, a proud though childlike form. The flames rolled on, he would not go without his father's word. That father faint in death below, his voice no longer heard. He called aloud, "'Say, father, say, if yet my task is done." He knew not that the chieftain lay unconscious of his son. Speak, father, once again he cried, "'If I may yet be gone." And but the booming shots replied and fast the flames rolled on. Upon his brow he felt their breath and in his waving hair and looked from that lone post of death in still yet brave despair and shouted but once more aloud, "'My father, must I stay?' While o'er him fast through sail and shroud the wreathing fires made way. They wrapped the ship in splendor wild, they caught the flag on high and streamed above the gallant child like banners in the sky. Then came a burst of thunder sound, the boy, oh, where was he? Ask of the winds that far around with fragments threw the sea. With mast and helm and pen and fair that well had borne their part but the noblest thing that perished there was that young, faithful heart. Felicia Hemmons, the captain's daughter. The captain's daughter by James T. Fields, 1816 to 1881, carries weight with every young audience. It is pointed to an edge that children love, vis trust in a higher power. We were crowded in the cabin, not a soul would dare to sleep. It was midnight on the waters and a storm was on the deep. His a fearful thing in winter to be shattered by the blast and to hear the rattling trumpet thunder cut away the mast. So we shuddered there in silence for the stoutest held his breath while the hungry sea was roaring and the breakers talked with death. As thus we sat in darkness, each one busy with his prayers, we are lost, the captain shouted as he staggered down the stairs. But his little daughter whispered as she took his icy hand. Isn't God upon the ocean just the same as on the land? Then we kissed the little maiden and we spoke in better cheer and we anchored safe in harbor when the mourn was shining clear. James T. Shields End of Section 7 Read by Kara Schallenberg and two noisy parakeets on October 9th, 2006 in Oceanside, California. Poems Every Child Should Know edited by Mary E. Burt Section 8 Read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schallenberg This section contains the following poems The Village Blacksmith Sweet and Low The Violet and The Rainbow Part 1 continued The Village Blacksmith Longfellow, 1807 to 1882 is truly the children's poet. His poems are as simple, pathetic, artistic and philosophical as if they were intended to tell the same everyday story of life to older people. The Village Blacksmith has been learned by thousands of children and there is no criticism to be put upon it. The age of the child has nothing whatever to do with his learning it. Age does not grade children nor is poetry holy to be so graded. Time is the false reply. Under a spreading chestnut tree The Village Smithy Stands The Village Smith, a mighty man is he with large and sinewy hands and the muscles of his brawny arms are strong as iron bands. His hair is crisp and black and long. His face is like the tan. His brow is wet with honest sweat. He earns whatever he can and looks the whole world in the face for he owes not any man. Week in, week out from more until night his bellows blow. You can hear him swing his heavy sledge with measured beat and slow like a sexton ringing the village bell when the evening sun is low. And children coming home from school look in at the open door. They love to see the flaming forge and hear the bellows roar and catch the burning sparks that fly like chaff from a threshing floor. He goes on Sunday to the church and sits among his boys. He hears the parson pray and preach. He hears his daughter's voice singing in the village choir and it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like her mother's voice singing in paradise. He needs must think of her once more how in the grave she lies and with his hard rough hand he wipes a tear out of his eyes. Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing onward through life he goes each morning sees some task begin, each evening sees it close. Something attempted, something done has earned a night's repose. Thanks, thanks to thee my worthy friend, for the lesson thou hast taught. Thus at the flaming forge of life our fortunes must be wrought. Thus on its sounding anvil shaped, each burning deed and thought. Henry W. Longfellow sweet and low sweet and low sweet and low wind of the western sea low, low, breathe and blow wind of the western sea over the rolling waters go come from the dropping moon and blow, blow him again to me while my little one my pretty one sleeps sleep and rest sleep and rest father will come to thee soon rest, rest on mother's breast father will come to thee soon father will come to his babe in the nest silver sails all out of the west under the silver moon sleep my little one sleep my pretty one sleep Alfred Tennyson The Violet The Violet by Jane Taylor 1783 to 1824 another of those dear old fashioned poems pure poetry and pure violet. It is included in this volume out of respect to my own love for it when I was a child. Down in a green and shady bed a modest violet grew its stock was bent it hung its head as if to hide from view and yet it was a lovely flower no colors bright and fair it might have graced a rosy bower instead of hiding there yet there it was content to bloom in modest tints arrayed and there diffused its sweet perfume within the silent shade then let me to the valley go this pretty flower to see that I may also learn to grow in sweet humility Jane Taylor The Rainbow A Fragment The Rainbow by William Wordsworth 1770 to 1850 accords with every child's feelings it voices the spirit of all ages that would love to imagine it a bridge to heaven my heart leaps up when I behold a rainbow in the sky so was it when my life began so is it now I am a man so be it when I shall grow old or let me die the child is father of the man and I could wish my days to be bound each to each by natural piety William Wordsworth End of Section 8 Read by Kara Schellenberg on October 9th 2006 in Oceanside, California Poems Every Child Should Know edited by Mary E. Burt Section 9 Read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schellenberg This section contains two poems A Visit from St. Nicholas and The Star-Spangled Banner Part 1 Continued A Visit from St. Nicholas A Visit from St. Nicholas by Clement Clark Moore 1779 to 1863 is the most popular Christmas poem ever written It carries Santa Claus on from year to year and the spirit of Santa Claus Twas the night before Christmas when all through the house not a creature was stirring not even a mouse kings were hung by the chimney with care in hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there The children were nestled all snug in their beds while visions of sugarplums danced in their heads and Mama in her kerchief and I in my cap had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter Away to the window I flew like a flash tore open the shutters and threw up the sash The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow gave the luster of midday to objects below when what to my wondering eyes should appear but a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer with a little old driver so lively and quick I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick More rapid than Ingalls his coarsers they came and he whistled and shouted and called them by name Now Dasher Now Dancer Now Prancer and Vixen On Comet On Cupid On Donder and Blitzen To the top of the porch To the top of the wall Now Dasher away, Dasher away, Dasher away all As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly when they meet with an obstacle mount to the sky so up to the house top the coarsers they flew with a sleigh full of toys and in a twinkling I heard on the roof the prancing and pawing of each little hoof as I drew in my head and was turning around down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound he was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot and his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot a bundle of toys he had flung on his back and he looked like a peddler just opening his pack his eyes how they twinkled his dimples how merry his cheeks were like roses his nose like a cherry his droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow and the beard of his chin was as white as the snow the stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth and the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath he had a broad face and a little round belly that shook when he laughed like a bowl full of jelly he was chubby and plump a right jolly old elf and I laughed when I saw him in spite of myself a wink of his eye and a twist of his head soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread he spoke not a word but went straight to his work and filled all the stockings then turned with a jerk and laying his finger aside of his nose and giving a nod up the chimney he rose he sprang to his sleigh to his team gave a whistle and away they all flew like the down on a thistle but I heard him exclaim ere he drove out of sight happy Christmas to all and to all a good night Clement Clark Moore the star-spangled banner oh say can you see by the dawn's early light what so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight or the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming and the rocket's red glare and the bombs bursting in air gave proof through the night that our flag was still there oh say does that star-spangled banner yet wave or the land of the free and the home of the brave on that shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep where the foes haughty host in dread silence reposes what is that which the breeze or the towering steep as it fitfully blows now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam in full glory reflected now shines on the stream tis the star-spangled banner oh long may it wave or the land of the free and the home of the brave and where is that band who so vauntingly swore that the havoc of war and the battle's confusion a home and a country should leave us no more their blood has washed out no refuge could save the hireling and slave from the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave and the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave or the land of the free and the home of the brave oh thus be it ever when free men shall stand between their loved homes and the war's desolation blessed with victory and peace may the heaven-rescued land conquer we must for our cause it is just and this be our motto in God is our trust and the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave or the land of the free and the home of the brave Francis Scott Key End of Section 9 Read by Karish Allenberg on October 10, 2006 in Oceanside, California Poems Every Child Should Know by Mary E. Burt Section 10 Read for LibriVox.org by Karish Allenberg This section contains two poems Father William and The Nightingale and the Glow Worm Part 1 Continued Father William Father William, a parody by Lewis Carroll, born 1833 is even more clever than the original. It's fun brightens the world. It takes a real genius to create wit that carries no sting. You are old, Father William, the young man said and your hair has become very white and yet you incessantly stand on your head do you think at your age it is right? In my youth Father William replied to his son I feared it might injure the brain but now that I'm perfectly sure I have none why and again and again you are old said the youth as I mentioned before and have grown most uncommonly fat yet you turned back somersault in at the door pray what is the reason of that in my youth said the sage as he shook his gray locks I kept all my limbs very supple by the use of this ointment one shilling the box allow me to sell you a couple you are old said the youth and your jaws are too weak for anything tougher than suet yet you finished the goose with the bones and the beak pray how did you manage to do it in my youth said his father I took to the law and argued each case with my wife and the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw has lasted the rest of my life you are old said the youth one would hardly suppose that your eye was as steady as ever yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose what made you so awfully clever I have answered three questions and that is enough said his father don't give yourself airs do you think I can listen all day to such stuff be off or I'll kick you downstairs Lewis Carroll the nightingale and the glowworm the nightingale by William Cowper 1731 to 1800 is a favourite with a teacher of good taste and I include it at her request a nightingale that all day long had cheered the village with his song nor yet at eve his note suspended nor yet when even tide was ended began to feel as well he might the keen demands of appetite when looking eagerly around he spied far off upon the ground a something shining in the dark and knew the glowworm by his spark so stooping down from Hawthorne top he thought to put him in his crop the worm aware of his intent harangued him thus right eloquent did you admire my lamp quote he as much as I your minstrel see you would abhor to do me wrong as much as I to spoil your song for twas the self same power divine taught you to sing and me to shine that you with music I with light might beautify and cheer the night the songster heard his short oration and warbling out his approbation released him as my story tells and found a supper somewhere else William Cowper and of section 10 read by Kara Schellenberg on October 10th 2006 in Oceanside, California poems every child should know edited by Mary E. Burt section 11 read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schellenberg this section contains the following poems Jack Frost The Owl and Little Billy Part 2 The Little Child The Frost Jack Frost by Hannah Flag Gould 1789 to 1865 is perhaps a hundred years old but he is the same rollicking fellow today as of yore the poem puts his merry pranks to the front and prepares the way for science to give him a true analysis the frost looked forth one still clear night and whispered now I shall be out of sight so through the valley and over the height in silence I'll take my way I will not go on with that blustering train the wind and the snow the hail and the rain who makes so much bustle and noise in vain but I'll be as busy as they then he flew to the mountain and powdered its crest he lit on the trees and their bows he dressed in diamond beads and over the breast of the quivering lake he spread a coat of mail that it need not fear the downward point of many a spear that hung on its margin far and near where a rock could rear its head he went to the windows of those who slept and over each pain like a fairy crept wherever he breathed wherever he slept by the life of the moon were seen most beautiful things there were flowers and trees there were bevvies of birds and swarms of bees there were cities with temples and towers and these all pictured in silver sheen but he did one thing that was hardly fair he peaked in the cupboard and finding there that all had forgotten for him to prepare now just to set them a thinking I'll bite this basket of fruit said he this costly pitcher I'll burst in three and the glass of water they've left for me shall chitch to tell them I'm drinking Hannah flag gould the owl when cats run home and light has come and dew is cold upon the ground and the far off stream is dumb and the whoring sale goes round and the whoring sale goes round alone and warming his five wits the white owl in the belfry sits when Mary milkmaids click the latch and rarely smells the new moon hay and the cock hath sung beneath the thatch twice or thrice his round delay twice or thrice his round delay alone and warming his five wits the white owl in the belfry sits Alfred Tennyson Little Billy Little Billy by William make peace Thackeray 1811 to 1863 finds a place here because it carries a good lesson good naturally rendered and accomplished teacher recommends it and I recollect two young children in Chicago who sang it frequently for years without getting tired of it there were three sailors in Bristol City who took a boat and went to sea but first with beef and captain's biscuits and pickled pork they loaded she there was gorging jack and guzzling Jimmy and the youngest he was little Billy now when they got so far as the equator they had nothing left but one split pea says gorging jack to guzzling Jimmy I am extremely hungry to gorging jack says guzzling Jimmy we've nothing left us must eat we says gorging jack to guzzling Jimmy with one another we shouldn't agree there's little bill he's young and tender we're old and tough so let's eat he oh Billy we're going to kill and eat you so undo the button of your shimmy when bill received this information he used his pocket handkerchief first let me say my catechism which my poor mammy taught to me make haste make haste as guzzling Jimmy while jack pulled out his snickers knee so billy went up to the main top gallant mast and down he fell on his bended knee he scarce had come to the twelfth commandment when up he jumps there's land I see Jerusalem and Madagascar and north and south America there's the British flag arriving at anchor with Admiral Napier KCB so when they got aboard of the admirals he hanged fat jack and flogged Jimmy but as for little bill he made him the captain of a 73 William Makepeace Thackeray end of section 11 read by Kara Schellenberg on October 12th, 2006 in Oceanside, California poems every child should know edited by Mary E. Burt section 12 read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schellenberg this section contains the following poems the butterfly and the bee an incident of the French camp and Robert of Lincoln part two continued the butterfly and the bee the butterfly and the bee by William Lyle Bowles 1762-1850 is recommended by some school girls it carries a lesson in favor of the worker me thought I heard a butterfly say to a laboring bee thou hast no colors of the sky on painted wings like me poor child of vanity those dyes and colors bright and rare with mild reproof the bee replies are all beneath my care content I toil from mourn to eve and scorning idleness to tribes of gaudy sloth and vanity of dress William Lyle Bowles an incident of the French camp an incident of the French camp by Robert Browning 1812-1889 is included in this volume out of regard to a boy of eight years who did not care for many poems but this one stirred his heart to its depths you know we French stormed Ratisbonne a mile or so away Napoleon stood on our storming day with neck out thrust you fancy how legs wide arms locked behind as if to balance the prone brow oppressive with its mind just as perhaps he mused my plans that soar to earth may fall let once my army leader Lannis waver at yonder wall out-twixed the battery smooks there flew a rider bound on bound full galloping nor bridal drew until he reached the mound then off there flung in smiling joy and held himself erect by just his horse's mane a boy you hardly could suspect so tight he kept his lips compressed scarce any blood came through you looked twice ere you saw his breast was all but shot in two well cried he emperor by God's grace we've got you Ratisbonne the marshals in the marketplace be there anon to see your flag bird flap his vans where I to heart's desire perched him the chief's eye flashed his plans soared up again like fire the chief's eye flashed but presently softened itself as she's a film the mother eagle's eye when her bruised eagle it breathes you're wounded nay the soldier's pride touched to the quick he said I'm killed sire his chief beside smiling the boy fell dead Robert Browning Robert of Lincoln Robert of Lincoln by William Cullen Bryant 1794 to 1878 is one of the finest bird poems ever written it finds a place here because I have seen it used effectively as a memory gem in the Cook County Normal School Colonel Parker School year after year and because my own pupils invariably like to commit it to memory with the child of six to the student of twenty years it stands a source of delight merrily swinging on briar and weed near to the nest of his little dame over the mountainside or mead Robert of Lincoln is telling his name bubbelink bubbelink spink spank spink snug and safe in this nest of ours hidden among the summer flowers chi chi chi Robert of Lincoln is gaily dressed wearing a bright black wedding coat white are his shoulders and white his crest hear him call in his merry note bubbelink bubbelink spink spank spink look what a nice new coat is mine sure there was never a bird so fine chi chi chi Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife pretty and quiet with plain brown wings passing at home a patient life broods in the grass while her husband sings bubbelink bubbelink spink spank spink brood kind creature you need not fear thieves and robbers while I am here chi chi chi modest and shy as a nun is she one week chirp is her only note braggart and prince of braggarts as he pouring boasts from his little throat bubbelink bubbelink spink spank spink never was I afraid of man catch me cowardly naves if you can chi chi chi 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 bubbelink bubbelink spink spank spink nice good wife that never goes out keeping house while I frolic about chi chi chi soon as the little ones chip the shell six wide mouths are open for food Robert of Lincoln besters him well gathering seeds for the hungry brood bubbelink bubbelink spink spank spink this new life is likely to be hard for a gay young fellow like me chi chi chi Robert of Lincoln at length is made sober with work and silent with care off is his holiday garment laid half forgotten that merrier bubbelink bubbelink spink spank spink nobody knows but my mate and I wear our nest and our nestlings lie chi chi chi summer wanes the children are grown fun and frolic no more he knows Robert of Lincoln's a hum drum drone off he flies and we sing as he goes bubbelink bubbelink spink spank spink when you can pipe that marriiled strain Robert of Lincoln come back again chi chi chi William Cullen Bryant End of section 12 read by Kara Schellenberg on October 12th, 2006 in Oceanside, California poems every child should know edited by Mary E. Burt section 13 read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schellenberg this section contains the following poems Old Grimes Song of Life and Fairy Song Part 2 continued Old Grimes Old Grimes is an heirloom an antique gem we learn it as a matter of course for its sparkle and glow Old Grimes is dead that good old man we now shall see him more he used to wear a long black coat all buttoned down before his heart was open as the day his feelings all were true his hair was some inclined to gray he wore it in a queue he lived at peace with all mankind in friendship he was true his coat had pocket holes behind his pantaloons were blue he modest merit sought to find and pay it its dessert he had no malice in his mind no ruffles on his shirt his neighbors he did not abuse was sociable and gay he wore large buckles on his shoes and changed them every day his knowledge hid from public gaze he did not bring to view nor make a noise town meeting days as many people do his worldly goods he never threw in trust to fortune's chances but lived as all his brothers do in easy circumstances thus undisturbed by anxious cares his peaceful moments ran and everybody said he was a fine old gentleman Albert Gorton Green song of life a traveler on a dusty road strewed acorns on the lee and one took root and sprouted up and grew into a tree love sought its shade at evening time to breathe its early vows and age was pleased in heights of noon to bask beneath its vows the doormouse loved its dangling twigs the sweet bird's music bore it stood a glory in its place a blessing ever more a little spring had lost its way amid the grass and fern a passing stranger scooped a well where weary men might turn he walled it in and hung with care a ladle on the brink he thought not of the deed he did but judged that toil might drink he passed again and lo the well by summer never dried had cooled ten thousand parched tongues and saved a life beside a nameless man amid the crowd that thronged the daily mart let fall a word of hope and love unstudied from the heart a whisper on the tumult throne a transitory breath it raised a brother from the dust it saved a soul from death oh germ, oh fount oh word of love, oh thought at random cast ye were but little at the first but mighty at the last Charles McKay Fairy song shed no tear, oh shed no tear the flower will bloom another year weep no more, oh weep no more young buds sleep in the roots white core dry your eyes, oh dry your eyes for I was taught in paradise to ease my breast of melodies shed no tear shed no tear overhead, look overhead among the blossoms white and red look up, look up I flutter now on this flush pomegranate bow see me, tis the silvery bell ever cures the good man's ill shed no tear, oh shed no tear the flowers will bloom another year I do, I do, I fly I do, I vanish in the heavens blue I do, I do I do, I do John Keats End of section 13 Read by Kara Schellenberg on October 12th, 2006 in Oceanside, California Poems Every Child Should Know Edited by Mary E. Burt Section 14 Read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schellenberg This section contains the following poems A Boy's Song Butter Cups and Daisies The Rainbow And Old Ironsides Part 2 continued A Boy's Song A Boy's Song A Boy's Song A Boy's Song by James Hogg 1770 to 1835 is a sparkling poem very attractive to children Where the pools are bright and deep Where the grey trout lies asleep Up the river and over the lee That's the way for Billy and me Where the blackbird sings the latest Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest Where the nestlings chirp and flee That's the way for Billy and me Where the mowers mow the cleanest Where the hay lies thick and greenest There to trace the homeward bee That's the way for Billy and me Where the hazelbank is steepest Where the shadow falls the deepest falls the deepest, where the clustering nuts fall free. That's the way for Billy and me. Why the boys should drive away little sweet maidens from the play, or love to banter and fight so well, that's the thing I never could tell. But this I know, I love to play through the meadow among the hay, up the water and over the lee. That's the way for Billy and me. James Hogg. Buttercups and daisies. Buttercups and daisies, oh the pretty flowers, coming ere the springtime, to tell of sunny hours. While the trees are leafless, while the fields are bare, Buttercups and daisies, spring up here and there. Ere the snow drop, peepeth, ere the crocus bold, ere the early primrose opens its paley gold. Somewhere on the sunny bank, Buttercups are bright. Somewhere among the frozen grass, peeps the daisy white. Little hardy flowers, like to children poor, playing in their sturdy health by their mother's door. Purple with the north wind, yet alert and bold. Fearing not and caring not, though they be a cold. What do them is winter? What are stormy showers? Buttercups and daisies are these human flowers. He who gave them hardships and a life of care, gave them likewise hardy strength and patient hearts to bear. Mary Howett. The Rainbow. Triumphal arch that fills the sky when storms prepare to part, I ask not proud philosophy to teach me what thou art. Still seem, as to my childhood's sight, a midway station given, for happy spirits to alight, betwixt the earth and heaven. Thomas Campbell. Old Ironsides. Old Ironsides by Oliver Wendell Holmes, 1809 to 1894, is learned readily. Children are untouched by the commercial spirit, which is the reproach of this age. Ingratitude is the vice of republics, and this poem puts to shame the love of money and the spirit of ingratitude that could let a national servant become a wreck. I tear her tattered ins and down, long has it waved on high, and many an eye has danced to see that banner in the sky. Beneath it rung the battle shout and burst the cannon's roar. The meteor of the ocean air shall sweep the clouds no more. Her deck, once red with hero's blood, where knelt the vanquished foe, when winds were hurrying or the flood and waves were white below. No more shall feel the victor's tread or know the conquered knee. The harpies of the shore shall pluck the eagle of the sea. Oh, better that her shattered hulk should sink beneath the wave! Her thunders shook the mighty deep, and there should be her grave. Nail to the mast her holy flag, set every threadbare sail, and give her to the god of storms, the lightning and the gale. Oliver Wendell Holmes. End of section 14, read by Kara Schallenberg on October 12th, 2006, in Oceanside, California. Poems Every Child Should Know, edited by Mary E. Burt. Section 15, read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schallenberg. This section contains the following poems. Little Orphaned Annie, and O Captain My Captain. Part two, continued. Little Orphaned Annie. Little Orphaned Annie certainly earns her board and keep when she has washed the dishes, swept up the crumbs, driven the chickens from the porch, and done all the other odds and ends of work on a farm. The poet, James Whitcomb Riley, or in 1853, has shown how truly a little child may be overtaxed and yet preserve a brave spirit and keen imagination. Children invariably love to learn this poem. Little Orphaned Annie's come to our house to stay, and wash the cups and saucers up, and brush the crumbs away, and shoe the chickens off the porch, and dust the hearth and sweep, and make the fire and bake the bread, and earn her board and keep. And all us other children, when the supper things is done, we set around the kitchen fire and has the mostest fun listening to the witch tales that Annie tells about, and the goblins at Yitzu, if you don't watch out. Once there was a little boy who wouldn't say his prayers, and when he went to bed at night, away upstairs, his mommy heard him holler, and his daddy heard him bawl, and when they turned the kivers down, he wasn't there at all. And they seeked him in the rafter room, and cubby-hole, and press, and seeked him up the chimbly flue, and everywhere, as I guess. But all they ever found was this his pants and roundabout, and the goblins will get you if you don't watch out. And one time a little girl, at all as laugh and grin, and make fun of everyone, and all her blood and kin, and once when they was company, and all folks was there, she mocked them, and shocked them, and said she didn't care. And this day she kicked her heels, and turned to run and hide. They was two great black things, a standing by her side, and they snatched her through the ceiling for she knowed what she's about, and the goblins will get you if you don't watch out. And little orphaned Annie says, when the blaze is blue, and the lamp wicks sputters, and the wind goes woo-hoo, and you hear the crickets quit, and the moon is gray, and the lightning bugs in dew is all squenched away. You better mind your parents, and your teachers, fond and dear, and cherish them, it loves you, and dry the orphans dear, and hep the poor and needy ones, at clusters all about, or the goblins will get you if you don't watch out. James Whitcomb Riley O Captain, My Captain O Captain, My Captain, by Walt Whitman, 1819 to 1892, is placed here out of compliment to a little boy aged ten, who wanted to recite it once a week for a year. This song and Edwin Markham's poem on Lincoln are two of the greatest tributes ever paid to that hero. O Captain, My Captain, our fearful trip is done. The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won. The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, while follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring. But O heart, heart, heart, O the bleeding drops of red, where on the deck my captain lies, fallen cold and dead. O Captain, My Captain, rise up and hear the bells, rise up, for you the flag is flung, for you the bugle trills, for you bouquets and ribbon wreaths, for you the shores are crowding, for you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning. Here, Captain, dear father, this arm beneath your head, it is some dream that on the deck you've fallen cold and dead. My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still. My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will. The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done. From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object one, exult, O shores and ring, O bells, but I with mournful tread. Walk the deck, my Captain, lies, fallen, cold and dead. Walt Whitman. End of section 15, read by Kara Schellenberg on October 12, 2006 in Oceanside, California. Poems Every Child Should Know, edited by Mary E. Burt. Section 16, read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schellenberg. This section contains the following poems. In Gratitude, The Ivy Green, The Noble Nature, and The Flying Squirrel. Part Two, Continued. In Gratitude. In Gratitude by William Shakespeare, 1564 to 1616, is an incisive thrust at a refined vice. It is a part of education to learn to be grateful. Blow, blow, thou winter wind, thou are not so unkind as man's in gratitude. Thy tooth is not so keen, because thou are not seen, although thy breath be rude. Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, thou dost not bite so nigh as benefits forgot. Though thou the water's warp, thy sting is not so sharp, as friend remembered not. William Shakespeare, The Ivy Green. The Ivy Green, by Charles Dickens, 1812 to 1870, is a hearty poem in honor of a hearty plant. There is a wonderful ivy growing at Rudlon in northern Wales. Its roots are so large and strong that they form a comfortable seat for many persons, and no one can remember when they were smaller. This ivy envelops a great castle in ruins. Every child in that locality loves the old ivy. It is typical of the ivy as seen all through Wales and England. Oh, a dainty plant is the ivy green that creepeth or ruins old. Of right choice food are his meals, I wean, in his cell so lone and cold. The walls must be crumbled, the stones decayed, to pleasure his dainty whim. And the mouldering dust that years have made is a merry meal for him. Creeping where no life is seen, a rare old plant is the ivy green. Fast he steeleth on, though he wears no wings, and a staunch old heart has he. How closely he twineeth, how tight he clings, to his friend the huge oak tree. And slyly he traileth along the ground, and his leaves he gently waves, and he joyously twines and hugs around the rich mould of dead men's graves. Creeping where no life is seen, a rare old plant is the ivy green. Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed, and nations have scattered been, but the stout old ivy shall never fade from its hail and hearty green. The brave old plant in its lonely days shall fatten upon the past, for the stateliest building man can raise is the ivy's food at last. Creeping where no life is seen, a rare old plant is the ivy green. Charles Dickens The Noble Nature The noble nature by Ben Johnson, 1574-1637, needs no plea. A small virtue well polished is better than none. It is not growing like a tree in bulk doth make man better be, or standing long an oak three hundred year to fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear. A lily of a day is fairer far in May, although it fall and die that night. It was the plant and flower of light. In small proportions we just beauties see, and in short measures life may perfect be. Ben Johnson The Flying Squirrel The Flying Squirrel is an honest account of a live creature that won his way into scores of hearts by his mad pranks and affectionate ways. It is enough that John Burroughs has commended the poem. Of all the woodland creatures, the quaintest little sprite, is the dainty flying squirrel in vest of shining white, in coat of silver gray and vest of shining white. Ben Johnson His furry Quaker jacket is trimmed with stripe of black. A furry plume to match it is curling o'er his back. New curved with every motion his plume curls o'er his back. No little newborn baby has pinker feet than he. Each tiny toe is cushioned with velvet cushions three. Three wee pink velvet cushions almost too small to see. Who said the foot of baby might tempt an angel's kiss? I know a score of school boys who put their lips to this. This wee foot of the squirrel and left a loving kiss. The tiny thief has hidden my candy and my plum. Ah, there he comes unbidden to gently nip my thumb. Down in his home, my pocket, he gently nips my thumb. How strange the food he covets, the restless, restless white. Fred's old stuffed armadillo he found attempting bite. Fred's old stuffed armadillo with ears a perfect fright. The Lady Ruth's great bureau, each foot a dragon's paw. The midget ate the nails from his famous antique claw. Oh, what a cruel beastie to hurt a dragon's claw. Two autographic copies upon my choicest shelf. To every dainty volume the rogue has helped himself. My books, oh dear, no matter. The rogue has helped himself. And yet, my little squirrel, your taste is not so bad. You've swallowed carrot completely and psychological lad. Rosmini you've digested and Kant in rags you've clad. Gnaw on my elfish rodent, lay all the sages low. My pretty lace and ribbons, they're yours for wheel or woe. My pocket books in tatters, because you like it so. Mary E. Burt. End of section 16, read by Kara Schellenberg on October 16th, 2006 in Oceanside, California. Poems Every Child Should Know, edited by Mary E. Burt. Section 17, read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schellenberg. This section contains the following poems. Warren's Address to the American Soldiers, The Song in Camp, and The Bugle Song. Part two, continued. Warren's Address to the American Soldiers. There is Never a Boy Who Objects to Learning, Warren's Address, by John Pierpont. 1785 to 1866. To stand by one's own rights is inherent in every true American. This poem is doubtless developed from Robert Burns' Benachburn. Stand. The ground's your own, my braves. Will ye give it up to slaves? Will ye look for greener graves? Hope ye mercy still? What's the mercy despots feel? Hear it in that battle peel. Read it on yarn bristling steel. Ask it, ye who will. Fear ye foes who kill for hire? Will ye to your home's retire? Look behind you. They're a fire. And before you see, who have done it? From the veil on they come, and will ye quail? Lead in rain and iron hail, let their welcome be. In the god of battle's trust, die we may and die we must, but oh, where can dust to dust be consigned so well? As where heaven its dew shall shed, on the martyred patriot's bed, and the rocks shall raise their head of his deeds to tell. John Pierpont. The Song in Camp. The Song in Camp is Bayard Taylor's best effort as far as young boys and girls are concerned. It is a most valuable poem. I once heard a clergyman in Chicago use it as a text for his sermon. Since then, Annie Laurie has become the song of the Labour Party. The Song in Camp voices a universal feeling. Give us a song, the soldiers cried, the outer trenches guarding. When the heated guns of the camps allied grew wearied of bombarding. The dark redhahn in silent scoff lay grim and threatening under, and the tawny mound of the Malikoff no longer belched its thunder. There was a pause. A guardsman said, We storm the forts to-morrow, sing while we may, another day we'll bring enough of sorrow. They lay along the batteries' side below the smoking cannon, brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde, and from the banks of Shannon. They sang of love and not of fame. Forgot was Britain's glory. Each heart recalled a different name, but all sang Annie Laurie. Voice after voice caught up the song until its tender passion rose like an anthem, rich and strong, their battle eve confession. Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, but as the song grew louder, something upon the soldier's cheek washed off the stains of powder. Beyond the darkening ocean burned the bloody sun-sets embers, while the Crimean valleys learned how English love remembers. And once again a fire of hell reigned on the Russian quarters, with scream of shot and burst of shell and bellowing of the mortars. And Irish Nora's eyes are dim for a singer Domen't Gory, and English Mary mourns for him who sang of Annie Laurie. Sleep soldiers, still in honoured rest, your truth and valor wearing, the bravest are the tenderest, the loving are the daring. Bayard Taylor The Bugle Song The Bugle Song by Alfred Tennyson, 1809-1890, says Hadrick, has for its central theme the undying power of human love. The music is notable for sweetness and for the love of love. The music is notable for sweetness and delicacy. The splendour falls on castle walls, and snowy summits old in story. The long light shakes across the lakes, and the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying. Blow, bugle, answer, echoes dying, dying, dying. Oh, hark, oh hear, how thin and clear and thinner, clearer, farther going. Oh, sweet and far from cliff and scar, the horns of Elfland faintly blowing. Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying. Blow, bugle, answer, echoes dying, dying, dying. Oh, love, they die in yon-rich sky, they faint on hill or field or river. Our echoes roll from soul to soul, and grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, and answer echoes answer, dying, dying, dying. Alfred Tennyson. End of Section 17. Read by Kara Schellenberg on October 16, 2006 in Oceanside, California. Poems Every Child Should Know. Edited by Mary E. Burt. Section 18. Read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schellenberg. This section contains the following poems. The Three Bells of Glasgow. And Sheridan's Ride. Part II Continued The Three Bells of Glasgow by Whiffier, 1807-1892 cannot be praised too highly for its ethical value. Children always love to learn it after hearing it read correctly, and by one who understands and appreciates it. Stand by is the motto. My pupils teach it to me once a year, and learn it themselves too. Beneath the low-hung night cloud that raked her splintering mast, the good ship settled slowly, the cruel leak gained fast. Over the awful ocean her signal-guns peeled out. Dear God, was that thy answer from the horror roundabout? A voice came down the wild wind. Ho, ship ahoy, it's cry! Our stout Three Bells of Glasgow shall stand till daylight by. Hour after hour crept slowly, yet on the heaving swells, tossed up and down the ship-lights, the lights of the Three Bells. And ship to ship made signals, man answered back to man, while off to cheer and hearten, the Three Bells nearer ran. And the captain from her taff rail set down his hopeful cry. Take heart, hold on, he shouted. The Three Bells shall stand by. All night across the waters, the tossing lights shone clear, all night from reeling taff rail, the Three Bells sent her cheer. And when the dreary watches of storm and darkness passed, just as the wreck lurched under, all souls were saved at last. Sail on, Three Bells, forever, in grateful memory sail. Ring on, Three Bells, of rescue, above the wave and gale. Type of the love eternal, repeat the master's cry, as tossing through our darkness, the lights of God draw nigh. John G. Whittier Sheridan's Ride There never was a boy who did not like Sheridan's Ride, by T. Buchanan Reed, 1822-1872. The swing and gallop in it take every boy off from his feet. The children never teach this poem to me, because they love to learn it at first sight. It is easily memorized. Up from the south, at break of day, bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, the affrighted air with a shudder bore, like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door. The terrible grumble and rumble and roar, telling the battle was on once more, and Sheridan twenty miles away. And wider still, those billows of war, thundered along the horizon's bar, and louder yet into Winchester rolled, the roar of that red sea uncontrolled, making the blood of the listener cold, as he thought of the steak in that fiery fray, and Sheridan twenty miles away. But there is a road from Winchester town, a good broad highway leading down, and there, through the flush of the morning light, a steed as black as the steeds of night was seen to pass by the town. The steeds of night was seen to pass as with eagle-flight, as if he knew the terrible need. He stretched away with his utmost speed. Hills rose and fell, but his heart was gay, with Sheridan fifteen miles away. Still sprung from those swift hooves thundering south, the dust like smoke from the cannon's mouth, or the trail of a comet sweeping faster and faster, foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster, the heart of the steed and the heart of the master were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, impatient to be where the battlefield calls. Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, with Sheridan only ten miles away. Under his spurning feet the road like an arrowy alpine river flowed, and the landscape sped away behind like an ocean flying before the wind, and the steed, like a bark fed with furnace fire, swept on with his wild eye full of ire, but lo, he is nearing his heart's desire, he is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, with Sheridan only five miles away. The first that the general saw were the groups of stragglers, and then the retreating troops. What was done, what to do, a glance told him both, then striking his spurs with a terrible oath he dashed down the line, mid a storm of hazzas, and the wave of retreat checked its course there because the sight of the master compelled it to pause. With foam and with dust the black charger was gray, by the flash of his eye and the red nostril's play he seemed to the whole great army to say, I have brought you Sheridan all the way from Winchester, down to save the day. Hurrah! Hurrah! for Sheridan! Hurrah! Hurrah! for horse and man! And when their statues are placed on high, under the dome of the Union sky, the American soldier's temple of fame, there with the glorious general's name be it said, in letters both bold and bright, here is the steed that saved the day, by carrying Sheridan into the fight from Winchester, twenty miles away. Thomas Buchanan Read End of Section 18 Read by Kara Schellenberg on October 16th 2006 in Oceanside, California Poems Every Child Should Know Edited by Mary E. Burt Section 19 Read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schellenberg This section contains two poems, The Sandpiper and Lady Claire. Part Two Continued The Sandpiper The Sandpiper by Celia Thakster, 1836-1894, is placed here because a goodly percentage of the children who read it want to learn it. Across the lonely beach we flit, one little sandpiper and I, and fast I gather bit by bit the scattered driftwood, bleached and dry. The wild waves reach their hands for it, the wild wind raves, the tide runs high, as up and down the beach we flit, one little sandpiper and I. Above our heads the sullen clouds scud black and swift across the sky, like silent ghosts in misty shrouds, stand out the white lighthouses high. Almost as far as I can reach I see the close reefed vessels fly, as fast we flit along the beach, one little sandpiper and I. I watch him as he skims along, uttering his sweet and mournful cry. He starts not at my fitful song, nor flash of fluttering drapery. He has no thought of any wrong, he scans me with a fearless eye. Stanch friends are we well tried and strong, a little sandpiper and I. Comrade, where wilt thou be tonight, when the lucid storm breaks furiously? My driftwood fire will burn so bright, to what warm shelter canst thou fly? I do not fear for thee, though wroth the tempest rushes through the sky. For are we not God's children both, thou little sandpiper and I? Celia Thakster Lady Claire Girls always love Lady Claire and the Lord of Burley. They like to think that it is enough to be a splendid woman without title or wealth. They want to be loved, if they are loved at all, for their good hearts and graces of mind. Tennyson, 1809-1892, makes this point repeatedly through his poems. It was the time when lilies blow and clouds are highest up in air. Lord Ronald brought a lily-white dough to give his cousin Lady Claire. I trow they did not part in scorn. Lovers long betrothed were they. They too will wed the morrow morn, God's blessing on the day. He does not love me for my birth, nor for my lands so broad and fair. He loves me for my own true worth, and that is well, said Lady Claire. In there came old Alice the Nurse, said, Who was this that went from thee? It was my cousin, said Lady Claire. To-morrow he weds with me. O God, be thanked, said Alice the Nurse, that all comes round so just and fair. Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands, and you are not the Lady Claire. Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse, said Lady Claire, that you speak so wild? As God's above, said Alice the Nurse, I speak the truth, you are my child. The old Earl's daughter died at my breast. I speak the truth, as I live by bread. I buried her like my own sweet child, and put my child in her stead. Falsely, falsely have ye done, oh mother, she said, if this be true, to keep the best man under the sun so many years from his due. Nay now, my child, said Alice the Nurse, but keep the secret for your life, and all you have will be Lord Ronald's when you are man and wife. If I'm a beggar-born, she said, I will speak out, for I dare not lie, pull off, pull off the brooch of gold, and fling the diamond necklace by. Nay now, my child, said Alice the Nurse, but keep the secret all ye can, she said, not so, but I will know if there be any faith in man. Nay now, what faith, said Alice the Nurse, the man will cleave unto his right. And he shall have it, the lady replied, though I should die to-night. Yet give one kiss to your mother, dear, alas, my child, I sinned for thee. Oh mother, mother, mother, she said, so strange it seems to me. Yet here is a kiss for my mother, dear, my mother dear, if this be so, and lay your hand upon my head, and bless me, mother, ere I go. She clad herself in a russet gown. She was no longer Lady Claire. She went by Dale, and she went by Down, with a single rose in her hair. The lily-white dough Lord Ronald had brought leapt up from where she lay, dropped her head in the maiden's hand, and followed her all the way. Down stepped Lord Ronald from his tower, Oh Lady Claire, you shame your worth. Why come you dressed like a village maid, that are the flower of the earth? If I come dressed like a village maid, I am but as my fortunes are. I am a beggar-born, she said, and not the Lady Claire. Play me no tricks, said Lord Ronald, for I am yours in word and deed. Play me no tricks, said Lord Ronald. Your riddle is hard to read. Oh, and proudly stood she up, her heart within her did not fail. She looked into Lord Ronald's eyes, and told him all her nurse's tale. He laughed a laugh of Maryscorn, he turned and kissed her where she stood. If you are not the heiress-born, and I, said he, the next in blood, if you are not the heiress-born, and I, said he, the lawful heir, we too will wed to-morrow morn, and you shall still be Lady Claire. Alfred Tennyson End of Section 19 Read by Kara Schallenberg on October 16, 2006, in Oceanside, California. This section contains one poem, The Lord of Burley. Part two continued. The Lord of Burley In her ear he whispers gaily, If my heart by signs can tell, Maiden, I have watched thee daily, and I think thou loves'd me well. She replies in accents fainter, There is none I love like thee. He is but a landscape painter, and a village maiden she. He tulips that fondly falter, presses his without reproof, Leads her to the village altar, and they leave her father's roof. I can make no marriage present, Little can I give my wife, Love will make our cottage pleasant, And I love thee more than life. They by parks and lodges going, See the lordly castle stand, Summer woods about them blowing, Made a murmur in the land. From deep thought himself he rouses, Says to her that loves him well, Let us see these handsome houses, Where the wealthy nobles dwell. So she goes by him attended, Hears him lovingly converse, Sees whatever fair and splendid, Lay betwixt his home and hers. Parks with oak and chestnut shady, Parks and ordered gardens great, Ancient homes of lord and lady, Built for pleasure and for state. All he shows her makes him dearer, Ever more she seems to gaze, On that cottage growing nearer, Where they twain will spend their days. Oh, but she will love him truly, He shall have a cheerful home, She will order all things duly, When beneath his roof they come. Thus her heart rejoices greatly, Till the gateway she discerns, With our more ill bearings stately, And beneath the gate she turns, Sees a mansion more majestic Than all those she saw before, Many a gallant gay domestic bows Before him at the door. And they speak in gentle murmur When they answer to his call, While he treads with footstep firmer, Leading on from hall to hall. And while now she wanders blindly, Nor the meaning can divine, Proudly turns he round and kindly, All of this she turns, All of this is mine and thine. Here he lives in state and bounty, Lord of Burley, fair and free, Not a lord in all the county Is so great a lord as he. All at once the color flushes, Her sweet face from brow to chin, As it were with same she blushes, And her spirit changed within. Then her countenance all over, Pale again as death did prove, But he clasped her like a lover, And he cheered her soul with love. So she strove against her weakness, Though at times her spirit sank, Shaped her heart with woman's weakness, To all duties of her rank. And a gentle consort made he, And her gentle mind was such That she grew a noble lady, And the people loved her much. But a trouble weighed upon her, And perplexed her night and morn, With the burden of an honor unto which She was not born. Faint she grew and ever fainter, As she murmured, Oh, that he were once more that Landscape painter, Which did win my heart from me. So she drooped and drooped before him, Fading slowly from his side. Three fair children first she bore him, Then before her time she died. Weeping, weeping, late and early, Walking up and pacing down, Deeply mourned the Lord of Burley, Early house by Stamford Town. And he came to look upon her, And he looked at her and said, Bring the dress and put it on her, That she wore when she was wed. Then her people softly treading, Bore to earth her body, Dressed in the dress that she was wed in, That her spirit might have rest. Alfred Tennyson End of section 20 Read by Kara Schallenberg on October 16, 2006 In Oceanside, California Poems Every Child Should Know Edited by Mary E. Burt Section 21 Read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schallenberg This section contains just one poem, Hiawatha's Childhood Hiawatha needs no commendation, Hundreds of thousands of children in our land No snatches of it. It is a children's poem, Every line of it. One summer in Boston, More than fifty thousand people Went to take a peep at the poet's house. By the shores of Gichigumi, By the shining big sea water, Stood the wigwam of Nokomis, Daughter of the moon, Nokomis. Dark behind it rose the forest, Rows the black and gloomy pine trees, Rows the furs with cones upon them, Bright before it beat the water, Beat the clear and sunny water, Beat the shining big sea water. There the wrinkled old Nokomis Nursed the little Hiawatha, Rocked him in his linden cradle, Bedded soft in moss and rushes, Safely bound with reindeer sinews, Stilled his fretful wail by saying, Hush, the naked bear will hear thee, Lulled him into slum-mercining, Ey, why ye, my little Owlette? Who is this that lights the wigwam? With his great eyes lights the wigwam, Ey, why ye, my little Owlette? Many things Nokomis taught him, Of the stars that shine in heaven, Showed him Ishkuda, the comet, Ishkuda with fiery tresses, Showed the death dance of the spirits, Warriors with their plumes and war clubs, Flaring far away to Northward In the frosty nights of winter, Showed the broad white road in heaven, Pathway of the ghosts, the shadows, Running straight across the heavens, Crowded with the ghosts, the shadows. At the door on summer evenings, Sat the little Hiawatha, Heard the whispering of the pine trees, Heard the lapping of the water, Sounds of music, words of wonder. Mini Wawa, said the pine trees, Mudway Oshka, said the water, Saw the firefly Wawa Tesi, Flipping through the dusk of evening, With a twinkle of its candle, Lighting up the breaks and bushes, And he sang the song of children, Sang the song Nokomis taught him, Wawa Tesi, little firefly, Little flitting white fire insect, Little dancing white fire creature, Light me with your little candle, Air upon my bed I lay me, Air in sleep I close my eyelids, Saw the moon rise from the water, Rippling rounding from the water, Saw the flecks and shadows on it, Whispered, what is that Nokomis? And the good Nokomis answered, Once a warrior, very angry, Seized his grandmother and threw her Up into the sky at midnight, Right against the moon he threw her, Tis her body that you see there. Saw the rainbow in the heaven, In the eastern sky the rainbow, Whispered, what is that Nokomis? And the good Nokomis answered, Tis the heaven of flowers you see there, All the wild flowers of the forest, All the lilies of the prairie, When on earth they fade and perish, Blossom in that heaven above us. When he heard the owls at midnight, Hooting, laughing in the forest, What is that? he cried in terror, What is that? he said, Nokomis. And the good Nokomis answered, That is but the owl and Owlette, Talking in their native language, Talking, scolding at each other. Then the little Hayawatha Learned of every bird its language, Learned their names and all their secrets, How they built their nests in summer, Where they hid themselves in winter, Talked with them when he met them, Called them Hayawatha's chickens. Of all beasts he learned the language, Learned their names and all their secrets, How the beavers built their lodges, Where the squirrels hid their acorns, How the reindeer ran so swiftly, Why the rabbit was so timid, Talked with them when he met them, Called them Hayawatha's brothers. Henry W. Longfellow End of section 21 Read by Kara Schellenberg On October 19th 2006 in Oceanside, California Poems every child should know Edited by Mary E. Burt Section 22 Read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schellenberg This section contains the following poems I wandered lonely as a cloud John barley corn And a life on the ocean wave Part 2 continued I wandered lonely as a cloud The daffodil is here out of compliment To a splendid school and a splendid teacher At Poughkeepsie I found the pupils learning the poem The teacher having placed a bunch of daffodils In a vase before them It was a charming lesson I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high or veils and hills When all at once I saw a crowd A host of golden daffodils Beside the lake, beneath the trees Fluttering and dancing in the breeze Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay Ten thousand saw I at a glance Tossing their heads in sprightly dance The waves beside them danced But they outdid the sparkling waves in glee A poet could not but be gay In such a jokun company I gazed and gazed But little thought what wealth The show to me had brought For oft went on my couch I lie in vacant or impensive mood They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude And then my heart with pleasure fills And dances with the daffodils William Wordsworth John Barleycorn John Barleycorn is a favorite with boys Because it pictures a successful struggle One editor has made a temperance poem of it Mistaking its true intent The poem is a strong expression of a plowman's love For a hearty food-giving grain Which has sprung to life through his efforts There were three kings into the east Three kings both great and high And they has sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn should die They took a plow and plowed him down Put clods upon his head And they has sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn was dead But the cheerful spring came kindly on And showers began to fall John Barleycorn got up again And sore surprised them all The sultry suns of summer came And he grew thick and strong His head well armed with pointed spears Had no one should him wrong The sober autumn entered mild And he grew wan and pale His bending joints and drooping head Showed he began to fail His color sickened more and more He faded into age And then his enemies began To show their deadly rage They took a weapon long and sharp And cut him by the knee Then tied him fast upon a cart Like a rogue for forgery They laid him down upon his back And cuddled him full sore They hung him up before the storm And turned him all in awe They filled up then a dark some pit With water to the brim And heaved in poor John Barleycorn To let him sink or swim They laid him out upon the floor To work him further woe And still as signs of life appeared They tossed him to and fro They wasted or scorching flame The marrow of his bones But a miller used him worst of all He crushed him between two stones And they have taken his very heart's blood And drunk it round and round And still the more and more they drank Their joy did more abound Robert Burns A life on the ocean wave A life on the ocean wave By Epez Sarjan 1813-80 Gives the swing and motion of the water Of the great ocean Children remember it almost unconsciously After hearing it read several times A life on the ocean wave A home on the rolling deep Where the scattered waters rave And the winds their revels keep Like an eagle cage dye pine On this dull and changing shore Oh, give me the flashing brine The spray and the tempest's roar Once more on the deck I stand Of my own swift gliding craft Set sail farewell to the land The gale follows fair abaft We shoot through the sparkling foam Like an ocean bird set free Like the ocean bird our home We'll find far out on the sea The land is no longer in view The clouds have begun to frown But with a stout vessel and crew We'll say let the storm come down And the song of our hearts shall be While the winds and the waters rave A home on the rolling sea A life on the ocean wave Epez Sarjan End of section 22 Read by Kara Schellenberg on October 19th 2006 In Oceanside, California Poems every child should know Edited by Mary E. Burt Section 23 Read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schellenberg This section contains two poems The Death of the Old Year and Abu Ben Adem Part 2 continued The Death of the Old Year It is customary every New Year's Eve in America to ring bells, fire guns, send up rockets, and in many other ways to show joy and gratitude that the Old Year has been so kind and that the New Year is so auspicious The emphasis in Tennyson's poem is laid on gratitude for past benefits so easily forgotten rather than upon the possible advantages of the unknown and untried future Full knee-deep lies the winter snow and the winter winds are wearily sighing Tolly the church bells add and slow and tread softly and speak low for the Old Year lies a-dying Old Year you must not die you came to us so readily you lived with us so steadily Old Year you shall not die He lieth still he doth not move he will not see the dawn of day he hath no other life above he gave me a friend and a true true love and the New Year will take him away Old Year you must not go as soon as you have been with us such joy as you have seen with us, Old Year you shall not go he frothed his bumpers to the brim a jollier year we shall not see but though his eyes are waxing dim and though his foes speak ill of him he was a friend to me Old Year you shall not die we did so laugh and cry with you I have half a mind to die with you Old Year if you must die he was full of joke and jest but all his merry quips are o'er to see him die across the waist his sun and air doth ride post haste but he'll be dead before everyone for his own the night is star and cold my friend and the New Year, blight and bold my friend comes up to take his own How hard he breathes over the snow I heard just now the crowing cock the shadows flicker to and fro the cricket chirps the light burns low to his nearly twelve o'clock shake hands before you die Old Year we'll dearly rue for you what is it we can do for you speak out before you die his face is growing sharp and thin a lack our friend is gone close up his eyes tie up his chin step from the corpse and let him in that standeth there alone and waiteth at the door there's a new foot on the floor my friend a new face at the door my friend a new face at the door Alfred Tennyson Abub and Adam Abub and Adam has won its way to the popular heart because the brotherhood of man is the motto of this age Abub and Adam may his tribe increase awoke one night from a deep dream of peace and saw within the moonlight in his room making it rich and like a lily in bloom an angel writing in a book of gold exceeding peace had made Ben Adam bold and to the presence in the room he said what right is thou the vision raised its head and with a look made of all sweet accord answered the names of those who love the lord and is mine one said Abub nay not so replied the angel Abub spoke more low but cheerily still and said I pray thee then write me as one that loves his fellow men the angel wrote and vanished the next night it came again with a great wakening light and showed the names whom love of God had blessed and low Ben Adam's name led all the rest Lee Hunt End of section 23 read by Kara Schellenberg on October 19th 2006 in the Oceanside California poems every child should know edited by Mary E. Burt section 24 read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schellenberg this section contains just one poem a farmyard song part 2 continued farmyard song a farmyard song was popular years ago with Burbank the great reader how the boys and girls loved it here J. T. Trowbridge born 1827 is a boy-hearted man says John Burroughs the poem is just as popular as it ever was over the hill the farm boy goes his shadow lengthens along the land a giant staff in a giant hand in the poplar tree above the spring the Katie did begins to sing the early do's are falling into the stone heap darts the mink hollows skim the river's brink and home to the woodland fly the crows when over the hill the farm boy goes cheerily calling co boss co boss farther farther over the hill faintly calling calling still co boss co boss into the yard the farmer goes with grateful heart at the close of day harness and chain are hung away in the wagon shed stand yoke and plow the straws in the stack the hay in the mow the cooling do's are falling the friendly sheep his welcome bleat the pigs come grunting to his feet the whinnying mare her master knows went into the yard the farmer goes his cattle calling co boss co boss co co co while still the cowboy far away goes seeking those that have gone astray co boss co boss co co now to her task the milk maid goes the cattle come crowding through the gate lowing pushing little and great about the trough by the farmyard pump the frolic some yearlings frisk and jump while the pleasant do's are falling the new milch heifer is quick and shy but the old cow waits with a tranquil eye and the white stream into the bright pale flows when to her task the milk maid goes soothingly calling so boss so boss so so so the cheerful milk maid takes her stool and sits and milks in the twilight cool saying so so boss so so to supper at last the farmer goes the apples are paired the paper red the stories are told then all to bed without the crickets ceaseless song makes shrill the silence all night long the heavy do's are falling the housewife's hand has turned the lock drowsily ticks the kitchen clock the household sinks to deep repose but still in sleep the farm boy goes singing calling co boss co boss co co co co and off to the milk maid in her dreams drums in the pale with the flashing streams murmuring so boss so J.T. Troughbridge end of section 24 read by Kara Schellenberg on October 19th 2006 in Oceanside, California poems every child should know edited by Mary E. Burt section 25 read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schellenberg this section contains two poems to a mouse and to a mountain daisy part two continued to a mouse on turning up her nest with the plow November 1785 to a mouse and to a mountain daisy by Robert Burns 1759 to 1796 are the ineffable touches of tenderness that illumine the sturdy plowman the contrast between the strong man and the delicate flower or creature at his mercy makes tenderness in man a vital point in character the lines to a mouse seem by report to have been composed while Burns was actually plowing one of the poets first editors wrote John Blaine who had acted as godsmen to Burns and who lived 60 years afterward had a distinct recollection of the turning up of the mouse like a thoughtless youth as he was he ran after the creature to kill it but was checked and recalled by his master who he observed became thoughtful and abstracted Burns who treated his servants with the familiarity of fellow laborers soon afterward read the poem to Blaine we sleek it cower and timorous beastie oh what a panic's in thy breastie now needn't a start away so hasty with bicker and brattle I would be laith to ren and chase thee with murder and prattle I'm truly sorry man's dominion has broken nature social union and justifies that ill opinion which makes the startle at me thy poor earth-born companion and fellow mortal I doubt no while's but thou may thief what then poor beastie thou mon live I dame a nicker and a thrave so smart request I'll get a blessing with a lave and never missed thy wee bit howzy to in ruin it's silly was the winds are strewn and naithing now too big a new inn a foggage green and bleak December's winds ensuing Bethsnell and Keane thou saw the fields laid bare and waste and weary winter coming fast and cozy here beneath the blast thou thought to dwell till crash the cruel culter passed out through thy cell that wee bit he believes and stibble has cost the money a weary nibble now thou's turned out for all thy trouble but house or howl to thaw the winter sleety dribble and crunroch called but mousy thou art know thy lane in proving foresight may be vain the best-laid schemes of mice and men gang after clay and liest not but grief and pain for promised joy still thou art blessed compared with me the present only touches thee but oh I backward cast my A on prospects drear and forward though I cannot see I guess and fear Robert urns to a mountain daisy on turning one down with the plow in April 1786 we modest crimson tipped flower thou's met me in an evil hour for I'm on crush among the store thy slender to spare thee now is past my power thou Bonnie gem alas it's no thy neighbor sweet the Bonnie lark companion meet bending thee among the dewy wheat with speckled breast when upward springing blithe to greet the purpling east called blue the bitter biting north upon thy early humble birth yet cheerfully thou glinted forth amid the storm scarce reared above the parent earth farm the flaunting flowers our gardens yield high sheltering woods and wasmon shield but thou a beneath the random build a Claude or stain adorns the histy field unseen a lane there in thy scanty mantle clad thy snowy bosom sunward spread thou lifts thy unassuming head in humble guise but now the share up tears thy bed and low thou lies such is the fate of artless maid sweet flower it of the rural shade by love's simplicity betrayed and guileless trust till she like thee all soiled is laid low in the dust such is the fate of simple Bard on life's rough ocean luckless starred unskillful he to note the card of prudent lore till billows rage and blow hard and whelm him o'er such fate to suffering worth is given who long with wants and woes has striven by human pride or cunning driven to misery's brink till wrenched of every stay but heaven he ruined sink even thou who mort'st the daisy's fate that fate is thine no distant date stern ruins plowshare drives elate full on thy bloom till crushed beneath the furrow's weight shall be thy doom Robert Burns End of Section 25 Read by Kara Schellenberg on October 19, 2006 in Oceanside, California Poems Every Child Should Know Edited by Mary E. Burt Section 26 Read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schellenberg This section contains just one poem, Barbara Fritchie Part 2 continued Barbara Fritchie will be beloved of all times because she was an old woman not necessarily an old lady worthy of her years old age is honorable if it carries ahead that has a halo Up from the meadows rich with corn clear in the cool September morn the clustered spires of Frederick stand green walled by the hills of Maryland round about them orchards sweep, apple and peach tree fruited deep fair as the garden of the Lord to the eyes of the famished rebel horde on that pleasant morn of the early fall when Lee marched over the mountain wall over the mountains winding down horse and foot into Frederick town 40 flags with their silver stars 40 flags with their crimson bars wrapped in the morning wind the sun of noon looked down and saw not one up rose old Barbara Fritchie then bowed with her four score years and ten bravest of all in Frederick town she took up the flag the men hauled down in her attic window the staff she set to show that one heart was loyal yet up the street came the rebel tread stone wall Jackson riding ahead under his slouched hat left and right he glanced the old flag met his sight halt the dust brown ranks stood fast fire out blazed the rifle blast it shivered the window pain and sash it rent the banner with seam and gash quick as it fell from the broken staff Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf she leaned far out on the windowsill and shook it forth with a royal will if you must this old gray head but spare your country's flag she said a shade of sadness a blush of shame over the face of the leader came the nobler nature within him stirred to life at that woman's deed and word who touches a hair of young gray head dies like a dog march on he said all day long through Frederick street sounded the tread of marching feet all day long that free flag tossed over the heads of the rebel host even its torn folds rose and fell on the loyal winds that loved it well and through the hill gaps sunset light shone over it with a warm good night Barbara Fritchie's work is o'er and the rebel rides on his raids no more honor to her and let a tear fall for her sake on stonewall spear over Barbara Fritchie's grave flag of freedom and union peace and order and beauty draw round thy symbol of light and law and ever the stars above look down on thy stars below in Frederick town John G. Whittier end of section 26 read by Kara Schellenberg on October 19th 2006 in Oceanside, California poems every child should know edited by Mary E. Burt section 27 read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schellenberg this section contains just one poem Lockenvarr part 3 The Days at the Mourn Lockenvarr Lockenvarr and Lord Ullin's Daughter the first by Scott 1771 to 1832 and the second by Campbell 1777 to 1844 our companions in sentiment and equally popular with boys who love to win anything desirable by heroic effort oh young Lockenvarr has come out of the west through all the wide border his steed was the best and save his good broadsword he weapons had none he rode all unarmed and he rode all alone so faithful in love and so dauntless in war there never was night like the young Lockenvarr he stayed not for break and he stopped not for stone he swam the Esk River where Ford there was none but ere he alighted at Netherby gate the bride had consented the gallant came late for a laggard in love and a dastard in war was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lockenvarr so boldly he entered the Netherby hall among bridesmen and kinsmen and brothers and all then spoke the bride's father his hand on his sword even bridegroom said never a word oh come ye in peace here or come ye in war or to dance at our bridle young Lord Lockenvarr I long would your daughter my suit you denied love swells like the Solway but ebbs like its tide and now am I come with this lost love of mine to lead but one measure drink one cup of wine there are maidens in Scotland to kindly be bride to the young Lockenvarr the bride kissed the goblet the knight took it up he quaffed of the wine and he threw down the cup she looked down to blush and she looked up to sigh with a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye he took her soft hand ere her mother could bar now tread we a measure said young Lockenvarr while her mother did fret and her father did fume and the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume and the bride maidens whispered to her better by far to have matched our fair cousin with young Lockenvarr one touch to her hand and one word in her ear when they reached the hall door and the charger stood near so light to the group the fair lady he swung so light to the saddle she is one we are gone over bank bush and scour they'll have fleet steeds that follow quote young Lockenvarr there was mounting mung grains of the netherby clan forsters fenwicks and musgraves they rode and they ran there was racing and chasing on cannaby lee but the lost bride of netherby ne'er did they see so daring in love and so dauntless in war have you ere heard of gallant like young Lockenvarr Sir Walter Scott end of section 27 read by Kara Schellenberg on October 20th 2006 in Oceanside California poems every child should know edited by Mary E. Burt section 28 read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schellenberg this section contains two poems Lord Ullin's Daughter and The Charge of the Light Brigade part 3 continued Lord Ullin's Daughter a chieftain to the Highlands Bound cries boatman do not tarry and I'll give thee a silver pound to row us or the ferry now who be ye would cross Loch Gile this dark and stormy water oh I'm the chief of Ulva's Isle and this Lord Ullin's Daughter and fast before her father's men three days we've fled together for should he find us in the glen my blood would stain the heather his horsemen hard behind us ride should they are steps discover then who will cheer my Bonnie Bride when they have slain her lover out spoke the hardy Highland White I'll go my chief I'm ready it is not for your silver bright but for your winsome lady and by my word the Bonnie Bird in danger shall not tarry so though the waves are raging and by my word so though the waves are raging white I'll row you or the ferry by this the storm grew loud apace the water wraith was shrieking and in the scowl of heaven each face grew dark as they were speaking but still as wilder blew the wind and as the night grew drearer a down the glen rode arm and men their trampling sounded nearer oh haste the haste the lady cries though tempests round us gather I'll meet the raging of the skies but not an angry father the boat has left a stormy land a stormy sea before her when oh too strong for human hand the tempest gathered over her and still they rode amid the roar of water's fast prevailing Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore his wrath was changed to wailing for sore dismayed through storm and shade his child he did discover one lovely hand she stretched for aid and one was round her lover come back come back he cried in grief across this stormy water and I'll forgive your Highland chief my daughter oh my daughter twas vain the loud waves lashed the shore return or aid preventing the water's wild went or his child and he was left lamenting Thomas Campbell the charge of the light brigade the charge of the light brigade unlike Casablanca shows obedience under stern necessity obedience is the salvation of any army John Burroughs says I never hear that poem but what it thrills me through and through half a league half a league half a league onward all in the valley of death rode the 600 forward the light brigade charge for the guns he said into the valley of death rode the 600 forward the light brigade was their man dismayed not though the soldier knew someone had blundered there's not to make reply there's not to reason why there's but to do and die into the valley of death rode the 600 cannon to right of them cannon to left of them cannon in front of them volleyed and thundered stormed at with shot and shell boldly they rode and well into the jaws of death into the mouth of hell rode the 600 flashed all their sabers bare flashed as they turned in air sabering the gunners there charging an army while all the world wondered plunged in the battery smoke right through the line they broke reeled from the sabers stroke shattered and thundered then they rode back but not not the 600 cannon to right of them cannon to left of them cannon behind them volleyed and thundered stormed at with shot and shell while horse and hero fell they that had fought so well came through the jaws of death back from the mouth of hell all that was left of them thundered when can their glory fade oh the wild charge they made all the world wondered honor the charge they made honor the light brigade noble 600 Alfred Tennyson End of section 28 read by Kara Schellenberg on October 20th 2006 in Oceanside, California poems every child should know edited by Mary E. Burt section 29 read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schellenberg this section contains two poems the tournament and the wind and the moon part three continued the tournament there are several of Sidney Lanier's poems that children love to learn Tampa Robbins the tournament, just one Barnacles, the song of the Chattahoochee and the first steamboat up the Alabama are among them at our poetry contests the children have plainly demonstrated that this great poet has reached his hand down to the youngest the time will doubtless come when it will be a part of the education to be acquainted with Lanier as it is now to be acquainted with Longfellow or Tennyson bright shone the lists blue bent the skies and the nights still hurry domain with his eyes where the jousters were heart and brain flourished the trumpets entered heart a youth in crimson and gold flourished again brain stood apart steel armored dark and cold heart's palfrey caracald gaily round heart trollerad merrily but brain sat still with never a sound so cynical calm was he heart's helmet crest bore favors three from his ladies hand caught while brain wore a plume-less cask not he of favor gave or sought the trumpet blew heart shot a glance to catch his ladies eye but brain gazed straight ahead his lance to aim more faithfully they charged they struck both fell both bled brain rose again ungloved heart dying smiled and faintly said my love to my beloved sydney lanyer the wind and the moon little laddie do you remember learning the wind and the moon you were eight or nine years old and you shut your eyes and puffed out your cheeks when you came to the line he blew and he blew the saucy wind made a great racket and the calm moon never noticed it that gave you a great deal of pleasure didn't it we did not care much for the noisy conceited wind said the wind to the moon I will blow you out you stare in the air like a ghost in a chair always looking what I am about I hate to be watched I'll blow you out the wind blew hard and out went the moon so deep on a heap of clouds to sleep down lay the wind and slumbered soon muttering low I've done for that moon he turned in his bed she was there again with her one ghost eye the moon shown white and alive and plain said the wind I will blow you out again the wind blew hard and the moon grew dim with my sledge and my wedge I have knocked off her edge if only I blow right fierce and grim the creature will soon be dimmer than dim he blew and he blew and she thinned to a thread one puff more is enough to blow her to snuff one good puff more where the last was bred and glimmer glimmer glum will go the thread he blew a great blast and the thread was gone in the air nowhere was a moonbeam bare far off and harmless the shy stars shone sure and certain the moon was gone the wind he took to his revels once more on down in town like a merry mad clown he leaped and hallowed with whistle and roar what's that the glimmering thread once more he flew in a rage he danced and blew but in vain was the pain of his bursting brain for still the broader the moon scrap grew the broader he swelled his big cheeks and blew slowly she grew till she filled the night and shone on her throne in the sky alone a matchless wonderful silvery light radiant and lovely the queen of the night said the wind what a marvel of power am I with my breath good faith I blew her to death first blew her away right out of the sky then blew her in what strength have I but the moon she knew nothing about the affair for high in the sky with her one white eye motionless miles above the air she had never heard the great wind Blair George McDonald End of Section 29 Read by Kara Schellenberg on October 20th, 2006 in Oceanside, California Poems Every Child Should Know Edited by Mary E. Burt Section 30 Read for LibraVox.org by Kara Schellenberg This section contains the following poems Jesus the Carpenter Let He's Globe A Dream And Heaven Is Not Reached At A Single Bound Part Three Continued Jesus the Carpenter Jesus the Carpenter Same Trade As Me Strikes A High Note In Favour Of Honest Toil Isn't This Joseph's Son I It Is He Joseph the Carpenter Same Trade As Me I Thought As I'd Find It I Knew He Was Here His Shed Must Have Stood But Often As I've Been A Planing My Wood I've Took Off My Hat Just With Thinking Of He At The Same Work As Me He Weren't That Set Up That He Couldn't Stoop Down And Work In The Country For Folks In The Town And I Weren't He Felt A Bit Pride Like I've Done At A Good Job Begun The Person He Knows That I'll Not Make Too Free But On Sunday I Feels As Pleased As Can Be And Has Taught A Few I Think Of As How Not The Person His Son As His Teacher And Father And Shepherd A Men Not He Knows As Much Of The Lord In That Shed Where He Earned His Own Red And When I Goes Home To My Misses Says She Are You Wanting Your Key For She Knows My Queer Ways And My Love For The Shed We've Been Forty Years Wed So I Comes Right Away With My Son With The Book And I Turns The Old Pages And Has A Good Look For The Text As I Found As Tell Me As He Were The Same Trade As Me Why Don't I Mark It? Ah Many Say So But I Think I'd Asleaf With Your Leaves Let It Go It Do Seem That Nice When I Fall On It Suddenly Unexpected You Know Catherine C. Liddell Letty's Globe A Old And Haired Girl Who Covers All Europe With Her Dainty Hands And Tresses While Giving A Kiss To England Her Own Dear Native Land When Letty Had Scarce Past Her Third Glad Year And Her Young Artless Words Began To Flow One Day We Gave The Child A Colored Sphere Of The Wide Earth That She Might Mark And Know By Tint And Outline All At Sea And Land She Patted All The World With Her Fingers Her Soft Hand Was Welcome At All Frontiers How She Leaped And Laughed And Prattled In Her Worldwide Bliss But When We Turned Her Sweet Unlearned Eye On Our Own Isle She Raised A Joyous Cry Oh Yes I See It Letty's Home Is There And While She Hid All England With A Kiss Bright Over Europe A Dream Once A Dream Did Wave A Shade Or My Angel Guarded Bed That An Emmett Lost Its Way Went On Grass Me Thought I Lay Troubled, Wildered And Forlorn Dark, Benighted, Travel Worn Over Many A Tangled Spray All Heart Broke I Heard Her Say Oh My Children Do They Cry Do They Hear Their Father sigh Now They Look Abroad To See Now Return And Weep For Me Oh My Children Do They Cry Now Return And Weep For Me Pitying I Dropped A Tear But I Saw A Glow Worm Near Who Replied What Wailing White Calls The Watchman Of The Night I Am Set To Light The Ground While The Beetle Goes His Round Follow Now The Beetle's Hum Little Wanderer High Thee Home William Blake Heaven Is Not Reached At A Single Bound We Build The Ladder By Which We Climb Is A Line Worthy Of Any Poet J. G. Holland 1819-1881 Has Immortalized Himself In This Line At Least Heaven Is Not Reached At A Single Bound But We Build The Ladder By Which We Rise From The Lowly Earth To The Vaulted Skies And We Mount To Its Summit Round By Round Be Grandly True That A Noble Deed Is A Step Toward God Lifting The Soul From The Common Claw To A Pureer Air And A Broader View J. G. Holland End Of Section 30 Read By Kara Schallenberg On October 20th, 2006 In Oceanside, California Oems Every Child Should Know Edited By Mary E. Burt Section 31 Read For LibriVox.org By Kara Schallenberg This section contains just one poem The Battle Of Blenheim Part 3, continued The Battle Of Blenheim Have you been to Woodstock, near Oxford, England? If so, you have seen the palace of the Duke of Marlborough who won the Battle Of Blenheim. The main point of the poem is the doubtful honouring killing in our great wars. Southie, the poet lived from 1774 to 1843. It was a summer's evening, old Casper's work was done and he, before his cottage door was sitting in the sun and by him sported on the green his little grandchild, Wilhelmine. She saw her brother Peter can roll something large and round which he, beside the rivulet in playing there, had found. He came to ask what he had found that was so large and smooth and round. Old Casper took it from the boy who stood expectant by and then the old man shook his head and with a natural sigh his some poor fellow's skull said he who fell in the great victory. I find them in the garden for there's many here about and often when I go to plow the plowshare turns them out for many thousand men said he were slain in that great victory. Now tell us what was all about young Peter can he cries and little Wilhelmine looks up with wonder waiting eyes. Now tell us all about the war and what they killed each other for. It was the English, Casper cried who put the French to rout but what they killed each other for I could not well make out but everybody said, quote he that was a famous victory. My father lived at Glenham then young little stream hard by. They burned his dwelling to the ground and he was forced to fly so with his wife and child he fled nor had he where to rest his head. With fire and sword the country round was wasted far and wide and many a childing mother then and newborn baby died but things like that you know must be at every famous victory. They say it was a shocking sight after the fields was won and a thousand bodies here lay rotting in the sun but things like that you know must be after a famous victory. Great praise the Duke of Marlborough won and our good Prince Eugene. Why it was a very wicked thing said little Wilhelmine. Nay, nay my little girl, quote he it was a famous victory and everybody praised the Duke who this great fight did win but what good came of it at last quote little Peter Kinn. Why that I cannot tell said he but it was a famous victory. Robert Southie. End of section 31 read by Kara Schellenberg on October 25th 2006 in Oceanside California. Poems every child should know edited by Mary E. Burt section 32 read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schellenberg this section contains two poems Fidelity and The Chambered Nautilus Part 3 continued Fidelity Fidelity by William Wordsworth 1770 to 1850 is placed here out of respect to a boy of 11 years who liked the poem well enough to recite it frequently. The scene is laid on Havelen to me the most impressive mountain of the Lake District of England. Wordsworth is a part of this country. I once heard John Burroughs say I went to the Lake District to see what kind of a country it could be that would produce a Wordsworth. A barking sound the shepherd hears a cry as of a dog or fox he halts and searches with his eyes among the scattered rocks and now at distance can discern a stirring in a break of fern the dog is seen glancing through that covert green the dog is not of mountain breed its motions too are wild and shy with something as the shepherd thinks unusual in its cry nor is there anyone in sight all round in hollow or on height nor shout nor whistle strikes his ear what is the creature doing here it was a cove a huge recess that keeps till June December snow a lofty precipice in front a silent tarn below far in the bosom of Havelan remote from public road or dwelling pathway or cultivated land from trace of human foot or hand there sometimes off a leaping fish send through the tarn a lonely cheer the crags repeat the ravens croak in symphony austere bither the rainbow comes the cloud and mists that spread the flying shroud and sunbeams and the sounding blast that if it could would hurry past but that enormous barrier binds it fast not free from boating thoughts a while the shepherd stood then makes his way toward the dog or rocks and stones as quickly as he may nor far had gone before he found a human skeleton on the ground the appalled discoverer with a sigh looks round to learn the history from those abrupt and perilous rocks the man had fallen that place of fear at length upon the shepherd's mind it breaks and all is clear he instantly recall the name and who he was and whence he came remember too the very day on which the traveler passed this way but here a wonder for whose sake this lamentable tale I tell a lasting monument of words this wonder merits well the dog which still was hovering nigh repeating the same timid cry the dog had been through three months space a dweller in that savage place yes proof was plain that since the day when this ill-fated traveler died the dog had watched about the spot or by his master's side how nourished here through such long time he knows who gave that love sublime and gave that strength of feeling great above all human estimate William Wordsworth the chambered nautilus people are more and more coming to recognize the fact that each individual soul has a right to its own stages of development the chambered nautilus is for that reason beloved of the masses it is one of the grandest poems ever written build thee more stately mansions oh my soul this line alone would make the poem immortal this is the ship of pearl which poets feign sailed the unshadowed mane the venturous bark that flings on the sweet summer wind its purple wings in gulfs enchanted where the siren sings and coral reef sly bear where the cold sea maids rise to sun their streaming hair its webs of living gauze no more unfurl wrecked is the ship of pearl and every chambered cell where its dim dreaming life was want to dwell as the frail tenant shaped his growing shell before the lies revealed its iris sealing rent its sunless crypt unsealed year after year beheld the silent toil that spread his lustrous coil still as the spiral grew he left the past years dwelling as a new stole with soft step its shining archway through built up its idle door stretched in his last found home and knew the old no more thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee child of the wandering sea cast from her lap forlorn from thy dead lips a clearer note is born than ever triton blue from wreath and horn while on my ear it rings through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that seems build the more stately mansions oh my soul as the swift seasons roll leave thy low vaulted past let each new temple nobler than the last shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast till thou at length art free leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea Oliver Wendell Holmes End of Section 32 Read by Kara Schellenberg on October 25th 2006 in Oceanside, California Poems Every Child Should Know edited by Mary E. Burt Section 33 Read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schellenberg This section contains three poems Crossing the Bar The Overland Mail and Gathering Song of Donald Doe Part 3 Continued Crossing the Bar Tennyson's Crossing the Bar is one of the noblest death songs ever written. I include it in this volume out of respect to a young Philadelphia publisher who recited it one stormy night before the passengers of a ship when I was crossing the Atlantic and also because so many young people have the good taste to love it. It has been said that next to Browning's Hospice it is the greatest death song ever written. Sunset an evening star and one clear call for me and may there be no moaning of the bar when I put out to sea. But such a tide as moving seems asleep to full for sound and foam when that which drew from out the boundless deep turns again home. Twilight an evening bell and after that the dark and may there be no sadness of farewell when I embark. For though from out our born of time and place the flood may bear me far I hope to see my pilot face to face when I have crossed the bar. Alfred Tennyson The Overland Mail The Overland Mail is a most desirable poem for children to learn. When one boy learns it the others want to follow it takes as a hero the man who gives common service the one who does not lead or command but follows the line of duty. In the name of the Empress of India make way O lords of the jungle wherever you roam the woods are a stir at the close of the day we exiles are waiting for letters from home let the robber retreat let the tiger turn pale in the name of the Empress the Overland Mail The jingle of bells as the dusk gathers in he turns to the footpath that leads up the hill the bags on his back and a cloth round his chin and tucked in his belt the post office bill dispatched on this date as received by the rail per runner two bags of the Overland Mail is the torrent in spate he must ford it or swim as the rain wrecked the road he must climb by the cliff as the tempest cry halt what are tempests to him the service admits not a but or an if while the breaths in his mouth he must bear without fail in the name of the Empress the Overland Mail from aloe to rose oak from rose oak to fur from level to upland from upland to crest from rice field to rock ridge from rock ridge to spur by the soft sandaled feet strains the brawny brown chest from rail to ravine to the peak from the veil up up through the night goes the Overland Mail there's a speck on the hillside a dot on the road a jingle of bells on the footpath below there's a scuffle above in the monkeys abode the world is awake and the clouds are aglow for the great son himself the hail in the name of the Empress the Overland Mail read your kippling gathering song of donald do john do you remember when you used to spout pi brock of donald do i think you were ten years old sir walter scott's men all have a genius for standing up to their guns and boys gather up the man's genius when reciting his verse pi brock of donald do come away come away hark to the summons come in your war array gentles and commons come from deep glen and from mountains so rocky the war pipe and pennon are at inverlocky come every hill plaid and true heart that wears one come every steel blade and strong hand that bears one leave untended the herd the flock without shelter leave the corpse uninterred the bride at the altar leave the deer leave the steer leave nets and barges come with your fighting gear broadswords and targes come as the winds come when forests are rendered come as the waves come when nazis are stranded faster come faster come faster and faster chief, vassal, page and groom tenant and master they come fast they come see how they gather wide waves the eagle plume blended with heather cast your plaids draw your blades forward each man set pi brock of donald do knell for the onset sir walter scott end of section 33 read by carah shallenberg on october 25th 2006 in oceanside california poems every child should know edited by mary e burt section 34 read for LibriVox.org by carah shallenberg this section contains just one poem marco bozaris part 3 continued marco bozaris marco bozaris by Fitzgreen Halleck 1790 to 1867 was in my old school reader boys and girls liked it then and they like it now this is another of the poems that was not born to die at midnight in his guarded tent the turk was dreaming of the hour when grease her knee and suppliance bent should tremble at his power in dreams through camp and court he bore the trophies of a conqueror in dreams his song of triumph heard then wore his monarch's signatory then pressed that monarch's throne a king as wild held his thoughts and gay of wing as Eden's garden bird at midnight in the forest shades bozaris ranged his suliot band true as the steel of their tried blades heroes in heart and hand there had the persians thousands stood there had the glad earth drunk their blood on old platea's day and now there breathed that haunted air the sons of the liars who conquered there with arm to strike and soul to dare as quick as far as they an hour passed on the turk awoke that bright dream was his last he woke to hear his sentries shriek to arms they come the greek the greek he woke to die amidst flame and smoke and shout and groan and sabre stroke and death shots falling thick and fast as lightnings in the northern cloud and heard with voice as trumpet loud bozaris cheer his band strike till the last armed foe expires strike for your altars and your fires strike for the green graves of your sires god and your native land they fought like brave men long and well they plied that ground with moslem slain they conquered but bozaris fell his few surviving comrades saw his smile when rang their proud hurrah and the red field was won then saw in death his eyelids close calmly as to a night's repose like flowers at set of sun come to the bridal chamber death come to the mothers when she feels for the first time her first born's breath come when the blessed seals that close the pestilence are broke the crowded cities well it's stroke come in consumptions ghastly form the earthquake shock the ocean storm come when the heart beats high and warm with banquet song and dance and wine and thou art terrible the tear the groan the knell the pall the beer and all we know or dream or fear of agony are thine but to the hero when his sword has won thy voice sounds like a prophet's word and in its hollow tones are heard the thanks of millions yet to be come when his task of fame is wrought come with her laurel leaf blood-bought come in her crowning hour and then thy sunken eyes unearthly light to him is welcome as the sight of sky and stars to prisoned men thy grasp is welcome as the hand of brother in a foreign land thy summons welcome as the cry that told the indian aisles were nigh to the world seeking genoese when the land wind from woods of palm and orange groves and fields of balm blue or the Haitian seas bozaris with the storied brave grease nurtured in her glories time rest thee there is no prouder grave even in her own proud climb she wore no funeral weeds for thee nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume like torn branch from death's leafless tree in sorrows pomp and pageantry the heartless luxury of the tomb but she remembers thee as one long loved and for a season gone for thee her poet's lyre is wreathed her marble wrought her music breathed for thee she rings the birthday bells of thee her babes first the sping tells for thine her evening prayer is said at palace couch and cottage bed her soldier closing with the foe gives for thy sake a deadlier blow his plighted maiden when she fears for him the joy of her young years thinks of thy fate and checks her tears and she the mother of thy boys though in her eye and faded cheek is read the grief she will not speak the memory of her buried joys and even she who gave thee birth will by their pilgrim circled hearth talk of thy doom without a sigh for thou art freedoms now and fames one of the few the immortal names that were not born to die Fitzgreen Halleck End of section 34 read by Kara Schellenberg on October 25th 2006 in Oceanside, California poems every child should know edited by Mary E. Burt section 35 read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schellenberg this section contains the following poems the death of Napoleon how sleep the brave the flag goes by Hoenn Linden and my old Kentucky home part 3 continued the death of Napoleon the death of Napoleon by Isaac McClellan 1806 to 1899 was yet another of the good old reader songs taught us by a teacher of good taste we love those teachers more the older we grow wild was the night yet a wilder night hung round the soldier's pillow in his bosom there waged a fiercer fight than the fight on the wrathful billow a few fond mourners were kneeling by they knew that his stern heart cherished they knew by his glazed and unearthly eye that life had nearly perished they knew by his awful and kingly look by the order hastily spoken that he dreamed of days when the nations shook and the nations hosts were broken he dreamed that the Frenchman's sword still slew and triumphed the Frenchman's eagle and the struggling Austrian fled anew like the hare the bearded Russian he scourged again the Prussian's camp was routed and again on the hills of haughty Spain his mighty armies shouted over Egypt's sands over alpine snows at the pyramids at the mountain where the wave of the lordly Danube flows and by the Italian fountain on the snowy cliffs where mountain streams dash by the Switzerland he let again dream his hosts the proud earth quelling again Marengo's field was won and Gina's bloody battle again the world was overrun made pale at his cannon's rattle he died at the close of that dark some day a day that shall live in story in the rocky land they placed his clay and left him alone with his glory Isaac McClellan how sleep the brave how sleep the brave who sink to rest by all their country's wishes blessed when spring with dewy fingers cold returns to deck their hallowed mould she there shall dress a sweeter sod than fancy's feet have ever trod by fairy hands their nail is rung by forms unseen their dirges sunk their honor comes a pilgrim gray to bless the turf that their clay and freedom shall a while of repair to dwell a weeping hermit there William Collins the flag goes by the flag goes by is included out of regard to a boy of eleven years who pleased me by his great appreciation of it it teaches the lesson of reverence to our great national symbol it is published by permission of the author Henry Holcomb Bennett hats off along the street there comes a blare of bugles a ruffle of drums a flash of color beneath the sky hats off the flag is passing by blue and crimson and white it shines over the steel tipped ordered lines hats off the colors before us fly but more than the flag is passing by sea fights and land fights grim and great fought to make and to save the state weary marches and sinking ships cheers of victory on dying lips days of plenty and years of peace march of a strong lands swift increase equal justice right and law stately honor and reverend awe sign of a nation great and strong toward her people from foreign wrong pride and glory and honor all live in the colors to stand hats off along the street there comes a blare of bugles a ruffle of drums and loyal hearts are beating high hats off the flag is passing by Henry Holcomb Bennett ho in Linden on Linden when the sun was low all bloodless lay the untrodden snow and dark as winter was the flow of iser rolling rapidly but Linden saw another night when the drum beat at dead of night commanding fires of death to light the darkness of her scenery by torch and trumpet fast arrayed each horseman drew his battle blade and furious every charger need to join the dreadful revelry then shook the hills with thunder ribbon then rushed to the steed to battle driven and louder than the bolts of heaven far flashed the red artillery shall glow on Linden's hills or staining snow and bloodier yet the torrent flow of iser rolling rapidly his mourn but scarce young level sun can pierce the war clouds rolling done where furious Frank and fiery hun shout in their sulfurous canopy the combat deepens on ebrave who rushed to glory or the grave wave munich all I banners wave and charge with all my chivalry few few shall part where many meet the snow shall be their winding sheet and every turf beneath their feet shall be a soldier's sepulcher Thomas Campbell my old Kentucky home the sun shines bright in the old Kentucky home to summer the darkies are gay the corn tops ripe and the meadows in the bloom while the birds make music all the day the young folks roll on the little cabin floor all merry all happy and bright by and by hard times comes a knockin at the door then my old Kentucky home good night weep no more my lady oh weep no more today we will sing one song for the old Kentucky home for the old Kentucky home far away they hunt no more for the possum and the coon on the meadow the hill and the shore they sing no more by the glimmer of the moon on the bench by the old cabin door the day goes by like a shadow over the heart with sorrow where all was delight the time has come when the darkies have to part then my old Kentucky home good night the head must bow and the back will have to bend wherever the darkie may go a few more days and the trouble all will end in a field where the sugar canes grow a few more days for to tote the weary load no matter till never be light a few more days till we totter on the road then my old Kentucky home good night weep no more my lady oh weep no more today we will sing one song for the old Kentucky home for the old Kentucky home far away Steven Collins Foster End of Section 35 read by Kara Schellenberg on October 25th, 2006 in Oceanside, California Poems Every Child Should Know edited by Mary E. Burt Section 36 read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schellenberg This section contains two poems Old Folks at Home and The Wreck of the Hespress Part 3 Continued Old Folks at Home Way down upon the Swanee River far far away there's where my heart is turning ever there's where the old folks stay all up and down to whole creation sadly I roam still longing for the old plantation and for the old folks at home all the world am sad and dreary everywhere I roam oh dark is how my heart grows weary far from the old folks at home all round a little farm I wandered when I was young then many happy days I squandered many the songs I sung when I was playing with my brother happy was I oh take me to my kind old mother dare let me live and die one little hut among the bushes one that I love still sadly to my memory rushes no matter where I rove when will I see the bees a humming all round a comb when will I hear the banjo tumming down in my good old home all the world am sad and dreary everywhere I roam oh dark is how my heart grows weary far from the old folks at home Steven Collins Foster The Wreck of the Hespress The Wreck of the Hespress by Longfellow 1807 to 1882 on Norman's Woe off the coast near Cape Ann is a historic poem as well as an imaginative composition It was the schooner Hespress that sailed the Wintry Sea and the skipper had taken his little daughter to bear him company Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax her cheeks like the dawn of day and her bosom white as the hawthorn buds that open the month of May the skipper he stood beside the helm his pipe was in his mouth and he watched how the veering flaw did blow the smoke now west now south then up in spake an old sailor had sailed the Spanish Maine I pray thee put into yonder port for I fear a hurricane last night the moon had a golden ring and tonight when we see the skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe and a scornful laugh laughed he colder and louder blew the wind a gale from the northeast the snow fell hissing in the brine and the billows frothed like yeast down came the storm and smote a main the vessel in it's strength she shuddered and paused like a frightened steed come hither come hither my little daughter and do not tremble so for I can weather the roughest gale that ever wind did blow he wrapped her warm in his seamen's cloak against the stinging blast he cut a rope from a broken spar and bound her to the mast oh father I hear the church bells ring oh say what may it be tis a fog bell on a rock bound coast and he steered for the open sea oh father I hear the sound of guns oh say what may it be some ship in distress that cannot live in such an angry sea oh father I see a gleaming light oh say what may it be but the father answered never a word a frozen corpse was he lashed to the helm all stiff and stark with his face turned to the skies the lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow on his fixed and glassy eyes then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed that say that she might be and she thought of Christ who stilled the wave on the lake of Galilee and fast through the midnight dark and drear through the whistling sleet and snow like a sheeted ghost the vessel swept toward the reef of Norman's woe and ever the fitful gusts between a sound came from the land it was the sound of the trampling surf on the rocks and the hard sea sand the breakers were right beneath her bows she drifted her dreary wreck and a whooping billow swept the crew like icicles from her deck she struck where the white and fleecy waves looked soft as carded wool but the cruel rocks they gore at her side like the horns of an angry bull her rattling shrouds all sheathed in ice with the masts went by the board like a vessel of glass she stove and sank ho ho the breakers roared at daybreak on the bleak sea beach a fisherman stood aghast to see the form of a maiden fair lashed close to a drifting mast the salt sea was frozen on her breast the salt tears in her eyes and he saw her hair like the brown seaweed on the billows fall and rise such was the wreck of the hesperis in the midnight and the snow christ save us all from a death like this on the reef of norman's woe henry w longfellow end of section 36 read by carah shallenburg on october 26th 2006 in oceanside california poems every child should know edited by mary e burt section 37 read for libravox.org by carah shallenburg this section contains two poems robert bruce's address to his army and the inch cape rock part 3 continued bannock burn robert bruce's address to his army you can look down on the battlefield of bannock burn from sterling castle scotland near which stands a magnificent statue of robert the bruce how often have i trodden over the old battlefield the monument of wiliam wallis too looms up on the ockle hills not far away scots we hey we wallis bled scots wham bruce has often led welcome to your gory bed or to victory now is the day and now is the hour see the front a battle lower see approach proud edwards power chains and slavery wha will be a traitor nave wha can fill a coward's grave wha say base as be a slave let him turn and flee wha for scotland's king and law freedom's sword will strongly draw freeman stand or freeman fa let him follow me by oppressions woes pains be your sons in servile chains we will drain our dearest veins but they shall be free lay the proud usurpers low tyrants fall in every foe liberties in every blow let us do or die robert urns part four lad and lassie the inch cape rock the man is wrecked and his ship is sunken before he ever steps on board or sees the water if his heart is hard and his estimate of human beings low the inch cape rock is a thrust at hard heartedness what is the use of life to bear one another's burdens to develop a genius for pulling people through hard places that's the use of life it is the last resort of a mean mind to crack jokes that wreck innocent voyagers on life see no stir in the air no stir in the sea the ship was still as she could be her sails from heaven received no motion her keel was steady in the ocean without either sign or sound of their shock the waves flowed over the inch cape rock so little they rose so little they fell they did not move the inch cape bell the Abbott of Aberbrothock had placed that bell on the inch cape rock on a boy in the storm it floated and swung and over the waves its warning rung when the rock was hid by the surges swell the mariners heard the warning bell and then they knew the perilous rock and blessed the Abbott of Aberbrothock the sun in heaven was shining gay all things were joyful on that day the seabirds screamed as they wheeled round and there was an audience in their sound the boy of the inch cape bell was seen a dark spot on the ocean green sir Ralph the rover walked his deck and he fixed his eye on the darker speck he felt the cheering power of spring it made him whistle it made him sing his heart was mirthful to excess but the rover's mirth was wickedness his eye was on the inch cape float quote he said my men put out the boat and row me to the inch cape rock and I'll plague the Abbott of Aberbrothock the boat has lowered the boatmen row and to the inch cape rock they go sir Ralph bent over from the boat and he cut the bell from the inch cape float down sank the bell with a gurgling sound the bubbles rose and burst around quote sir Ralph the next two comes to the rock won't bless the Abbott rock sir Ralph the rover sailed away he scoured the sea for many a day and now grown rich with plundered store he steers his course for Scotland's shore so thick a haze or spread the sky they cannot see the sun on high the wind hath blown a gale all day at evening it hath died away on the deck the rover takes his stand so dark it is they see the land quote sir Ralph it will be brighter soon for there is the dawn of the rising moon can't hear said one the broken roar for me thinks we should be near the shore now where we are I cannot tell but I wish I could hear the inch cape bell they hear no sound the swell is strong though the wind hath fallen they drift along till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock it is the inch cape rock sir Ralph the rover tore his hair he cursed himself in his despair the waves rush in on every side the ship is sinking beneath the tide but even in his dying fear one dreadful sound could the rover hear a sound as if with the inch cape bell the devil below was ringing his knell Robert Southie End of section 37 Read by Kara Schellenberg on October 26, 2006 in Oceanside, California Poems Every Child Should Know Edited by Mary E. Burt Section 38 Read for LibraVox.org by Kara Schellenberg This section contains two poems The Finding of the Liar and A Chrysalis Part 4 continued The Finding of the Liar Once a year my pupils teach me The Finding of the Liar By the time I have learned it they know the meaning of every line and have caught the spirit of the verse There is an ancient liar or violin made in northern Africa in the possession of a Boston lady and I have found the mud turtle rattle among the Indians on the Indian reservation at Syracuse, New York They use it as a musical instrument in their Thanksgiving dances The poem helps to build an interest in history and mythology while it develops a child's reverence and insight There lay upon the ocean's shore what once a tortoise served to cover A year and more with rush and roar the surf had rolled it over had played with it and flung it by as wind and weather might decide it then tossed it high where sand drifts dry cheap burial might provide it It rested there to bleach or tan the rains had soaked the sun had burned it with many a ban the fishermen had stumbled or and spurned it and there the fisher girl would stay conjecturing with her brother how in their play the poor astray might serve some use or other So there it lay through wet and dry as empty as the last new sonnet till by and by came mercury and having mused upon it why here cried he the thing of things in shape material and dimension give it but strings and lo it sings a wonderful invention So said so done the cords he strained and as his fingers or them hovered the shell disdained a soul had gained the lyre had been discovered Oh empty world that round us lies dead shell of soul and thought forsaken brought we but eyes like mercuries in thee what songs should waken James Russell Lowell A chrysalis A chrysalis is a favourite poem with John Burroughs and is found too in Steadman's collection we all come to a point in life where we need to burst the shell and fly away into the new realm My little magin found one day curious something in her play that was not fruit nor flower nor seed it was not anything that grew or crept or climbed or swam or flew had neither legs nor wings indeed and yet she was not sure she said whether it was alive or dead she brought it in her tiny hand to see if I would understand and wondered when I made reply you found a baby butterfly a butterfly is not like this with doubtful look she answered me so then I told her what would be some day within the chrysalis how slowly in the dull brown thing now still has death a spotted wing and then another would unfold till from the empty shell would fly a pretty creature by and by all radiant in blue and gold and will it truly question she her laughing lips and eager eyes all in a sparkle of surprise and shall your little magin see she shall I said how could I tell that air the warm within its shell its gauzy splendid wings had spread my little magin would be dead today the butterfly has flown she was not here to see it fly and sorrowing I wonder why the empty shell is mine alone perhaps the secret lies in this I too had found a chrysalis and death that robbed me of delight was but the radiant creature's flight Mary Emily Bradley End of section 38 read by Kara Schallenberg on October 26th, 2006 in Oceanside, California poems every child should know edited by Mary E. Burt section 39 read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schallenberg this section contains two poems for all that and all that and a new arrival part four continued for all that Robert Burns, the plowman and poet, dinnered with a lord the story goes that he was put at the second table that lord is dead but Robert Burns still lives he is immortal it is the survival of the fittest for all that and all that is a poem that wipes out the superficial value put on money and other externalities this poem is more valuable in education than good penmanship or good spelling there are a couple of footnotes to this poem I'll read them first the word hodden gray means course woolen clothes a burky is an impudent fellow and a coof is a fool or blockhead is there for honest poverty that hangs his head and all that the coward slave we pass him by we dare be poor for all that for all that and all that our toils obscure and all that the rank is but the guineas stamp the man's the gout for all that what though on Hamley fair when we dine wear hodden gray and all that he fools their silks and naves their wine a man's a man for all that for all that and all that their tinsel show and all that the honest man though heirs are poor is king a man for all that you see on burky cowed a lord who has struts and stares and all that though hundreds worship at his word for all that for all that and all that his ribbon star and all that the man of independent mind he looks and laughs at all that a prince can make a belted knight a marquis duke and all that but an honest man's a boon his might good faith he mona for that for all that and all that their dignities and all that the pith of sense and pride of worth a higher rank than all that then let us pray that come it may and come it will for all that that sense and worth or all the earth may bear the grie and all that for all that and all that it's coming yet for all that that man to man the world or shall brothers be for all that robert burns a new arrival the new arrival is a valuable poem because it expresses the joy of a young father over his new baby if girls should be educated to be good mothers so should boys be taught that fatherhood is the highest and holiest joy and right of man the child is educator to the man he teaches him how to take responsibility how to give unbiased judgments and how to be fatherly like our father who is in heaven there came to port last Sunday night the queerest little craft without an inch of rigging on I looked and looked and laughed it seemed so curious that she should cross the unknown water and more herself right in my room my daughter oh my daughter yet by these presents witness all she's welcome 50 times and comes consigned to hope and love and common meter rhymes she has no manifest but this no flag floats over the water she's too new for the British Lloyds my daughter oh my daughter ring out wild bells and tame ones too ring out the lovers moon ring in the little worsted socks ring in the bib and spoon ring out the muse ring in the nurse ring in the milk and water away with paper pen and ink my daughter oh my daughter George W. Cable end of section 39 read by Kara Schellenberg on October 26th, 2006 in Oceanside, California poems every child should know edited by Mary E. Burt part 40 read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schellenberg this section contains two poems the brook and the ballad of the clamper down part four continued the brook Tennyson's the brook is included out of love to a dear old schoolmate in Colorado the real brook near Cambridge England is tame compared to your Colorado streams oh beloved comrade this poem is well liked by the majority of pupils I chatter chatter as I flow to join the river for men may come and men may go but I go on forever I wind about and in and out with here a blossom sailing and here and there a lusty trout and here and there a grayling I steal by lawns and grassy plots I slide by hazel covers I move the sweet forget-me-nots that grow for happy lovers I slip I glide I glue my glance among my skimming swallows I make the netted sunbeams dance against my sandy shallows I murmur under moon and stars in brambly wildernesses I linger by my shingly bars I loiter around my crests and out again I curve and flow to join the brimming river for men may come and men may go but I go on forever Alfred Tennyson The Ballad of the Clamper Down The Ballad of the Clamper Down by Rudyard Kipling is included because my boys always like it. It needs a great deal of explanation and few boys will hold out to the end in learning it but it pays. It was our warship Clamper Down would sweep the channel clean, wherefore she kept her hatches closed when the merry channel chops a rose and gave the bleached marine. She had one bow gun of a hundred ton and a great stern gun beside they dipped their noses deep in the sea they racked their stays and stanchions free in the wash of the wind whipped tide it was our warship Clamper Down fell in with a cruiser light that carried the dainty hotchkiss gun and a pair of heels wherewith to run from the grip of a close fought fight She opened fire at seven miles as you shoot at a bobbing cork and once she fired and twice she fired till the bow gun grouped like a lily tired that lulls upon the stock. Captain the bow gun melts a pace the deck beams break below tour well to rest for an hour or twain and botch the shattered plates again and he answered make it so She opened fire within the mile as you shoot at the flying duck and the great stern gun shot fair and true with the heave of the ship to the stainless blue and the great stern turret struck Captain the turret fills with steam the feedpipes burst below you can hear the hiss of helpless ram you can hear the twisted runners jam and he answered turn and go it was our warship clamp her down and grimly did she roll swung round to take the cruiser's fire as the white whale faces the thresher's ire when they war by the frozen pole Captain the shells are falling fast and faster still fall we and it is not meat for English stock to bide in the heart of an eight day clock the death they cannot see lie down lie down my bold AB we drift upon her beam for she can run and dare you fire another gun and die in the peeling stream it was our warship clamp her down that carried an armor belt but fifty feet at stern and bow lay bare as the punch of the purser's sow to the hail of the Nordenfeld Captain they lack us through and through the chilled steel bolts are swift we have emptied the bunkers in open sea their shrapnel bursts where our coal should be and he answered let her drift it was our warship clamp her down swung round upon the tide her two dumb guns glared south and north and the blood and the bubbling stream ran forth and she ground the cruiser's side Captain they cry the fight is done they bid you send your sword and he answered grapple her stern and bow they have asked for the steel they shall have it now out on the glaces and board it was our warship clamp her down spewed up 400 men and the scalded stokers yelp to delight as they rolled in the waist and heard the fight stamp or their steel walled pen they cleared the cruiser end to end from conning tower to hold they fought as they fought in Nelson's fleet they were stripped to the waist they were bare to the feet as it was in the days of old it was the king clamp her down heaved up her battered side and carried a million pounds in steel to the cod and the corpse fed conger eel and the scour of the channel tide it was the crew of the clamp her down stood out to sweep the sea on a cruiser wand from an ancient foe as it was in the days of long ago and as it still shall be Rudyard Kipling End of section 40 by Kara Schellenberg on October 29th, 2006 in Oceanside, California Poems Every Child Should Know edited by Mary E. Burt section 41 read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schellenberg this section contains the following poems The Destruction of Sennacherib I Remember, I Remember and Driving Home the Cows Part 4 continued The Destruction of Sennacherib The Destruction of Sennacherib by Lord Byron finds a place in this collection because Johnny, a ten year old and many of his friends say it's great. The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold and his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold and the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea when the blue wave rolls nightly like the leaves of the forest when the summer is green that host with their banners at sunset were seen like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown that host on the morrow lay withered and strewn for the angel of death spread his wings on the blast and breathed in the face of the foe as he passed and the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill and their hearts but once heaved and forever grew still and there lay the steed with his nostril all wide but through it there rolled not the breath of his pride and the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf and cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf and there lay the rider distorted and pale with the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail and the tents were all silent the banners alone, the lances unlifted the trumpet unblown and the widows of Asher are loud in their wail and the idols are broke in the temple of Baal and the might of the Gentile unsmote by the sword hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord Lord Byron I remember, I remember I remember, I remember the house where I was born the little window where the sun came peeping in at morn he never came a wink too soon nor brought too long a day but now I often wish the night had borne my breath away I remember, I remember the roses red and white the violets and the lily-cups those flowers made of light the lilacs where the robin built and where my brother set the labyrinum on his birthday the tree is living yet I remember, I remember where I was used to swing and thought the air must rush as fresh to swallows on the wing my spirit flew in feathers then that is so heavy now and summer pools could hardly cool the fever on my brow I remember, I remember the fir trees dark and high I used to think their slender tops were close against the sky it was a childish ignorance but now, to his little joy to know I'm farther off from heaven than when I was a boy Thomas Hood driving home the cows out of the clover and blue-eyed grass he turned them into the river-lane one after another he let them pass then fastened the meadow-bars again under the willows and over the hill he patiently followed their sober pace the merry whistle for once was still and something shadowed the sunny face only a boy and his father had said he never could let his youngest go they already were lying dead under the feet of the trampling foe but after the evening work was done and the frogs were loud in the meadow-swamp over his shoulder he slung his gun and stealthily followed the foot-path damp across the clover and through the wheat with a resolute heart and purpose grim though the dew was on his hurrying feet and the blind bats flitting startled him thrice since then had the lanes been white and the orchards sweet with apple-bloom and now when the cows came back at night the feeble father drove them home for news had come to the lonely farm that three were lying where two had lane and the old man's tremulous palsied arm could never lean on a son's again the summer day grew cool and late he went for the cows when the work was done but down the lane as he opened the gate he saw them coming one by one brindle, ebony, speckle, and bess shaking their horns in the evening wind cropping the butter-cups out of the grass but who was it following close behind loosely swung in the idle air the empty sleeve of army blue and worn and pale from the crisping hair looked out of face that the father knew though close-barred prisons will sometimes yawn and yield their dead unto life again and the day that comes with a cloudy dawn in golden glory at last may wane the great tears sprang to their meeting eyes for the heart must speak when the lips are dumb and under the silent evening skies together they followed the cattle home Kate Putnam Osgood End of Section 41 Read by Kara Schellenberg on October 29th, 2006 in Oceanside, California Poems Every Child Should Know edited by Mary E. Burt Section 42 Read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schellenberg This section contains two poems Krinken and Stevenson's Birthday Part 4 continued Krinken Krinken is the dearest of poems Krinken was a little child it was summer when he smiled Eugene Field, above all other poets paid the finest tribute to children this poet only could make the whole ocean warm because a child's heart was there to warm it Krinken was a little child it was summer when he smiled oft the hoary sea and grim stretched its white arms out to him calling, son child come to me let me warm my heart with thee but the child heard not the sea calling yearning evermore for the summer on the shore Krinken on the beach one day saw a maiden, Mies, at play on the pebbly beach she played in the summer Krinken made fair and very fair was she just a little child was he Krinken said the maiden, Mies let me have a little kiss just a kiss and go with me to the summer lands that be down within the silver sea Krinken was a little child by the maiden Mies beguiled hand in hand with her went he and to a summer in the sea and the hoary sea and grim to its bosom folded him clasped and kissed the little form and the ocean's heart was warm now the sea calls out no more it is winter on the shore winter where that little child made sweet summer when he smiled though it is summer on the sea where with maiden miss went he it is winter on the shore winter winter evermore of the summer on the deep come sweet visions in my sleep his fair face lifts from the sea his dear voice calls out to me these my dreams of summer be Krinken was a little child by the maiden miss beguiled off to the hoary sea and grim reached its longing arms to him crying sim child come to me let me warm my heart with thee but the sea calls out no more it is winter on the shore winter cold and dark and wild Krinken was a little child it was summer when he smiled down he went into the sea and the winter bides with me just a little child was he Eugene Field Stevenson's birthday well I should like a birthday said the child I have so few and they so far apart she spoke to Stevenson the master smiled mine is to-day I would with all my heart that it were yours too many years have I too swift they come and all too swiftly fly so by a formal deed he there conveyed all right and title in his natal day to have and hold to sell or give away then signed and gave it to the little maid joyful yet fearing to believe too much she took the deed but scarcely dared unfold a liberal genius at whose potent touch all common things shine with transmuted gold a day of Stevenson's will prove to be not part of time but immortality Catherine Miller end of section 42 read by Kara Schellenberg on October 29th 2006 in Oceanside, California poems every child should know edited by Mary E. Burt section 43 read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schellenberg this section contains two poems a modest wit and the legend of Bishop Hatto part four continued a modest wit I learned a modest wit as a reading lesson when I was a child it has clung to me and so I cling to it it is just as good as it ever was it is a sharp thrust at power that depends on externalities Selick Osborne the supercilious Nabob of the East Haughty being great Purse proud being rich a governor or general at the least I have forgotten which had in his family a humble youth who went from England in his patron suit an unassuming boy in truth a lad of decent parts and good repute this youth had sense and spirit but yet with all his sense excessive diffidence obscured his merit one day at table flushed with pride and wine his honor proudly free severely merry conceived it would be vastly fine to crack a joke upon his secretary young man he said by what art, craft, or trade did your good father gain a livelihood he was a sadler sir modestus said and in his time was reckoned good a sadler eh and taught you Greek instead of teaching you to sew pray why did not your father make a sadler sir of you each parasite then as in duty bound the joke applauded and the laugh went round at length modestus bowing low said craving pardon if too free he made sir by your leave I fain would know your father's trade my father's trade by heaven that's too bad my father's trade why blockhead are you mad my father sir did never stoop so low he was a gentleman I'd have you know excuse the liberty I take modestus said with archness on his brow pray why did not your father make a gentleman of you Selig Osborn the legend of bishop hathow the legend of bishop hathow is doubtless a myth Robert Southie 1774 to 1843 but the mouse tower on the Rhine is an object of interest to travelers and the story has a point the summer and autumn had been so wet that in winter the corn was growing yet to as a pity is sight to see all around the grain lie rotting on the ground every day the starving poor crowded around bishop hathow's door for he had a plentiful last year's store and all the neighborhood could tell his granaries were furnished well at last bishop hathow appointed a day to quiet the poor without delay he bade them to his great barn repair and they should have food for winter there rejoiced such tidings good to hear the poor folk flocked from far and near the great barn was full as it could hold of women and children young and old then when he saw it could hold no more bishop hathow he made fast the door and while for mercy on Christ they call he set fire to the barn and burned them all if faith is an excellent bonfire quote he and the country is greatly obliged to me for ridding it in these times forlorn of rats that only consume the corn so then to his palace returned he and he sat down to supper merrily and he slept that night like an innocent man but bishop hathow never slept again in the morning as he entered the hall where his picture hung against the wall a sweat like death all over him came for the rats had eaten it out of the frame as he looked there came a man from his farm he had a countenance white with alarm my lord I opened your granaries this morning and the rats had eaten all your corn another came running presently and he was pale as pale could be fly my lord bishop fly quote he ten thousand rats are coming this way the lord forgive you yesterday I'll go to my town on the Rhine replied he is the safest place in Germany the walls are high and the shores are steep and the stream is strong and the water deep bishop hathow fearfully hastened away and he crossed the Rhine without delay and reached his tower and barred with care all windows doors and loopholes there he laid him down and closed his eyes but soon a scream made him arise he started and saw two eyes of flame on his pillow from whence the screaming came he listened and looked it was only the cat but the bishop he grew more fearful for that for she sat screaming mad with fear at the army of rats that was drawing near for they have swum over the river so deep and they have climbed the shore so steep and up the power their way is bent to do the work for which they were sent they are not to be told by the dozen or score by thousands they come and by myriads and more such numbers had never been heard of before such a judgement had never been witnessed of your down on his knees the bishop fell and faster and faster his beads did tell as louder and louder drawing near the gnawing of their teeth he could hear and in at the windows and in at the door and through the walls, helter skelter they pour and down from the ceiling and up through the floor from the right and the left from behind and before all at once to the bishop they go they have whetted their teeth against the stones and now they pick the bishop's bones they gnaw the flesh from every limb for they were sent to do judgement on him Robert Southie End of section 43 Read by Kara Schallenberg on October 29th, 2006 in Oceanside, California Poems Every Child Should Know Section 44 Read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schallenberg This section contains two poems Columbus and The Shepherd of King Admetus Part 4 continued Columbus We are greatly indebted to Joaquin Miller for his Sail on, Sail on Endurance is the watchword of the poem and the watchword of our republic Every man to his gun Columbus discovered America in his own mind before he realized it or proved its existence I have often drawn a chart of Columbus's life and voyages to show what need he had of the motto, Sail on to accomplish his end This is one of our greatest American poems The writer still lives in California Behind him lay the gray azores Behind the gates of Hercules Before him not the ghost of shores Before him only shoreless seas The good mate said, Now must we pray for low the very stars are gone Speak, Admiral, what shall I say? Why, say, Sail on and on My men grow muteness day by day My men grow ghastly wan and weak The stout mate thought of home A spray of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek What shall I say, brave Admiral, If we sight not but seas at dawn Why, you shall say at break of day Sail on, Sail on and on They sailed and sailed as winds might blow Until at last the blanched mate said Why now not even God would know Should I and all my men fall dead These very winds forget their way For God from these dread seas is gone Now speak, brave Admiral, and say He said, Sail on and on They sailed, they sailed Then spoke his mate This mad sea shows his teeth tonight He curls his lip, he lies in wait With lifted teeth as if to bite Brave Admiral, say but one word What shall we do when hope is gone The words leaped as a leaping sword Sail on, Sail on and on Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck And through the darkness peered that night Ah, darkest night, and then a speck A light, a light, a light, a light It grew, a starlit flag unfurled It grew to be time's burst of dawn He gained a world, he gave that world Its watchword, on and on Joaquin Miller, the Shepherd of King Atmetus Once a year the children learn The Shepherd of King Atmetus Which is one of the finest poems ever written As showing the possible growth Of real history into mythology The tendency of mankind to deify What is fine or sublime in human action Not every child will learn this entire poem Because it is too long, but every child Will learn the best lines in it While the children are teaching it to me And when I take my turn in teaching it to them No child fails to catch the spirit And intent of the poem And to become entirely familiar with it There came a youth upon the earth Some thousand years ago Whose slender hands were nothing worth Whether to plow or reap or sow Upon an empty tortoise shell He stretched some cords and drew Music that made men's bosoms swell Fearless or brimmed their eyes with dew Then King Atmetus One who had pure taste by right divine Decreed his singing not too bad To hear between the cups of wine And so well pleased with being soothed Into a sweet half-sleep Three times his kingly beard he smoothed And made him viceroy or his sheep His words were simple words enough And yet he used them so that What in other mouths was rough In his seemed musical and low Men called him but a shiftless youth In whom no good they saw And yet unwittingly in truth Made his careless words their law They knew not how he learned it all For idly hour by hour He sat and watched the dead leaves fall Or amused upon a common flower It seemed the loveliness of things Did teach him all their use For in mere weeds and stones and springs He found a healing power profuse Men granted that his speech was wise But when a glance they caught Slim grace and woman's eyes They laughed and called him good for naught Yet after he was dead and gone And he in his memory dim Earth seemed more sweet to live upon More full of love because of him And day by day more holy grew Each spot where he had trod Till after poets only knew Their first-born brother as a god James Russell Lowell End of section 44 Read by Kara Schallenberg on October 29th, 2006 In Oceanside, California Poems Every Child Should Know Edited by Mary E. Burt Section 45 Read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schallenberg This section contains just one poem How They Brought the Good News From Ghent to Aix Readers note This is one of my all-time favorite poems I bumped into it in a book of poems about horses, I think When I was a teenager and I've loved it ever since And I am so glad that it's included in this collection I hope you like it as much as I do End of the Readers note I have an essay written by a lad of 14 years on How They Brought the Good News From Ghent to Aix I should judge from this essay That any boy at that age would like the poem Even if he had not himself Been over the ground as this boy had I sprang to the stirrup And Joris and he I galloped, Dirk galloped, we galloped all three Good speed cried the watch As the gate-bolts undrew Speed echoed the wall to us galloping through Behind shut the postern The lights sank to rest And into the midnight we galloped abreast Not a word to each other We kept the great pace My neck stride by stride Never changing our place I turned in my saddle and made its girth tight Then shortened each stirrup And set the peak right Rebuckled the cheek-strap Chained slacker the bit Nor galloped less steadily Rolled a wit Twas moon set at starting But while we drew near low Karen The cocks crew and twilight dawned clear At Bohm a great yellow star came out to see Dufild twas morning as plain as could be And from Mechelen church steeple We heard the half-chime So Joris broke silence with Yet there is time At air-shot up-leaped of a sudden the sun And against him the cattle stood black every one To stare through the mist at us galloping past And I saw my stout gallopper rollin'd at last With resolute shoulders each butting away the haze As some bluff river headland its spray And his low head and crest Just one sharp ear bent back for my voice And the other pricked out on his track And one eye's black intelligence Ever that glance or its white edge at me His own master ascends And the thick heavy spume flakes Which I and Anon his fierce lips Shook upward in galloping on I hassled Dirk groan'd and cried Joris Stay spur, your rose galloped bravely The faults not in her, we'll remember at aches For one heard the quick wheeze of her chest Saw the stretched neck and staggering knees And sunk tail and horrible heave of the flank As down on her haunches she shudder'd and sank So we were left galloping Joris and I Past lows and past tongre, no cloud in the sky The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff Till over by Dalhem a domesfire sprang white And galloped, gasped Joris, for aches is in sight How they'll greet us And all in a moment his roan'd rolled Neck and croup over lay dead as a stone And there was my Rolland to bear the whole weight Of the news which alone could save aches from her fate With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim And with circles of red for his eye sockets rim Then I cast loose my buff coat, each holster let fall Shook off both my jack boots, let go belt and all Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear Called my Rolland his pet name, my horse without pier Clapped my hands, laughed and sang any noise bad or good Till at length into aches Rolland galloped and stood And all I remember is friends flocking round As I sat with his head twixt my knees on the ground And no voice but was praising this Rolland of mine As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine Which, the Burgesses voting by common consent Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent Robert Browning End of Section 45, Read by Karish Hallenberg On October 29th 2006 in Oceanside, California Poems every child should know Edited by Mary E. Burt Section 46, Read for LibriVox.org by Karish Hallenberg This section contains two poems The Burial of Sir John Moore at Koruna And The Eve of Waterloo Part 4 continued The Burial of Sir John Moore at Koruna The Burial of Sir John Moore was one of my reading lessons when I was a child A distinguished teacher says It has become a part of popular education As has also The Eve of Waterloo and The Death of Napoleon They are all poems of great rhythmical swing Intense and graphic Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note As his course to the rampart we hurried Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot Or the grave where our hero we buried We buried him darkly at dead of night The sods with our bayonets turning By the struggling moonbeams misty light And the lantern dimly burning No useless coffin enclosed his breast Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him But he lay like a warrior taking his rest With his marshal cloak around him Few and short were the prayers we said And we spoke not a word of sorrow But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead And we bitterly thought of the morrow We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed And smoothed down his lonely pillow That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head And we far away on the billow Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone And o'er his cold ashes up-brayed him But little he'll wreck if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Britain has laid him But half of our heavy task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing Slowly and sadly we laid him down From the field of his fame fresh and gory We carved not a line and we raised not a stone But we left him alone with his glory See Wolf The Eve of Waterloo The Eve of Waterloo by Lord Byron 1788 to 1824 Here is another old reading-book gem Always be dear to every boy's heart If he only reads it a few times There was a sound of revelry by night And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her beauty and her chivalry and bright the lamps Shown o'er fair women and brave men A thousand hearts beat happily And when music arose with its voluptuous swell Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again And all went merry as a marriage bell But hush, hark! a deep sound strikes Like a rising knell Did you not hear it? No, twas but the wind Or the car rattling o'er the stony street On with the dance let joy be unconfined No sleep till mourn when youth and pleasure meet To chase the glowing hours with flying feet But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more As if the clouds its echo would repeat And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before Arm, arm it is, it is the cannon's opening roar Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro And gathering tears and tremblings of distress And cheeks all pale which bought an hour ago Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness And there were sudden partings Such as pressed the life from out young hearts And choking sighs which ne'er might be repeated Who could guess if evermore should meet those mutual eyes Since upon night so sweet such awful mourn could rise And there was mounting in hot haste The steed, the mustering squadron and the clattering car Went pouring forward with impetuous speed And swiftly forming in the ranks of war And the deep thunder peal on peel afar And near the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star While thronged the citizens with terror dumb Or whispering with white lips The foe, they come, they come And Ardenna's waves above them her green leaves Dewey with nature's teardrops as they pass Grieving, if ought inanimate ever grieves Over the unreturning brave alas Air evening to be trodden like the grass Which now beneath them but above shall grow In its next verger when this fiery mass Of living valor rolling on the foe And burning with high hope shall mould her cold and low Last noon beheld them full of lusty life Last eve in beauty's circle proudly gay The midnight brought the signal sound of strife The mourn, the marshalling in arms The day battles magnificently stern array The thunder clouds close o'er it which when rent The earth is covered thick with other clay Which her own clay shall cover heap and pent Rider and horse, friend foe In one red burial blent Lord Byron End of section 46 Read by Kara Schallenberg on October 29th, 2006 In Oceanside, California Poems Every Child Should Know Edited by Mary E. Burt Section 47 Read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schallenberg This section contains just one poem Every, A Song of the Huguenots Part 4 Continued Every, A Song of the Huguenots Laddie, aged 11 Do you remember how you studied A sighted King Henry of Navarre Every poetry hour for a year? It was a long poem, but you stuck it to the end We did not know the meaning of a certain word But I found it up in Switzerland It is the name of a little town Now glory to the Lord of Hosts From whom all glories are And glory to our sovereign liege King Henry of Navarre Now let there be the merry sound of music And of dance, through thy cornfields green And sunny vines, oh pleasant land of France And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle Proud city of the waters Again, let rapture light the eyes Of all thy morning daughters As thou wert constant in our ills Be joyous in our joy For cold and stiff and still are they Who rot thy walls annoy Hurrah, hurrah A single field hath turned the chance of war Hurrah, hurrah For Ivory and Henry of Navarre Oh, how our hearts were beating When at the dawn of day We saw the army of the league Drawn out in long array With all its priest-led citizens And all its rebel peers And Appenzell's stout infantry And Eggmont's Flemish spears There rode the brood of false Lorraine Of our land, and dark Mayenne Was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand And as we looked on them We thought of saints in purple flood And good collignes, hoary hair All dabbled with his blood And we cried unto the living God Who rules the fate of war To fight for his own holy name And Henry of Navarre The king has come to marshal us All in his armor dressed And he has bound a snow-white plume Upon his gallant crest He looked upon his people And a tear was in his eye He looked upon the traitors And his glance was stern and high Right graciously he smiled on us As rolled from wing to wing Down all our line a deafening shout God save our lord the king And if my standard bearer fall As fall full well he may For never saw I promise yet Of such a bloody fray Press where you see my white plume shine Amid the ranks of war And be your aura-flam today The helmet of Navarre Hurrah, the foes are moving Hark to the mingled in Of fife and steed and trump and drum And roaring culverine The fiery duke is pricking fast Across St. Andrew's plain With all the hireling chivalry Of gilders and almane Now by the lips of those ye love Fair gentlemen of France Charge for the golden lilies Upon them with the lance A thousand spurs are striking deep A thousand spears in rest A thousand knights are pressing Close behind the snow-white crest And in they burst and on they rushed While like a guiding star Amid the thickest carnage Blazed the helmet of Navarre Now God be praised the day is ours May Yen have turned his reign Da mail hath cried for quarter The Flemish count is slain Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds Before a bisque gale The field is heaped with bleeding steeds And flags and cloven mail And then we thought on vengeance And all along our van Remember St. Bartholomew was passed From man to man But out spake gentle Henry No Frenchman is my foe Down, down with every foreigner But let your brethren go Oh, was there ever such a night In friendship or in war As our sovereign Lord King Henry The soldier of Navarre Right well fought all the Frenchmen Who fought for France today And many a lordly banner God gave them for a pray But we of the religion Have borne us best in fight And the good Lord of Rosney Has tanned the cornet white Our own true Maximilian The cornet white hath tanned The cornet white with crosses black The flag of false Lorraine Up with it high, unfurl it wide That all the host may know How God hath humbled the proud house Which wrought his church such woe Then on the ground, while trumpets sound Their loudest points of war Fling the red shreds A footcloth meat for Henry of Navarre Ho, maidens of Vienna Ho, matrons of Lucerne Weep, weep, and rend your hair For those who never shall return Ho, Philip, send for charity Thy Mexican pistols That antwerp monks may sing a mass For thy poor spearmen's souls Ho, gallant nobles of the league Look that your arms be bright Ho, burgers of St. Genevieve Keep watch and ward tonight For our God hath crushed the tyrant Our God hath raised the slave And mocked the council of the wise The valor of the brave Then glory to his holy name From whom all glories are And glory to our sovereign Lord King Henry of Navarre Thomas B. Macaulay End of section 47 Read by Kara Schallenberg On November 2nd, 2006 In Oceanside, California Poems every child should know Edited by Mary E. Burt Section 48 Read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schallenberg This section contains two poems The Glove and the Lions and The Well of St. Gene Part 4 continued The Glove and the Lions The Glove and the Lions was one of my early reading lessons It is an incisive thrust at the vanity of fair women A woman may be a true knight as well as a man Lee Hunt 1784-1859 King Francis was a heart he came and loved a royal sport and one day as his lions fought sat looking on the court the nobles filled the benches with the ladies in their pride and among them sat the Count de Lorge with one for whom he sighed and truly it was a gallant thing to see that crowning show Valor and love and a king above and the royal beasts below Ramped and roared the lions with horrid laughing jaws they bit, they glared gave blows like beams a wind went with their paws with wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled on one another till all the bit with sand and mane was in a thunderous smother The bloody foam above the bars came whisking through the air said Francis then Faith, gentlemen, we're better here than there de Lorge's love or heard the king a beauteous lively dame with smiling lips and sharp bright eyes which always seemed the same she thought the Count, my lover is brave as brave can be he surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me King, ladies, lovers all look on the occasion is divine I'll drop my glove to prove his love great glory will be mine she dropped her glove to prove his love then looked at him and smiled he bowed and in a moment leapt among the lions while his leap was quick return was quick he has regained his place then threw the glove but not with love right in the ladies face well done cried Francis and he rose from where he sat no love, quote he but vanity sets love a task like that Lee Hunt the well of Saint King I found the well of Saint King in Cornwall England not the poem, but the real well the poem is of the great body of world lore a well there is in the West Country and a clearer one never was seen a wife in the West Country but has heard of the well of Saint King an oak and an elm tree stand beside and behind does an ash tree grow and a willow from the bank above groups to the water below a traveller came to the well of Saint King pleasant it was to his eye for from cock crow he had been travelling and there was not a cloud in the sky he drank of the water so cool and clear and hot was he and he sat down upon the bank under the willow tree there came a man from the neighbouring town at the well to fill his pail on the well side he rested it and bade the stranger hail now art thou a bachelor stranger, quote he for and if thou hast a wife the happiest draft thou hast drunk this day that ever thou didst in thy life or has your good woman have in cornwall ever been for and if she have I'll venture my life she has drunk of the well of Saint King I have left a good woman who never was here the stranger he made reply but that my draft should be better for that I pray you answer me why Saint King, quote the countryman many a time drank of this crystal well and before the angel summoned her she laid on the water a spell if the husband of this gifted well shall drink before his wife a happy man thence forth is he for he shall be master for life but if the wife should drink of it first God help the husband then the stranger stooped to the well of Saint King and drank of the waters again you drank of the well I warned betimes he to the countryman said but the countryman smiled as the stranger spake and sheepishly shook his head I hastened as soon as the wedding was done and left my wife in the porch but if faith she had been wiser than me for she took a bottle to church Robert Southie End of section 48 read by Kara Schallenberg on November 2nd 2006 in Oceanside California poems every child should know edited by Mary E. Burt section 49 read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schallenberg this section contains two poems The Nautilus and the Ammonite and The Solitude of Alexander Selkirk Part 4 continued The Nautilus and the Ammonite The Nautilus and the Ammonite finds the place here out of respect to a 12 year old girl who recited it at one of our poetry hours years ago it made a profound impression on the 50 pupils assembled without feeling that it stands the test The Nautilus and the Ammonite were launched in friendly strife each sent to float in its tiny boat on the wide wide sea of life for each could swim on the ocean's brim and when weary its sail could furl and sink to sleep in the great sea deep in its palace all of pearl and theirs was a bliss more fair than this in our colder climb for they were rife in a tropic life a brighter and better climb they swam mid aisles whose summer smiles were dimmed by no alloy whose groves were palm whose air was balm and life one only joy they sailed all day through creek and bay and traversed the ocean deep and at night they sank on a coral bank in its fairy bowers to sleep and the monsters vast of ages past they beheld in their ocean caves they saw them ride in their power and pride and sink in their deep sea graves and hand in hand from strand to strand they sailed in mirth and glee these fairy shells with their crystal cells twin sisters of the sea and they came at last to a sea long past but as they reached its shore the almighty's breath spoke out in death and the ammonite was no more so the nautilus now in its shelly prow as over the deep it strays still seems to seek in bay and creek its companion of other days and alike do we on life's stormy sea as we roam from shore to shore thus tempest tossed seek the loved the lost and find them on earth no more yet the hope house sweet again to meet as we look to a distance strand where heart meets heart and no more they part who meet in that better land anonymous the solitude of alexander selkirk I am monarch of all I survey my right there is none to dispute from the center all round to the sea word of the foul and the brute oh solitude where are the charms that sages have seen in thy face better dwell in the midst of alarms than rain in this horrible place I am out of humanities reach I must finish my journey alone never hear the sweet music of speech I start at the sound of my own the beasts that roam over the plane my form with indifference see they are so unacquainted with man their tameness is shocking to me society friendship and love divinely bestowed upon man oh had I the wings of a dove how soon would I taste you again my sorrows I then might assuage in the ways of religion and truth might learn from the wisdom of age and be cheered by the sallies of youth ye winds that have made me your sport convey to this desolate shore the cordial endearing report of a land I shall visit no more my friends do they now and then send a wish or a thought after me oh tell me I yet have a friend though a friend I am never to see how fleet is a glance of the mind compared with the speed of its flight the tempest itself lags behind and the swift winged arrows of light when I think of my own native land in a moment I seem to be there but alas recollection at hand soon hurries me back to despair but the sea fowl is gone to her nest the beast is laid down in his lair even here is a season of rest and I to my cabin repair there's mercy in every place and mercy encouraging thought gives even affliction a grace and reconciles man to his lot William Cowper end of section 49 read by Kara Schellenberg on November 2nd 2006 in Oceanside, California poems every child should know edited by Mary E. Burt section 50 readphilibrivox.org by Kara Schellenberg this section contains two poems The Homes of England and Horatius at the Bridge Part 4 continued The Homes of England I wonder if the English people appreciate the Homes of England it is a stately poem worthy of a Goethe or a Shakespeare England is distinctly a country of homes pretty, little, humble homes as well as stately palaces and castles homes well made of stone or brick for the most part and clad ivy and roses who would not be proud to have such a home as Anne Hathaway's Humble Cottage or one of the little huts in the Lake District The Homes of America are often more palatial especially in small cities but the use of wood in America makes them less substantial than the slate and brick houses of England the stately homes of England how beautiful they stand amidst their tall ancestral trees or all the pleasant land the deer across their greensward bound through shade and sunny gleam and the swan glides past them with the sound of some rejoicing stream the merry Homes of England around their hearths by night what gladsome looks of household love meet in the ruddy light their woman's voice flows forth in song or a childish tale is told to move tunefully along some glorious page of old the blessed Homes of England how softly on their bowers is laid the holy quietness that breathes from Sabbath hours solemn yet sweet the church bells chime floats through their woods at morn all other sounds in that still time of breeze and leaf are born the cottage Homes of England by thousands on her planes smiling or the silvery brooks and round the hamlet's veins through glowing orchards forth they peep each from its nook of leaves and fearless there the lowly sleep as the bird beneath their eaves the free fair Homes of England long long in hot and hall may hearts of native proof be reared to guard each hallowed wall and green forever be the groves and bright the flowery sod where first the child's glad spirit loves its country and its God Felicia Hems Horatius at the bridge Horatius at the bridge is too long a poem for children to memorize but I never saw a boy who did not want some stanzas of it hold the bridge with me boys like that motto instinctively Lars Porcina of Clusium by the nine gods he swore that the great house of Tarkin should suffer wrong no more by the nine gods he swore it and named a tristing day and bad his messengers ride forth east and west and south and north to summon his array east and west and south and north the messengers ride fast and tower and town and cottage have heard the trumpets blast shame on the Truscan who lingers in his home when Porcina of Clusium is on the march for Rome the horsemen and the footmen are pouring in a main from many a stately marketplace from many a fruitful plane from many a lonely Hamlet which hid by beach and pine like an eagle's nest hangs on the crest of purple aponyne the harvests of Aresium this year old men shall reap this year young boys in umbrellas shall plunge the struggling sheep and in the vats of Luna this year the must shall foam round the white feet of laughing girls whose sires have marched to Rome there be thirty chosen prophets the wisest of the land who all way by Lars Porcina both mourn and evening stand evening and mourn the thirty have turned the verses o'er traced from the right on linen white by mighty seers of yore and with one voice the thirty have their glad answer given go forth go forth Lars Porcina go forth beloved of heaven go and return in glory to Clusium's royal dome and hang round Nershia's altars the golden shields of Rome and now hath every city sent up her tail of men our forescore thousand the horse our thousand's ten before the gate so Sutrium is met the great array a proud man was Lars Porcina upon the tristing day for all the Etruscan armies were ranged beneath his eye and many a banished Roman and many a stout ally and with a mighty following to join the muster came the Tuscalan Mamillus Prince of the Lation name but by the yellow Tiber was tumult and a fright from all the spacious champagne to Rome men took their flight a mile around the city the throng stopped up the ways a fearful sight it was to see through two long nights and days now from the rock Tarpean could the one burgers spy the line of blazing villages read in the midnight sky the fathers of the city sat all night and day for every hour some horsemen came with tidings of dismay to eastward and to westward have spread the Tuscan bands nor house nor fence nor dove caught in Krustumerium stands verbena down to Ostia hath wasted all the plane aster hath stormed Janiculum and the stout guards are slain I wish in all the senate there was no heart so bold but sore it ached and fast it beat when that ill news was told forthwith up rose the consul up rose the fathers all in haste they girded up their gowns and hide them to the wall they held a council standing before the river gate short time was there ye well may guess for musing or debate out spoke the consul roundly the bridge must straight go down for since Janiculum is lost not else can save the town just then a scout came flying all wild with haste and fear two arms, two arms sir consul Lars Porcina is here on the low hills to westward the consul fixed his eye and saw the swarthy storm of dust rise fast along the sky and nearer fast and nearer doth the red whirlwind come and louder still and still more loud from underneath that rolling cloud is heard the trumpets war note proud the trampling and the hum and plainly and more plainly now through the gloom appears far to left and far to right in broken gleams of dark blue light the long array of helmets bright the long array of spears and plainly and more plainly of the glimmering line now might ye see the banners of twelve fair cities shine but the banner of proud Clusium was the highest of them all the terror of the Umbrian the terror of the Gaul fast by the royal standard or looking all the war Lars Porcina of Clusium sat in his ivory car by the right wheel road Mamelius Prince of the Laysian name and by the left all Sextus that wrought the deed of shame but when the face of Sextus was seen among the foes a yell that rent the firmament from all the town arose on the housetops was no woman but spat toward him and hissed no child but screamed out curses and shook its little fist but the consul's brow was sad and the consul's speech was low and darkly looked he at the wall and darkly at the foe their van will be upon us before the bridge goes down and if they once may win the bridge what hope to save the town then outspake brave Horatius the captain of the gate to every man upon this earth death cometh soon or late and how can man die better than facing fearful odds for the ashes of his fathers and the temples of his gods and for the tender mother to him to rest and for the wife who nurses his baby at her breast and for the holy maidens who feed the eternal flame to save them from false Sextus that wrought the deed of shame hew down the bridge sir consul with all the speed ye may I with two more to help me will hold the foe in play in yon straight path a thousand may well be stopped by three I will stand on either hand and keep the bridge with me then outspake spurious Lartius a ramnian proud was he I will stand at thy right hand and keep the bridge with thee and outspake strong Herminius of Titian blood was he I will abide on thy left side and keep the bridge with thee Horatius quote the consul as thou sayst so let it be and straight against that great array forth went the dauntless three for Romans in Rome's quarrel spared neither land nor gold nor son nor wife nor limb nor life in the brave days of old now while the three were tightening their harness on their backs the consul was the foremost man to take in hand and axe and fathers mixed with commons seized hatchet bar and crow and smote upon the planks above and loosed the props below meanwhile the Tuscan army right glorious to behold came flashing back the noonday light rank behind rank like surges bright of a broad sea of gold 400 trumpets sounded a peel of warlike glee as that great host with measured tread and spears advanced and ensign's spread rolled slowly toward the bridge's head where stood the dauntless three this poem is continued in the next section end of section 50 read by Kara Schellenberg on November 2nd 2006 in Oceanside, California poems every child should know edited by Mary E. Burt section 51 read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schellenberg this section contains just one poem, really half of a poem it is part two of Horatius at the Bridge part four continued the three stood calm and silent and looked upon the foes and a great shout of laughter from all the vanguard rows and forth three chiefs came spurring before that deep array to earth they sprang their swords they drew and lifted high their shields and flew to win the narrow way on us from green typhinum lord of the hill of vines and Seas whose eight hundred slaves sickened in ill of his mines and Picas long to Clusium, vassal in peace and war who led to fight his Umbrian powers from that gray crag where Gert with towers the fortress of Nequinium lowers or the pale waves of Naar Stout Larshius hurled down on us into the stream beneath Herminius struck at Seas and clove him to the teeth at Picas brave Horatius darted one fiery thrust and the proud Umbrians gilded arms clashed in the bloody dust then Oknus of Faleri rushed on the Roman three and Loselos of Urgo the rover of the sea and the Umbrians of Valsinium who slew the great wild boar the great wild boar that had his den amid the reeds of Cosa's fen and wasted fields and slaughtered men along Albania's shore Herminius smoked down Orenes Larshius laid Oknus low right to the heart of Loselos Horatius sent a blow lie there he cried fell pirate no more aghast and pale falls the crowd shall mark the tracks of thy destroying bark no more Campania's hind shall fly to woods and caverns when they spy thy thrice accursed sail but now no sound of laughter was heard among the foes a wild and wrathful clamour from all the vanguard rows six spears length from the entrance halted that deep array and for a space no man came forth to win the narrow way but hark the cry is aster and low the ranks divide and the great lord of Luna comes with his stately stride upon his ample shoulders clangs loud the four fold shield and in his hand he shakes the brand which none but he can wield he smiled on those bold romans a smile serene and high he eyed the flinching pusskins and scorn was in his eye quote he the she-wolves litter stand savagely at bay but will ye dare to follow if aster clears the way then hurling up his broadsword with both hands to the height he rushed against Horatius and smote with all his might with shield and blade Horatius right deftly turned the blow the blow though turned came get to nigh it missed his helm but gashed his thigh the tuskens raised a joyful cry to see the red blood flow he reeled and on herminius he leaned one breathing space then like a wild cat mad with wounds sprang right at aster's face through teeth and skull and helmet so fierce a thrust he sped the good sword stood a handbreath out behind the tuskens head and the great lord of Luna fell at the deadly stroke as falls on Mount Alvernus a thunder smitten oak far o'er the crashing forest the giant arms lie spread and the pale augurs muttering low gaze on the blasted head on aster's throat Horatius right firmly pressed his heel and thrice and four times tugged the mane ere he wrenched out the steel and see he cried the welcome fair guests that waits you here comes next to taste our Roman cheer but at his haughty challenge a sullen murmur ran mingled of wrath and shame and dread along that glittering van there lacked not men of prowess nor men of lordly race for all Etruria's noblest were round the fatal place but all Etruria's noblest felt their heart sink to sea on the earth the bloody corpses in the path the dauntless three from the ghastly entrance where those bold Romans stood all shrank like boys who unaware ranging the woods to start hair come to the mouth of the dark lair where growling low a fierce old bear lies amid bones and blood was none who would be foremost to lead such dire attack but those behind cried forward and those before cried back and backward now and forward the deep array and on the tossing sea of steel to and fro the standards real and the victorious trumpet peal dies fitfully away yet one man for one moment strode out before the crowd well known was he to all the three and they gave him greeting loud now welcome welcome Sextus now welcome to thy home why does thou stay and turn away here lies the road to Rome thrice looked he at the city thrice looked he at the dead and thrice came on in fury and thrice turned back in dread and white with fear and hatred scowled at the narrow way where wallowing in a pool of blood the bravest tuskens lay but meanwhile axe and lever have manfully been plied and now the bridge hangs tottering above the boiling tide come back come back Horatius loud cried the father's all back Larshius back Herminius back ere the ruin fall back darted spurious Larshius Herminius darted back and as they passed beneath their feet they felt the timbers crack but when they turned their faces and on the farther shore saw brave Horatius stand alone they would have crossed once more but with a crash like thunder fell every loosened beam and like a dam the mighty wreck lay right a thwart the stream and a long shout of triumph rose from the walls of Rome as to the highest turret tops was splashed the yellow foam and like a horse unbroken when first he feels the rain the furious river struggled hard and tossed his tawny mane and burst the curb and bounded rejoicing to be free from fierce career battlement and plank and pier rushed headlong to the sea alone stood brave Horatius but Constance still in mind thrice thirty thousand foes before and the broad flood behind down with him cried false sextus with a smile on his pale face now yield the cried Lars Porcina now yield thee to our grace round turned he as not daining those craven ranks to see not spake he to Lars Porcina to Sextus not spake he but he saw on Palatinas the white porch of his home and he spake to the noble river that rolls by the towers of Rome O Tyber Father Tyber to whom the Romans pray a Romans life a Romans arms take thou in charge this day so he spake and speaking sheaths the good sword by his side and with his harness on his back plunged headlong in the tide no sound of joy or sorrow was heard from either bank but friends and foes in dumb surprise with parted lips and straining eyes stood gazing where he sank and when above the surges they saw his crest appear all Rome sent forth a rapturous cry and even the ranks of Tuscany could scarce to cheer and fiercely ran the current swollen high by months of rain and fast his blood was flowing and he was sore in pain and heavy with his armor and spent with changing blows and oft they thought him sinking but still again he rose never I weaned did swimmer in such an evil case struggle through such a raging flood safe to the landing place but his limbs were born by the brave heart within and our good father Tybur bore bravely up his chin curse on him quote false sexed us will not the villain drown but for this day air close of day we should have sacked the town heaven help him quote Lars porcina and bring him safe to shore for such a gallant feet of arms was never seen before and now he feels the bottom now on dry earth he stands now round him throng the fathers to press his gory hands and now with shouts and clapping and noise of weeping loud he enters through the river gate born by the joyous crowd they gave him of the corn land that it was of public right as much as too strong oxen could plow from more until night and they made a molten image and set it up on high and there it stands unto this day to witness if I lie it stands in the commissium plain for our folk to see Horatius in his harness halting upon one knee and underneath is written in letters all of gold how valiantly he kept the bridge in the brave days of old and still his name sounds stirring unto the men of Rome as the trumpet blast that cries to them to charge the Volskin home and wives still pray to Juno for boys with hearts as bold as he who kept the bridge so well in the brave days of old and in the nights of winter when the cold north winds blow and the long howling of the wolves is heard amid the snow when round the lonely cottage roars loud the tempest's din and the good logs of algadas roar louder yet within when the oldest cask is open and the largest lamp is lit when the chestnuts blow in the embers and the kid turns on the spit when young and old encircle around the firebrand's clothes when the girls are weaving baskets and the lads are shaping bows when the good man mends his armour and trims his helmets plume when the good wife's shuttle merrily goes flashing through the loom with weeping and with laughter still is the story told how well Horatius kept the bridge in the brave of old Thomas B. Macaulay End of Section 51 Read by Kara Schellenberg on November 10th, 2006 in Oceanside, California. The planting of trees as against their destruction is a vital point in our political and national welfare. Come, let us plant the apple tree cleave the tough green sword with the spade wide let its hollow bed be made there gently lay the roots and there sift the dark mould with kindly care and press it o'er them tenderly as round the sleeping infant's feet we softly fold the cradle sheet so plant we the apple tree what plant we in this apple tree buds which the breath of summer days shall lengthen into leafy sprays bows where the thrush with crimson breast shall haunt and sing and hide her nest we plant upon the sunny lee a shadow for the noontide hour a shelter from the summer shower when we plant the apple tree what plant we in this apple tree sweets for a hundred flowery springs to load the may winds restless wings when from the orchard row he pours its fragrance through our open doors a world of blossoms for the bee flowers for the sick girl's silent room for the glad infant springs of bloom we plant with the apple tree what plant we in this apple tree fruits that shall swell in sunny June and redden in the August noon and drop when gentle airs come by that fan the blue September sky while children come with cries of glee and seek them where the fragrant grass betrays their bed to those who pass at the foot of the apple tree and when above this apple tree the winter stars are quivering bright the winds go howling through the night girls whose eyes or flow with mirth shall peel its fruit by cottage hearth and guests in prouder homes shall see heaped with the grape of Sintra's vine and golden orange of the line the fruit of the apple tree the fruitage of this apple tree winds and our flag of stripe and star shall bear to coasts that lie afar and shall wonder at the view and ask in what fair grove they grew and sojourners beyond the sea shall think of childhood's careless day and long long hours of summer play in the shade of the apple tree each year shall give this apple tree a broader flush of rosy bloom a deeper maze of vergerous gloom and loosen when the frost clouds lower the crisp brown leaves and thicker shower the years shall come and pass but we shall hear no longer where we lie the summer songs the autumn sigh in the boughs of the apple tree and time shall waste this apple tree oh when its aged branches throw thin shadows on the ground below shall fraud and force and iron will oppress the weak and helpless still what shall the tasks of mercy be amid the toils the stripes the tears of those who live when length of years is wasting this apple tree who planted this old apple tree the children of that distant day thus to some aged man shall say and gazing on its mossy stem the gray haired man shall answer them a poet of the land was he born in the rude but good old times his said he made some quaint old rhymes on planting the apple tree William Cullen Bryant end of section 52 read by Kara Schellenberg on November 10th 2006 in Oceanside California poems every child should know edited by Mary E. Burt section 53 read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schellenberg this section contains the following poems June a Psalm of life and barnacles part 5 on and on June June by James Russell Lowell 1819 to 1891 is a fragment from The Vision of Sir Lon Fall it finds a place in this volume because it is the most perfect description of a charming day ever written what is so rare as a day in June then if ever come perfect days then heaven tries the earth if it be in tune and over it softly her warm ear lays whether we look or whether we listen we hear life murmur or see it glisten every clawed feels a stir of might an instinct within it that reaches and towers and groping blindly above it for light climbs to a soul in grass and flowers the flush of life may well be seen thrilling back hills and valleys the cowslip startles in meadows green the buttercup catches the sun in its chalice and there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean to be some happy creature's palace the little bird sits at his door in the sun a tilt like a blossom among the leaves and lets his illumined being or run with the deluge of summer it receives his mate feels the eggs beneath her wings and the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings he sings to the wide world and she to her nest in the nice ear of nature which song is the best James Russell Lowell a Psalm of life what the heart of the young man said to the Psalmist a Psalm of life by Henry W. Longfellow 1807 to 1882 is like a treasure laid up in heaven it should be learned for its future value to the child not necessarily because the child likes it its value will dawn on him tell me not in mournful numbers life is but an empty dream for the soul is dead that slumbers and things are not what they seem life is real life is earnest and the grave is not its goal dust thou art to dust returnest was not spoken of the soul not enjoyment and not sorrow is our destined end or way but to act that each tomorrow find us farther than today art is long and time is fleeting and our hearts though stout and brave still like muffled drums are beating funeral marches to the grave in the world's broad field of battle in the Bivouac of life be not like dumb driven battle be a hero in the strife trust no future however pleasant let the dead past bury its dead act act in the living present heart within and god or head lives of great men all remind us we can make our lives sublime and departing leave behind us footprints on the sands of time footprints that perhaps another sailing our life's solemn main for Lorne and shipwrecked brother seeing shall take heart again let us then be up and doing with a heart for any fate still achieving still pursuing learn to labor and to wait Henry W. Longfellow Barnacles Barnacles by Sydney Lanier 1842 to 1881 is a poem that I teach in connection with my lessons on natural history we have a good specimen of a barnacle and the children see them on the shells on the coast the ethical point is invaluable my soul is sailing through the sea but the past is heavy and hindered me the path hath crusted cumbrous shells that hold the flesh of cold sea males about my soul the huge waves wash the high waves roll each barnacle flingeth and worketh dull and hindereth me from sailing old past let go and drop of the sea till fathomless waters cover thee for I am living but thou art dead thou drawest back I strive ahead the day to find thy shells unbind night comes behind I needs must hurry with the wind and trim me best for sailing Sydney Lanier End of Section 53 Read by Kara Schellenberg on November 17th 2006 in Oceanside, California Poems Every Child Should Know edited by Mary E. Burt Section 54 Read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schellenberg This section contains the following poems A Happy Life Home, Sweet Home Juliet of Nations and Woodman Spare That Tree Part 5 continued A Happy Life How happy is he born and taught that serveth not another's will whose armor is his honest thought and simple truth his utmost skill whose passions not his masters are whose soul is still prepared for death not tied unto the world with care of public fame and private breath Sir Henry Watten Home, Sweet Home Home, Sweet Home by John Howard Payne 1791 to 1852 is a poem that reaches into the heart What is home? A place where we experience independence, safety, privacy and where we can dispense hospitality. The family is the true unit Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam be it ever so humble there's no place like home A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there which, seek through the world is near met with elsewhere Home, Home Sweet, Sweet Home there's no place like home there's no place like home An exile from home splendor dazzles in vain oh give me my lowly thatched cottage again the birds singing gaily that come at my call give me them and the peace of mind dearer than all Home, Home Sweet, Sweet Home there's no place like home there's no place like home How sweet it is to sit neath a fond father's smile and the cares of a mother to soothe and beguile the pleasures to roam but give me oh give me the pleasures of home Home, Home Sweet, Sweet Home there's no place like home there's no place like home to thee I'll return overburdened with care the heart's dearest solace will smile on me there no more from that cottage again will I roam be it ever so humble there's no place like home Home, Home there's no place like home there's no place like home John Howard Payne from Casa Guidi Windows Juliet of Nations I heard last night a little child go singing neath Casa Guidi Windows by the church oh bella liberta oh bella stringing the same words still on notes he went in search so high for you concluded the up-springing of such a nimble bird to sky from perch must leave the whole bush in a tremble green and that the heart of Italy must beat while such a voice had leave to rise serene, twixt church and palace of a Florence street a little child too who not long had been by mother's finger steadied on his feet and still oh bella liberta he sang Elizabeth Barrett Browning Woodman Spare That Tree Woodman Spare That Tree by George Pope Morris 1802 to 1864 is included in this collection because I have loved it all my life and I never knew anyone who could or would offer a criticism upon it its value lies in its recognition of childhood's pleasures Woodman Spare That Tree touch not a single bow in youth it sheltered me and I'll protect it now twas my forefather's hand that placed it near his cot there Woodman let it stand by axe shall harm it not that old familiar tree whose glory and renown are spread or land and sea and wouldst thou hew it down Woodman for bear thy stroke cut not its earthbound ties oh spare that aged oak now towering to the skies when but an idle boy I sought its grateful shade in all their gushing joy here to my sister's played my mother kissed me here my father pressed my hand forgive this foolish tear but let that old oak stand my heartstrings round the cling close as thy bark old friend here shall the wild bird sing and still thy branches bend old tree the storm still brave and Woodman leave the spot while I have a hand to save thy axe shall harm it not George Pope Morris End of Section 54 Read by Kara Schellenberg on November 17th 2006 in Oceanside, California Poems Every Child Should Know Edited by Mary E. Burt Section 55 Read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schellenberg This section contains the following poems Abide with Me Lead Kindly Light The Last Rose of Summer and Annie Laurie Part 5 Continued Abide with Me Abide with Me by Henry Francis Light 1793-1847 Appeals to our natural longing for the unchanging and to our love of security Abide with Me Fast falls the eventide The darkness deepens Lord with me abide When other helpers fail and comforts flee Help of the helpless O abide with me Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day Earth's joys grow dim its glories pass away Change and decay in all around I see O thou who changest not abide with me Henry Francis Light Lead Kindly Light Lead Kindly Light by John Henry Newman 1801-1890 was written when Cardinal Newman was in the stress and strain of perplexity and mental distress and bodily pain. The poem has been a star of thousands. It was the favorite poem of President McKinley. Lead Kindly Light a mid-thin circling gloom Lead thou me on. The night is dark and I am far from home. Lead thou me on. Keep thou my feet. I do not ask to see the distant scene one step enough for me. I was not ever thus nor prayed that thou should lead me on. I loved to choose and see my path but now lead thou me on. I loved the garish day and in spite of fears pride ruled my will. Remember not past years. So long thy power hath blessed me, sure it still will lead me on, or more and fen or crag and torrent till the night has gone. And with the mourn those angel faces smile which I have loved long since and lost a while. John Henry Newman The Last Rose of Summer Tis the last rose of summer left blooming alone, all her lovely companions are faded and gone. No flower of her kindred, no rosebud is nigh to reflect back her blushes or give sigh for sigh. I'll not leave thee thou lone one to pine on the stem. Since the lovely are sleeping, go sleep thou with them. Thus kindly I scatter thy leaves over the bed where thy mates of the garden lie scentless and dead. So soon may I follow when friendships decay and from love's shining circle the gems drop away. When true hearts lie withered and fond ones are flown, oh who would inhabit this bleak world alone? Thomas Moore Annie Laurie finds a place in this collection because it is the most popular song on earth written by William Douglas. Maxwell's and Bray's are Bonnie where early files the do and it's there that Annie Laurie gave me her promise true gave me her promise true which Nair forgot will be and for Bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me down and be. Her brow is like the snodrift, her throat is like the swan, her face it is the farrest that air the sun shone on, that air the sun shone on and dark blue is her E and for Bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me down and be. Like dew on the go and dying is the far of her fairy feet. Like the winds in summer sighing her voice is low and sweet. Her voice is low and sweet and she's all the world to me and for Bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me down and be William Douglas. End of section 55 read by Kara Schellenberg on November 22nd, 2006 in Oceanside, California. Poems every child should know edited by Mary E. Burt. Section 56 read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schellenberg. This section contains the following poems. The Ship of State America and The Landing of the Pilgrims. Part five continued The Ship of State A president of a well known college writes me that The Ship of State was his favorite poem when he was a boy and did more than any other to shape his course in life. Sail on, sail on oh Ship of State, sail on strong and great. Humanity with all its fears with all the hopes of future years is hanging breathless on thy fate. We know what master laid thy keel what workmen wrought thy ribs of steel who made each mast and sail and rope what anvils rang what hammers beat in what a forge and what a heat were forged the anchors of thy hope. Fear not each sudden sound the rock tis of the wave and not the rock tis but the flapping of the sail and not a rent made by the gale in spite of rock and tempest roar in spite of false lights on the shore sail on nor fear to rest the sea our hearts our hopes are all with thee our hearts our hopes our prayers our tears our faith triumphant or our fears are all with thee are all with thee Henry W. Longfellow America America by Samuel Francis Smith 1808-1895 is a good poem to learn as a poem regardless of the fact that every American who can sing it ought to know it that he may join in the chorus when patriotic celebrations call for it. My boys love to repeat the entire poem but I often find masses of people trying to sing it knowing only one stanza it is our national anthem and a part of our education to know every word of it. My country tis of thee sweet land of liberty of thee I sing land where my father's died land of the pilgrims pride from every mountainside let freedom ring my native country thee land of the noble free thy name I love I love thy rocks and rills thy woods and temple hills my heart with rapture thrills like that above let music swell the breeze and ring from all the trees sweet freedom song let mortal tongues awake let all that breathe partake let rocks their silence break the sound prolong our father's god to thee author of liberty to thee we sing long may our land be bright with freedoms holy light protect us by thy might great god our king SF Smith The Landing of the Pilgrims The Landing of the Pilgrims by Felicia Hammons 1749 to 1835 is a poem that children want when they study the early history of America The Breaking Waves dashed high on a stern and rock-bound coast and the woods against a stormy sky their giant branches tossed and the heavy night hung dark the hills and waters o'er when a band of exiles moored their bark on the wild New England shore not as the conqueror drums they the true heart had came not with the roll of the stirring drums and the trumpet that sings of fame not as the flying come in silence and in fear they shook the depths of the desert gloom with their hymns of lofty cheer amid the storm they sang and the stars heard and the sea and the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang to the anthem of the free the ocean eagle soared from his nest by the white waves foam and the rocking pines of the forest roared this was their welcome home there were men with hoary hair amid that pilgrim band why had they come to wither there away from their childhoods land there was woman's fearless eye lit by her deep love's truth there was manhood's brow serenely high and the fiery heart of youth what sought they thus afar bright jewels of the mine the wealth of seas the spoils of war they sought a faith's pure shrine I call it holy ground the soil where first they trod they have left unstained what there they found freedom to worship God Felicia Hemmons End of section 56 Read by Kara Schallenberg on November 22nd, 2006 in Oceanside, California Poems Every Child Should Know Edited by Mary E. Burt Section 57 Read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schallenberg This section contains the following poems The Lotus Eaters and Moly Part 5 continued The Lotus Eaters The main idea in The Lotus Eaters is Are we justified in running away from unpleasant duties or is insensibility justifiable? Ladi, do you recollect learning this poem after we had read the story of Odysseus? The struggle of the soul urged to action but held back by the spirit of self-indulgence These were the points we discussed Courage, he said and pointed toward the land This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon In the afternoon they came unto a land in which it seemed always afternoon All round the coast the languid air did swoon Breathing like one that hath a weary dream Full faced above the valley stood the moon and like a downward smoke the slender stream along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem A land of streams some like a downward smoke slow dropping veils of thinnest lawn did go and some through wavering lights and shadows broke rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below They saw the gleaming river seaword flow from the inner land far off three mountain tops three silent pinnacles of aged snow stood sunset flushed and dued showery drops upclom the shadowy pine above the woven cops The charmed sunset lingered lower down in the red west through mountain clefts the dale was seen far inland and the yellow down bordered with palm and many a winding veil and meadow set with slender gallon gale A land where all things always seemed the same and round about the keel dark faces pale against that rosy flame the mild eyed melancholy lotus eaters came branches they bore of that enchanted stem laden with flower and fruit were of they gave to each but who so did receive of them and taste to him the gushing of the wave far far away did seem to mourn and rave on alien shores and if his fellow spake his voice was thin as voices from the grave and deep asleep he seemed yet all awake and music in his ears his beating heart did make they sat them down upon the yellow sand between the sun and moon upon the shore and sweet it was to dream of fatherland of child and wife and slave but evermore most weary seemed the sea weary the orre weary the wandering fields of barren foam then someone said we will return no more and all at once they sang our island home is far beyond the wave we will no longer roam Alfred Tennyson Moley Moley by Edith M. Thomas born 1850 is the best possible presentation of the value of integrity this poem ranks with Sir Galahad if not above it it is a stroke of genius and every American ought to be proud of it every time my boys read Odysseus or the story of Ulysses with me we read or learn Moley the plant Moley grows in the United States as well as in Europe traveler pluck a stem of Moley if thou touch at Circe's Isle Hermes Moley growing solely to undo enchanter's while when she proffers thee her chalice wine and spices mixed with malice when she smites thee with her staff to transform thee do thou laugh save thou art if thou but bear the least leaf of Moley rare close it grows beside her portal springing from a stock immortal yes and often has the witch sought to tear it from its niche but to thwart her cruel will the wise God renews it still though it grows in soil perverse heaven hath been its jealous nurse and a flower of snowy mark springs from root and sheathing dark kingly safeguard only herb that can brutish passion curb some do think its name should be art quite integrity traveler pluck a stem of Moley if thou touch at Circe's Isle Hermes Moley growing solely to undo enchanter's while Edith M. Thomas End of Section 57 Read by Kara Schellenberg on November 22nd 2006 in Oceanside, California Poems Every Child Should Know Edited by Mary E. Burt Section 58 Read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schellenberg This section contains the following poems Cupid Drowned Cupid Stung Cupid and My Composby and A Ballad for a Boy Part 5 continued Cupid Drowned Cupid Drowned Cupid Stung and Cupid and My Composby are three dainty poems recommended by Mrs. Margaret Mooney of the Albany Teachers College in her Foundation Studies in Literature. Children are always delighted with them. To other day as I was twining roses for a crown to dine in what of all things mid the heap should I light on sleep but the little desperate elf the tiny traitor love himself by the wings I picked him up like a bee and in a cup of my wine I plunged and sank him then what do you think I did I drank him faith I thought him dead not he there he lives with tenfold glee and now this moment with his wings I feel him tickling my heartstrings Lee Hunt Cupid Stung Cupid once upon a bed of roses laid his weary head luckless urchin not to see within the leaves a slumbering bee the bee awaked with anger wild the bee awaked and stung the child loud and piteous are his cries to Venus quick he runs he flies oh mother I am wounded through I die with pain in soothe I do stung by some little angry thing some serpent on a tiny wing a bee it was for once I know I heard a rustic call it so thus he spoke and she the while heard him with a soothing smile then said my infant if so much thou feel the little wild bee's touch how must the heart ah Cupid bee the hapless heart that's stung by thee Thomas More Cupid and my composby Cupid and my composby played at cards for kisses Cupid paid he stakes his quiver bow and arrows his mother's doves and team of sparrows loses them too then down he throws the coral of his lips the rose growing on his cheek but none knows how with them the crystal of his brow and then the dimple of his chin all these did my composby win at last he set her both his eyes she won and Cupid blind did rise oh love hath she done this to thee what shall a lass become of me John Lyley a ballad for a boy Violo Roseboro one of our good authors brought to me a ballad for a boy saying I believe it is one of the poems that every child ought to know it is included in this compilation out of respect to her opinion and also because the boys to whom I have read it said it was great the lesson in it is certainly fine men who are true men want to settle their own disputes by a hand to hand fight but they will always help each other when a third party or the elements interfere when George the third was reigning a hundred years ago he ordered Captain Farmer to chase the foreign foe you're not afraid of shot said he you're not afraid of wreck so cruise about the west of France in the frigate called Quebec Quebec was once a Frenchman's town but twenty years ago King George II sent a man called General Wolfe you know to clamber up a precipice and look into Quebec and look down a hatchway when standing on the deck if Wolfe could beat the Frenchman then so you can beat them now before he got inside the town he died I must allow but since the town was won for us it is a lucky name and you'll remember Wolfe's good work and you shall do the same then Farmer said I'll try sir and Farmer bowed so low that George could see his pigtail George gave him his commission and that it might be safer signed King of Britain, King of France and sealed it with a wafer then proud was Captain Farmer in a frigate of his own and grander on his quarter deck then George upon his throne he'd two guns in his cabin and on the spar deck ten and twenty on the gun deck and more than ten score men and as a huntsman scours the brakes with sixteen and a brace of dogs with two and thirty cannon the ship explored the fogs from Cape Lahog to Uschent from Rookfort to Bel Isle she hunted game till reef and mud were rubbing on her keel the fogs are dried the frigate side is bright with melting tar the lad up in the foretop sees square white sails afar the east wind drives three square sailed masts from out the Breton Bay clear for action Farmer shouts and reefers yell Hooray! the Frenchman's captain had a name I wish I could pronounce a Breton gentleman was he and wholly free from bouts one like those famous fellows who died by guillotine for honor and the fleur de lis and Antoinette the Queen the Catholic for Louis the Protestant for George each captain drew as bright a sword and both were simple seamen but both could understand how each was bound to win or die for flag and native land the friendship was la surveillance which means the watch for maid she folded up her headdress and began to cannonade her hull was clean and ours was foul we had to spread more sail on canvas stays and topsill yards her bullets came like hail sour smitten were both captains the lads beside and still to cut our rigging the foreign gunners try a sail clad spar came flapping down a thwart a blazing gun we could not quench the rushing flames and so the Frenchman won our quarter-deck was crowded the waste was all aglow men hung upon the tafferelle half scorched but loathed to go our captain sat where once he stood and would not quit his chair he bade his comrades leap for life in bleeding there the guns were hushed on either side the Frenchman lowered boats they flung us planks and hencoops and everything that floats they risked their lives good fellows to bring their rivals aid to us by the conflagration the peace was strangely made la surveillance was like a sieve the victors had no rest they had to dodge the east wind to reach the port of breast and where the waves leapt lower the riddled ship went slower in triumph yet in funeral guise came fisher boats to tow her they dealt with us as brethren they mourned for farmer dead and as the wounded captives passed each Breton bowed the head then spoke the French lieutenant to us fire that one not we you never struck your flag to us you'll go to England free to us the sixth day of October 1779 a year when nations ventured against us to combine Quebec was burned and farmer slain by us remembered not but thanks be to the French book wherein they're not forgot now you if you've to fight the French my youngster bear in mind those seamen of King Louis so chivalrous and kind think of the Breton gentlemen who took our lads to breast and treat some rescued Breton and a guest end of section 58 read by Kara Schellenberg on November 22nd 2006 in Oceanside California poems every child should know edited by Mary E. Burt section 59 read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schellenberg this section contains just one poem the skeleton in armor part five continued the skeleton in armor the skeleton in armor by Longfellow 1807 to 1882 is a boys poem it is pure literature and good history speak speak thou fearful guest who with thy hollow breast still in rude armor dressed comes to daunt me wrapped not in eastern bombs but with thy fleshless palms stretched as if asking alms why dost thou haunt me then from those cavernous eyes pale flashes seem to rise as when the northern skies gleam in December and like the waters flow under December's snow came a dull voice of woe from the heart's chamber I was a Viking old my deeds though manifold no skull in song has told I taught thee take heed that in thy verse thou dost the tale rehearse else dread a dead man's curse for this I sought thee far in the northern land by the wild Baltic strand I with my childish hand came to the Garfalken and with my skates fast bound skimmed the half frozen sound that the poor whimpering hound trembled to walk on oft to his frozen lair tracked I the grizzly bear while from my path the hair fled like a shadow oft through the forest dark followed the werewolf spark until the soaring lark sang from the meadow but when I older grew joining a corsairs crew or the dark sea I flew with the marauders wild was the life we led many the souls that sped the hearts that bled by our stern orders many a wassel bout wore the long winter out often our midnight shout set the cocks crowing as we the berserk's tale measured in cups of ale draining the oaken pale filled to overflowing once as I told in glee tales of the stormy sea soft eyes did gaze on me burning yet tender bright stars shine on the dark norway pine on that dark heart of mine fell their soft splendor I would the blue eyed maid yielding yet half afraid and in the forest's shade our vows were plighted under its loosened vest fluttered her little breast like birds within their nest by the hawk frighted bright in her father's hall shields gleamed upon the wall the minstrel's all chanting his glory when of old hill the brand I asked his daughter's hand mute did the minstrel stand to hear my story while the brown ale he quaffed loud then the champion laughed and as the wind gusts waft the sea foam brightly so the loud laugh of scorn out of those lips unshorn from the deep drinking horn blew the foam lightly she was a prince's child I but a viking wild and though she blushed and smiled I was discarded should not the dove so white follow the sea muse flight why did they leave that night her nest unguarded scarce had I put to sea bearing the maid with me fairest of all was she among the Norsemen when on the white sea strand waving his arm at hand old hill the brand with twenty horsemen then launched they to the blast bent like a reed each mast yet we were gaining fast when the wind failed us and with a sudden flaw came round the gusty sco so that our foe we saw laugh as he hailed us and as to catch the gale round veered the flapping sail death was the helmsman's hail death without quarter midships with iron keel struck we her ribs of steel down her black hulk did reel through the black water as with his wings a slant sails the fierce cormorant seeking some rocky haunt with his prey laden so toward the open main beating to sea again through the wild hurricane bore I the maiden three weeks we westward bore and when the storm was o'er cloud like we saw the shore stretching to leeward there for my ladies bower built I the lofty tower which to this very hour stands looking seward there lived we many years time dried the maidens tears she had forgot her fears she was a mother death closed her mild blue eyes under that tower she lies nair shall the sun arise on such another still grew my bosom then still as a stagnant fen hateful to me were men the sunlight hateful in the vast forest here clad in my war like a gear fell I upon my spear oh death was grateful thus seemed with many scars bursting these prison bars up to its native stars my soul ascended there from the flowing bowl deep drinks the warrior soul Skull to the Northland Skull thus the tale ended Henry Wadsworth Longfellow End of Section 59 Read by Kara Schallenberg on December 30th, 2006 in Oceanside, California Poems Every Child Should Know edited by Mary E. Burt Section 60 Read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schallenberg This section contains just one poem The Revenge A Ballad of the Fleet Part 5 Continued The Revenge A Ballad of the Fleet Tennyson's The Revenge finds a welcome here because it is a favorite with teachers of Elocution and their audiences. It teaches us to hold life cheap when the nation's safety is at stake. At Floors in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville Lay and a pinnace like a fluttered bird came flying from away. Spanish Ships of War at Sea we have sighted 53 then swear Lord Thomas Howard for God I am no coward but I cannot meet them here for my ships are out of gear and the half my men are sick I must fly but follow quick we are six ships of the line can we fight them with 53 then spake Sir Richard Grenville I know you are no coward you fly them for a moment to fight with them again but I have 90 men and more that are lying sick ashore I should count myself the coward if I left them my Lord Howard to these Inquisition Dogs and the Devildoms of Spain So Lord Howard passed away with five ships of war that day till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven but Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the land very carefully and slow men of Bidford in Devon and we laid them on the ballast down below for we brought them all aboard and they blessed him in their pain that they were not left to Spain to the thumbscrew and the stake for the glory of the Lord He had only a hundred sea men to work the ship and to fight and he sailed away from floors till the Spaniard came in sight with his huge sea castles heaving upon the weather bow shall we fight or shall we fly good Sir Richard tell us now for to fight is but to die there'll be little of us left by the time this sun be set and Sir Richard said again we be all good Englishmen let us bang these dogs of Seville the children of the devil for I never turned my back upon dawn or devil yet Sir Richard spoke and he laughed and we roared a hurrah and so the little revenge ran on sheer into the heart of the foe with her hundred fighters on deck and her nighties sick below for half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were seen and the little revenge ran on through the long sea lane between thousands of their soldiers looked down from their decks and laughed thousands of their sea men made mock at the mad little craft running on and on till delayed by their mountain like Saint-Philippe that of fifteen hundred tons and upshadowing high above us with her yawning tears of guns took the breath from our sails and we stayed and while now the great Saint-Philippe hung above us like a cloud whence the thunderbolt will fall long and loud four galleons drew away from the Spanish fleet that day and two upon the larbord and two upon the starboard lay and the battle thunder broke from them all but anon the great Saint-Philippe she bethought herself and went having that within her womb that had left her ill-content and the rest they came aboard us and they fought us hand to hand for a dozen times they came with their pikes and musketeers and a dozen times we shook them off as a dog that shakes his ears when he leaps from the water to the land and the sun went down and the stars came out far over the summer sea but never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-three ship after ship the whole night long with her battle thunder and flame ship after ship the whole night long drew back with her dead and her shame for some were sunk and many were shattered and so could fight us no more God of battles was ever a battle like this in the world before for he said fight on, fight on though his vessel was all but a wreck and it chanced that when half of the short summer night was gone with a grisly wound to be dressed he had left the deck but a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead and himself he was wounded again in the side and the head and he said fight on, fight on and the night went down and the sun smiled out far over the summer sea and the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay around us all in a ring they dared not touch us again for they feared that we still could sting so they watched what the end would be and we had not fought them in vain but in perilous plight were we seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain and half of the rest of us maimed for life in the crash of the canonades and the desperate strife and the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark and cold and the pikes were all broken or bent the powder was all of it spent and the masts and the rigging were lying over the side but sir Richard cried in his English pride we have fought such a fight for a day and a night as may never be fought again we have one great glory my men and a day less or more at sea or ashore we die does it matter when sink me into the ship master gunner sinker splitter in twain fall into the hands of God not into the hands of Spain and the gunner said aye aye but the sea men made reply we have children we have wives and the Lord has spared our lives we will make the Spaniard promise if we yield to let us go we shall live to fight again and to strike another blow and the lion lay there dying and they yielded to the foe and the stately Spanish men to their flagship or him then where they laid him by the mast old sir Richard caught at last and they praised him to his face with their courtly foreign grace but he rose upon their decks and he cried I have fought for queen and faith like a valiant man and true I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do with a joyful spirit aye sir Richard Grenville die and he fell upon their decks and he died and they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and true and had hold in the power and glory of Spain so cheap that he dared her with one little ship and his English few was he devil or man he was devil for ought they knew but they sank his body with honour down into the deep and they manned the revenge with a swarther alien crew and away she sailed with her loss and longed for her own when a wind from the land they had ruined a woke from sleep and the water began to heave and the weather to moan and ere ever that evening ended a great gale blew and a wave like the wave that is raised by an earthquake grew till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts and their flags and the whole sea plunged and fell on the shots shattered navy of Spain and the little revenge herself went down by the island crags to be lost evermore in the main Alfred Tennyson End of Section 60 Read by Kara Schallenberg www.kray.org on January 7th, 2007 in Oceanside, California Poems Every Child Should Know edited by Mary E. Burt Section 61 Read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schallenberg The section contains just two poems Sir Galahad and A Name in the Sand Part 5 Continued Sir Galahad Sir Galahad is the most moral and upright of all the nights of the round table. The strong lines of the poem are the strong lines of human destiny. My good blade carves the casks of men my tough lance thrust a sure my strength is as the strength of ten because my heart is pure. The shattering trumpet shrilleth high the hard brands shiver on the steel the splintered spear shafts crack and fly the horse and rider reel they reel they roll in clanging lists and when the tide of combat stands perfume and flowers fall in showers that lightly rain from ladies hands. How sweet are looks that ladies bend on whom their favours fall for them I battle till the end to save from shame and thrall but all my heart is drawn above my knees are bowed in crypt and shrine I never felt the kiss of love nor maiden's hand in mine more bountious aspects on me beam me mightier transports move and thrill so keep I fair through faith and prayer virgin heart in work and will when down the stormy crescent goes a light before me swims between dark stems the forest glows I hear a noise of hymns then by some secret shrine I ride I hear a voice but none are there the stalls are void the doors are wide the tapers burning fair fair gleams the snowy altar cloth the silver vessels sparkle clean the shrill bell rings the censor swings and solemn chants resound between sometimes on lonely mountain mirrors I find a magic bark I leap on board no helmsman's tears I float till all is dark a gentle sound an awful light three angels bear the holy grail with folded feet in stalls of white on sleeping wings they sail blessed vision, blood of God my spirit beats her mortal bars as down dark tides the glory slides and star-like mingles with the stars when on my goodly charger born through dreaming towns I go the cock crows air the Christmas mourn the streets are dumb with snow the tempest crackles on the leads and ringing springs from brand and mail but o'er the dark a glory spreads and guilds the driving hail I leave the plane I climb the height no branchy thicket shelter yields but blessed forms in whistling storms fly or waste fens and windy fields a maiden night to me is given such hope I know not fear I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven that often meet me here I muse on joy that will not cease pure spaces clothed in living beams pure lilies of eternal peace whose odours haunt my dreams and stricken by an angel's hand this mortal armor that I wear this weight and size this heart and eyes are touched are turned to finest air the clouds are broken in the sky and through the mountain walls a rolling organ harmony swells up and shakes and falls then move the trees the copses nod wings flutter voices hover clear oh just and faithful night of God ride on the prizes near so pass I hostel hall and grange by bridge and Ford by park and pale all armed I ride what air betide until I find the holy grail Alfred Tennyson a name in the sand by Hannah Flag Gould 1789 to 1865 is a poem to correct our ready overestimate of our own importance alone I walked the ocean strand a pearly shell was in my hand I stooped and wrote upon the sand my name the year the day as onward from the spot I passed one lingering look behind I cast a wave came rolling high and fast and washed my lines away and so me thought will shortly be with every mark on earth from me a wave of dark oblivion sea will sweep across the place where I have trod the sandy shore of time and been to be no more of me, my day the name I bore to leave nor track nor trace and yet with him who counts the sands holds the waters in his hands I know a lasting record stands inscribed against my name of all this mortal part has wrought of all this thinking soul has thought and from these fleeting moments caught for glory or for shame Hannah Flag Gould end of section 61 read by Kara Schallenberg on January 7th, 2007 in Oceanside, California poems every child should know edited by Mary E. Burt section 62 read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schallenberg this section contains the following poems The Voice of Spring and The Forsaken Murman part 6 Grow old along with me the best is yet to be the last of life for which the first was made The Voice of Spring The Voice of Spring by Felicia Hammons 1749 to 1835 becomes attractive as years go on the line in this poem that captivated my youthful fancy was the larch has hung all his tassels forth the delight with which trees hang out their new little tassels every year is one of the charms of the Pine family John Burroughs sent us down a tiny hemlock that grew in our window box at school for five years and every spring it was a new joy on account of the fine tender tassels Mrs. Hammons has a vivid imagination backed up by an abundant information I come I come you have called me long I come or the mountains with light and song you may trace my step or the waking earth by the winds which tell of the violet's birth by the prim rose stars in the shadowy grass by the green leaves opening as I pass I have breathed on the south and the chestnut flowers by thousands have burst from the forest bowers and the ancient graves and the fallen veins are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains but it is not for me my hour of bloom to speak of the ruin or the tomb I have looked or the hills of the stormy north and the larch has hung all his tassels forth the fisher is out on the sunny sea and the reindeer bounds or the pastures free and the pine has a fringe of softer green and the moss looks bright where my step has been I have sent through the wood paths a glowing sigh and called out each voice of the deep blue sky from the night birds lay through the starry time in the groves of the soft hasperian climb to the swans wild note by the Iceland lakes when the dark fur branch into verger breaks from the streams and founts I have loosed the chain they are sweeping on to the silvery main they are flashing down from the flinging spray or the forest bows they are bursting fresh from their sparrie caves and the earth resounds with the joy of waves Felicia Hammons the Forsaken Merman the Forsaken Merman by Matthew Arnold 1822 to 1888 is a poem that I do not expect children to appreciate easily even when they care enough for it to learn it it is too long for most children to commit to memory and I generally assign one stanza to one pupil and another to another pupil until it is divided up among them the poem is a masterpiece doubtless the poet meant to show that the Forsaken Merman had a greater soul to save than the woman who sought to save her soul by deserting natural duty and not come through the faith that builds itself at the expense of love come dear children let us away down and away below now my brothers call from the bay now the great winds shoreward blow now the salt tides seaward flow now the wild white horses play champ and chafe and toss in the spray children dear let us away this way this way call her once before you go call once yet in a voice that she will know Margaret, Margaret children's voices should be dear call once more to a mother's ear children's voices wild with pain surely she will come again call her once and come away this way this way mother dear we cannot stay the wild white horses foam and fret Margaret, Margaret come dear children come away down call no more one last look at the white walled town and the little grey church on the windy shore then come down she will not come though you call all day come away, come away children dear was it yesterday we heard the sweet bells over the bay in the caverns where we lay and through the swell the far off sound of a silver bell sand strewn caverns cool and deep where the winds are all asleep where the spent lights quiver and gleam where the salt weed sways in the stream where the sea beasts ranged all round feed in the ooze of their pasture ground where the sea snakes coil and twine dry their mail and bask in the brine where great whales come sailing by sail and sail with unshut eye round the world forever and I when did music come this way children dear was it yesterday children dear was it yesterday call yet once that she went away once she sat with you and me on a red gold throne in the heart of the sea and the youngest sat on her knee she combed its bright hair and she tended it well when down swung the sound of a far off bell she sighed she looked up through the clear green sea she said I must go for my kinsfolk pray in the little grey church on the shore today it will be Easter time in the world ah me and I lose my poor soul merman here with thee I said go up dear heart through the waves say thy prayer and come back to the kind sea caves she smiled she went up through the surf in the bay children dear was it yesterday children dear were we long alone the sea grows stormy the little ones moan long prayers I said in the world they say come I said and we rose through the surf in the bay we went up the beach by the sandy down sea stocks bloom to the white wild town through the narrow paved streets where all was still to the little grey church on the windy hill from the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers but we stood without in the cold blowing airs we climbed on the graves on the stones worn with rains and we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded pains she sat by the pillar we saw her clear right hissed come quick we are here dear heart I said we are long alone the sea grows stormy the little ones moan but ah she gave me never a look for her eyes were sealed to the holy book loud praise the priest shut stands the door come away children call no more come away come down call no more down down down down to the depths of the sea she sits at her wheel in the humming town singing most joyfully hark what she sings oh joy oh joy for the humming street and the child with its toy for the priest and the bell and the holy well for the wheel where I spun and the blessed light of the sun and so she sings her fill singing most joyfully till the spindle drops from her hand and the whizzing wheel stands still she steals to the window and looks at the sand and over the sand at the sea and her eyes are set in a stare and a non there breaks a sigh and a non there drops a tear from a sorrow clouded eye and a harp sorrow laden a long long sigh for the cold strange eyes of a little mermaiden and the gleam of her golden hair come away away children come away away children come children come down the horse wind blows colder light shine in the town she will start from her slumber when gusts shake the door she will hear the winds howling will hear the waves roar we shall see while above us the waves roar and whirl a ceiling of amber a pavement of pearl singing here came a mortal but faithless was she and well for ever the kings of the sea but children at midnight when soft the winds blow when clear falls the moonlight when spring tides are low when sweet airs come seaward from heaths start with broom and high rocks throw mildly on the blanched sands a gloom up the still glistening beaches up the creeks we will high over banks of bright seaweed the ebb tide leaves dry we will gaze from the sand hills at the white sleeping town at the church on the hillside and then come back down singing there dwells a loved one but cruel is she she left lonely for ever the kings of the sea Matthew Arnold End of section 62 read by Kara Schellenberg on January 7th 2007 in Oceanside, California poems every child should know edited by Mary E. Burt section 63 read for LibraVox.org by Kara Schellenberg this section contains the following poems The Banks O'doon The Light of Other Days and My Own Shall Come to Me Part 6 continued The Banks O'doon by Robert Burns 1759 to 1796 Bonnie Doone is in the southwestern part of Scotland Robert Burns' old home is close to it the house has low walls a thatched roof and only two rooms Allaway Kirk and the two bridges so famous in Robert Burns' verse are nearby this is an enchanted land and the Scotch people for miles around air speak of the poet with pure affection Burns, more than any other poet has thrown the enchantment of poetry over his own locality Ye Banks and Brays O' Bonnie Doone How can you bloom sephair How can you chant ye little birds and eyes sift full care Thou'd brick my heart thou Bonnie Bird that sings upon the bow Thou minds me o'er the happy days when my false love was true Thou'd brick my heart that sings beside thy mate For say I sat and say I sang and whisked now my fate Uft hay I roved by Bonnie Doone to see the wood-bind twine and Ilka Bird sang o' its love and say did I a mine Where light some heart I pulled a rose for off its thorny tree and my false lover staw the rose but left the thorn with me Robert Burns The Light of Other Days oft in the stilly night air slumber's chain has bound me fond memory brings the light of other days around me the smiles the tears of boyhood's years the words of love then spoken the eyes that shone now dimmed and gone the cheerful hearts now broken thus in the stilly night air slumber's chain has bound me sad memory brings the light of other days around me When I remember all the friends so linked together I've seen around me fall like leaves in wintry weather I feel like one who treads alone some banquet hall deserted whose lights are fled whose garlands dead and all but he departed thus in the stilly night air slumber's chain has bound me sad memory brings the light of other days around me Thomas Moore My Own Shall Come to Me If John Burroughs had never written any other poem than My Own Shall Come to Me he would have stood to all ages as one of the greatest of American poets The poem is most characteristic of the tall, majestic, slow-going poet and naturalist There is no greater line in Greek or English literature than I stand amid the eternal waves Serene I fold my hands and wait nor care for wind nor tide nor sea I rave no more against time or fate for lo my own shall come to me I stay my haste I make delays for what avails this eager pace I stand amid the eternal ways and what his mind shall know my face I sleep awake by night or day the friends I seek are seeking me No wind can drive my bark astray nor change the tide of destiny What matter if I stand alone I wait with joy the coming years my heart shall reap when it has sown and gather up its fruit of tears The stars come nightly to the sky the tidal wave comes to the sea nor time nor space nor deep nor high can keep my own away from me The waters know their own and draw the brook that springs in yonder heights so flows the good with equal law unto the soul of pure delights John Burroughs End of Section 63 Read by Kara Schallenberg on January 9th, 2007 in Oceanside, California Poems Every Child Should Know Edited by Mary E. Burt Section 64 Read for LibriVox.org This section contains two poems Ode to a Skylark and The Sands of D. Part 6 continued Ode to a Skylark Ode to a Skylark by Percy Biss Shelley 1792 to 1822 is usually assigned to grammar grades of schools it is included here out of respect to a boy of 11 years who was more impressed with these lines than with any other lines in any poem Hail to thee, Bly the Spirit bird thou never worked that from heaven or near it pourst thy full heart in profuse strains of unpremeditated art Hire still and hire from the earth thou springest like a cloud of fire the blue deep thou wingest and singing still dost soar in the golden lightning of the sunken sun or which clouds are brightening thou dost float and run like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun the pale purple even melts around thy flight like a star of heaven in the broad daylight thou art unseen but yet I hear thy shrill delight all the earth and air with thy voices loud whose bear from one lonely cloud the moon rains out her beams and heaven is overflowed what thou art we know not what is most like thee from rainbow clouds their flow not drops so bright to see as from thy presence showers a rain of melody like a poet hidden in the light of thought singing hymns unbidden till the world is wrought to sympathy with hopes and fears it did not teach us, sprite or bird what sweet thoughts are thine I have never heard praise of love or wine that panted forth a flood of rapture so divine chorus hymenial or triumphal chant matched with thine would be all but an empty vaunt a thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want what objects are the fountains of thy happy strain what fields or waves or mountains what shapes of sky or plane what love of thine own kind what ignorance of pain teach me half the gladness that thy brain must know such harmonious madness from my lips would flow the world should listen then as I am listening now Percy Biss Shelley The Sands of D I have often had the pleasure of riding across the coast to Rill on the north coast of Wales where stretch the sands of D these purple sands at low tide stretch off into the sea miles away and are said to be full of quicksands oh Mary go and call the cattle home and call the cattle home and call the cattle home across the sands of D the western wind was wild and dark with foam and all alone went she the western tide crept up along the sand and ore and ore the sand and round and round the sand as far as I could see the rolling mist came down and hid the land and never home came she oh is it weed or fish or floating hair a tress of golden hair a drowned maiden's hair above the nets at sea was never salmon yet that shone so fair they rode her in across the rolling foam the cruel crawling foam the cruel hungry foam to her grave beside the sea but still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home across the sands of D Charles Kingsley End of section 64 read by Kara Schellenberg on January 9th 2007 in Oceanside, California poems every child should know edited by Mary E. Burt section 65 read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schellenberg this section contains the following poems A Wish Lucy Solitude John Anderson and The God of Music Part 6 Continued A Wish by Samuel Rogers 1763 to 1855 and Lucy by Wordsworth 1770 to 1850 are two gems that can be valued only for the spirit of quiet and modesty diffused by them Mine be a cot beside the hill a beehive's hum shall soothe my ear a willowy brook that turns a mill with many a fall shall linger near the swallow oft beneath my thatch shall twitter from her clay-built nest oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch and share my meal a welcome guest around my ivied porch shall spring each fragrant flower that drinks the dew and Lucy at her wheel shall sing in russet gown and apron blue the village church among the trees where first our marriage vows were given with merry peels shall swell the breeze and point with taper-spire to heaven as Rogers Lucy, she dwelt among the untrodden ways beside the springs of Dove a maid whom there were none to praise and very few to love a violet by a mossy stone half hidden from the eye fair as a star when only one is shining in the sky she lived unknown and few could know when Lucy ceased to be but she is in her grave and oh, the difference to me William Wordsworth Solitude Happy the man whose wish and care a few paternal acres bound content to breathe his native air in his own ground whose herds with milk fields with bread whose flocks supply him with attire whose trees in summer yield him shade in winter fire blessed who can unconcernedly find hours, days, and years slides off to way in health of body, peace of mind quiet by day sound sleep by night study and ease together mixed sweet recreation and innocence which most does please with meditation thus let me live unseen unknown thus unlamented let me die steal from the world and not a stone tell where I lie Alexander Pope John Anderson John Anderson by Robert Burns 1759 to 1796 this poem is included to please several teachers John Anderson my Joe John when we were first acquainted your locks were like the raven your bunny brow was Brent but now your brow is bald John your locks are like the snow but blessings on your frosty pow John Anderson my Joe John Anderson my Joe John we clam the hill together and money a canty day John we've had we're on another now we mon totter down John but hand in hand we'll go and sleep together at the foot John Anderson my Joe Robert Burns The God of Music The God of Music by Edith M. Thomas an Ohio poetess now living in this sonnet the poetess has touched the power of Wordsworth or Keats and placed herself among the immortals The God of Music dwelleth out of doors all seasons through his central sea we meet breathing by field and covert haunting sweet from organ lofts in forests old he pours a solemn harmony on leafy floors to smooth autumnal pipes he moves his feet or with the tingling plectrum of the sleet in winter Keen beats out his thrilling scores leave me the reed unplucked beside the stream and he will stoop and fill it with the breeze leave me the vials frame in secret trees unwrought and it shall wake a druid theme leave me the whispering shell on narrowed shores The God of Music dwelleth out of doors Edith M. Thomas End of section 65 read by Kara Schellenberg on January 9th 2007 in Oceanside, California poems every child should know edited by Mary E. Burt section 66 read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schellenberg this section contains two poems a musical instrument and The Brides of Enderby Part 6 continued A Musical Instrument A Musical Instrument by Elizabeth Barrett Browning 1806 to 1861 This poem is the supreme masterpiece of Mrs. Browning The prime thought in it is the sacrifice and pain that must go to make a poet of any genius What was he doing the great god Pan down in the reeds by the river spreading ruin and scattering ban splashing and paddling with hooves of a goat and breaking the golden lilies of float with the dragonfly on the river He tore out a reed the great god Pan from the deep cool bed of the river the limpid water turbidly ran and the broken lilies a dying lay and the dragonfly had fled away ere he brought it out of the river high on the shore sat the great god Pan while turbidly flowed the river and hacked and hewed as a great god can with his hard bleak steel at the patient reed till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed to prove it fresh from the river he cut it short did the great god Pan how tall it stood in the river then drew the pith like the heart of a man steadily from the outside ring and notched the poor dry empty thing in holes as he sat by the river this is the way laughed the great god Pan laughed while he sat by the river the only way since gods began to make sweet music they could succeed then dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed he blew in power by the river sweet sweet sweet oh Pan piercing sweet by the river blinding sweet oh great god Pan the sun on the hill forgot to die and the lilies revived and the dragonfly came back to dream on the river yet half a beast is the great god Pan to laugh as he sits by the river making a poet out of a man the true gods sigh for the cost and pain for the reed which grows never more again as a reed with the reeds in the river Elizabeth Barrett Browning the Brides of Enderby the Brides of Enderby by Jean Engelot 1830 to 1897 this poem is very dramatic and the music of the refrain has done much to make it popular that which endears it the old mayor climbed the bell-free tower the ringers ran by two by three pull if you never pulled before good ringers pull your best quote he play up play up oh Boston bells play all your changes all your swells play up the Brides of Enderby men say it was a stolen tide the lord that sent it he knows all but in mine ears doth still abide the message the bells let fall and there was not of strange beside the flight of muse and Pewitt's pied by millions crouched on the old sea wall I sat and spun within the door my thread break off I raised my eyes the level sun like ruddy ore lay sinking in the barren skies and dark against today's golden death she moved where Linda swandereth my son's fair wife Elizabeth kusha kusha kusha calling ere the early dews were falling far away I heard her song kusha kusha all along where the reedy lindes floweth floweth floweth from the meds where melik groweth faintly came her milking song kusha kusha kusha calling for the dews will soon be falling leave your meadow grasses mellow mellow mellow quit your cow slips yellow come up whitefoot come up lightfoot quit the stalks of parsley hollow hollow hollow come up jetty rise and follow from the clovers lift your head come up whitefoot come up lightfoot come up jetty rise and follow jetty to the milking shed if it be long I long ago when I begin to think how long again I hear the lindes flow swift as an arrow sharp and strong and all the air it seameth me in full of floating bells saith she that ring the tune of enderby all fresh the level pasture lay and not a shadow moat be seen save were full five good miles away the steeple towered from out the green and lo the great bell far and wide was heard in all the countryside saturday at eventide the swan herds where their sedges are moved on in sunsets golden breath the shepherd lads I heard afar and my son's wife elizabeth till floating over the grassy sea came down that kindly message free the brides of mavis enderby then some looked up into the sky and all along where lindes flows to where the goodly vessels lie and where the lordly steeple shows they said and why should this thing be what danger lours by land or sea they ring the tune of enderby for evil news from Mabel Thorpe of pirate galleys warping down for ships ashore beyond the scorp they have not spared to wake the town but while the west been read to see and storms be none and pirates flee why ring the brides of enderby I looked without and low my son came riding down with might and main he raised a shout as he drew on till all the welkin rang again elizabeth elizabeth a sweeter woman near drew breath than my son's wife elizabeth the old sea wall he cried is down the rising tide comes on a pace and boats adrift in yonder town go sailing up the marketplace he shook as one that looks on death god save you mother straight he saith where is my wife elizabeth good son where lindis winds her way with her two bairns I marked her long and arian bells began to play afar I heard her milking song he looked across the grassy lee to right to left ho enderby they rang the brides of enderby with that he cried and beat his breast for low along the river's bed a mighty Iger reared his crest and up the lindis raging sped it swept with thunderous noises loud shaped like a curling snow white cloud or like a demon in a shroud and rearing lindis backward pressed shook all her trembling banks amane then madly at the Iger's breast flung up her weltering walls again then banks came down with ruin and then beaten foam flew round about then all the mighty floods were out so far so fast the Iger draped the heart had barely time to beat before a shallow seething wave sobbed in the grasses at our feet the feet had hardly time to flee before to break against the knee and all the world was in the sea upon the roof we sat that night the noise of bells went sweeping by I marked the lofty beacon light streamed from the church tower red and high a lurid mark and dread to see and awesome bells they were to me that in the dark rang enderby they rang the sailor lads to guide from roof to roof who fearless rode and I my son was at my side and yet the ruddy beacon glowed and yet he moaned beneath his breath oh come in life or come in death oh lost my love to Elizabeth and didst thou visit him no more now didst thou didst my daughter dear the waters laid the at his door ere yet the early dawn was clear thy pretty verins in fast embrace the lifted sun shone on thy face down drifted to thy dwelling place that flow strewed wrecks about the grass that ebb swept out the flocks to sea a fatal ebb and flow alas too many more than mine and me but each will moan his own she saith and sweeter woman ne'er drew breath than my son's wife Elizabeth I shall never hear her moor by the ruddy lindis shore kusha kusha kusha calling ere the early do's be falling I shall never hear her song kusha kusha all along where the sunny lindis floweth goeth floweth from the meds where mellick groweth when the water winding down onward floweth to the town I shall never see her moor where the reeds and rushes quiver shiver quiver stand beside the sobbing river sobbing throbbing in its falling to the sandy lonesome shore I shall never hear her calling leave your meadow grasses mellow mellow mellow quit your cow slips cow slips yellow come up whitefoot come up lightfoot quit your pipes of parsley hollow hollow hollow come up lightfoot rise and follow lightfoot whitefoot from your clovers lift the head come up jetty follow follow jetty to the milking shed gene ingelow end of section 66 read by Kara Schellenberg on january 12 2007 in California poems every child should know edited by Mary E. Burt section 67 read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schellenberg this section contains two poems The Lie and L'Envoy part six continued The Lie The Lie by Sir Walter Raleigh 1552 to 1618 is one of the strongest healing poems a teacher can read to her pupils when teaching early American history the poem is full of magnificent lines such as go soul the body's guest the poem never lacks an attentive audience of young people when correlated with the study of North Carolina and Sir Walter Raleigh the solitary majestic character of Sir Walter Raleigh his intrepidity while undergoing tortures inflicted by a cowardly king the ring of indignation all these make a weapon for him stronger than the axe that beheaded him in this poem he has the last word go soul the body's guest upon a thankless aren't fear not to touch the best the truth shall be I warrant go since I needs must die and give the world the lie go tell the court it glows and shines like rotten wood go tell the church it shows good and doth no good if church and court reply then give them both the lie tell potentates they live acting by others actions not loved unless they give not strong but by their factions if potentates reply give potentates the lie tell men of high condition that rule affairs of state their purpose is ambition their practice only hate once reply then give them all the lie tell zeal it lacks devotion tell love it is but lust tell time it is but motion tell flesh it is but dust and wish them not reply for thou must give the lie tell wit how much it wrangles in tickle points of niceness tell wisdom she entangles herself in over wiseness and if they do reply then give them both the lie tell physic of her boldness tell skill it is pretension tell charity of coldness tell law it is contention and as they yield reply so give them still the lie tell fortune of her blindness tell nature of decay tell friendship of unkindness tell justice of delay and if they dare reply then give them all the lie tell arts they have no soundness but vary by esteeming tell schools they want profoundness and stand too much on seeming if arts and schools reply give arts and schools the lie so when thou hast as I commanded thee done blabbing although to give the lie deserves no less than stabbing yet stab at thee who will no stab the soul can kill Sir Walter Raleigh L'Envoy L'Envoy by Richard Kipling is a favorite on account of its sweeping assertion of the individual's right to self-development when earth's last picture is painted and the tubes are twisted and dried when the oldest colors have faded and the youngest critic has died we shall rest and faith we shall need it lie down on Eon or two till the master of all good workmen shall set us to work anew and those who were good shall be happy they shall sit in a golden chair they shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of Comet's hair they shall find real saint to draw from Magdalen, Peter and Paul they shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all and only the master shall praise us and only the master shall blame and no one shall work for money and no one shall work for fame but each for the joy of the working and each in his separate star shall draw the thing as he sees it for the God of things as they are Rudyard Kipling End of Section 67 Read by Kara Schallenberg on January 12th, 2007 in Oceanside, California Poems Every Child Should Know edited by Mary E. Burk Section 68 Read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schallenberg This section contains the following poems Contentment The Harp That Wants Through Tara's Halls and The Old Oaken Bucket Part 6 Continued Contentment Contentment by Edward Dyer 1545-1607 This poem holds much to comfort and control people who are shut up to the joys of meditation people to whom the world of activity is closed to be independent of things material this is the soul's pleasure My mind to me a kingdom is such perfect joy therein I find as far excels all earthly bliss that God or nature hath assigned though much I want that most would have yet still my mind forbids to crave content I live this is my stay I seek no more than may suffice I press to bear no haughty sway look what I lack my mind supplies lo thus I triumph like a king content with that my mind doth bring I laugh not at another's loss I grudge not at another's gain no worldly wave my mind can't toss I brook that is another's bane I fear no foe nor fawn on friend I loathe not life nor dread mine end my wealth is health and perfect ease my conscience clear my chief defense I never seek by bribes to please nor by dessert to give offence thus do I live thus will I die would all did so as well as I Edward Dyer the harp that once through Tara's halls the soul of music shed now hangs as mute on Tara's walls as if that soul were fled so sleeps the pride of former days so glories thrill as oar and hearts that once beat high for praise now feel that pulse no more no more to chiefs and ladies bright the harp of Tara swells the chord alone that breaks at night its tale of ruin tells thus freedom now so seldom wakes the only throb she gives is when some heart indignant breaks to show that still she lives Thomas More The Old Oaken Bucket The Old Oaken Bucket by Samuel Woodworth 1785-1848 is a poem we love because it is an elegant expression of something very dear and homely. How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood when fond recollection presents them to view the orchard, the meadow the deep-tangled wildwood and every loved spot which my infancy knew the wide-spreading pond and the mill that stood by it the bridge and the rock where the cataract fell the cot of my father, the dairy house Nighit and Ian the rude bucket that hung in the well the Old Oaken Bucket the iron-bound bucket the moss-covered bucket which hung in the well that moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure for often at noon when returned from the field I found at the source of an exquisite pleasure the purest and sweetest that nature can yield how ardent I seized it with hands that were glowing and quick to the white pebbled bottom there soon with the emblem of truth overflowing and dripping with coolness it rose from the well the Old Oaken Bucket the iron-bound bucket the moss-covered bucket arose from the well how sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it as poised on the curb it inclined to my lips not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it the brightest that beauty or revel resips now far removed from the loved habitation the tear of regret will intrusively swell as fancy reverts to my father's plantation and size for the bucket that hangs in the well the Old Oaken Bucket the iron-bound bucket the moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well Samuel Woodworth The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe 1809 to 1849 is placed here because so many college men speak of it at once as the great poem of their boyhood the poem caught me when a child by its refrain and weird picturesqueness it has never outgrown its mechanical charm once upon a midnight dreary while I pondered weak and weary over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore while I nodded nearly napping suddenly there came a tapping as of someone gently rapping rapping at my chamber door to some visitor I muttered tapping at my chamber door only this and nothing more ah distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December and each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor eagerly I wished the morrow vainly I had sought to borrow from my books surcease of sorrow sorrow for the lost Lenore for the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore nameless here forevermore and the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain thrilled me filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before that now to still the beating of my heart I stood repeating to some visitor in treating entrance at my chamber door some late visitor in treating entrance at my chamber door this is it and nothing more presently my soul grew stronger hesitating then no longer sir said I or madam truly your forgiveness I implore but the fact is I was napping and so gently you came rapping and so faintly you came tapping tapping at my chamber door that I scarce was sure I heard you here I opened wide the door darkness there and nothing more deep into that darkness peering long I stood there wondering fearing doubting dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before but the silence was unbroken and the stillness gave no token and the only word there spoken was the whispered word Lenore this I whispered and an echo murmured back the word Lenore nearly this and nothing more back into my chamber turning all my soul within me burning soon again I heard a rapping something louder than before surely said I surely that is something at my window lattice let me see then what there at is and this mystery explore let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore is the wind and nothing more open here I flung the shutter when with many a flirt and flutter in there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore not the least obeisance made he not a minute stopped or stayed he but with mean of lord or lady perched above my chamber door perched above a bust of palace just above my chamber door perched and sad and nothing more then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling by the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore though thy crest be shorn and shaven thou I said art sure no craven ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's plutonian shore quote the raven never more much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly though its answer little meaning little relevancy bore for we cannot help agreeing that no living human being ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door with such a name as never more but the raven sitting lonely on that placid bust spoke only that one word as if his soul in that one word he did outpour nothing further than he uttered not a feather than he fluttered till I scarcely more than muttered other friends have flown before on the morrow he will leave me as my hopes have flown before then the bird said never more startled by the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken doubtless said I what it utters is its only stock and store caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore till the dirges of his hope this melancholy burden bore of never never more but the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door then upon the velvet sinking I betook myself to linking fancy into fancy thinking what this ominous bird of your what this grim ungainly ghastly gaunt and ominous bird of your meant in croaking never more thus I sat engaged in guessing but no syllable expressing to the foul whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core this and more I sat divining with my head at ease reclining on the cushions velvet lining that the lamp light gloated are but whose velvet violet lining with the lamp light gloating are she shall press ah never more then me thought the air grew denser perfumed from an unseen sensor swung by seraphim whose footfalls twinkled on the puffed floor retch I cried thy God hath lent thee by these angels he hath sent thee respite respite and nepenthe from my memories of Lenore quaff oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore quote the raven never more prophet said I thing of evil prophet still if bird or devil whether tempter sent or whether tempest toss thee here ashore desolate yet all undaunted on this desert land enchanted on this home by horror haunted tell me truly I implore is there is there Balm and Gilead tell me tell me I implore quote the raven never more prophet said I thing of evil prophet still if bird or devil by that heaven that ends above us by that God we both adore tell this soul with sorrow laden if within the distant aiden it shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore quote the raven never more be that our sign of parting bird or fiend I shrieked up starting get thee back into the tempest and the night's plutonian shore leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken leave my loneliness unbroken quit the bust above my door take thy beak from out my heart and take thy form from off my door quote the raven never more and the raven never flitting still is sitting still is sitting on the pallid bust of palace just above my chamber door and his eyes have all the seeming of a demons that is dreaming and the lamp light or him streaming throws his shadow on the floor and my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor shall be lifted never more Edgar Allen Poe read by Kara Schallenberg on January 13th 2007 in Oceanside, California poems every child should know edited by Mary E. Burt section 70 read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schallenberg this section contains just one poem Arnold von Winkl read part 6 continued Arnold von Winkl read make way for liberty he cried make way for liberty and died in arms the Austrian phalanx stood a living wall a human wood a wall where every conscious stone seemed to its kindred thousands grown a rampart all assaults to bear till time to dust their frame should wear so still so dense the Austrian stood a living wall a human wood impregnable their front appears all horrent with projected spears whose polished points before them shine from flank to flank one brilliant line bright as the breakers the wonders run along the billows to the sun opposed to these a hovering band contended for their fatherland peasants whose new found strength had broke from manly necks the ignoble yoke and beat their fetters into swords on equal terms to fight their lords and what insurgent rage had gained in many immortal fray maintained marshaled once more at freedom's call to conquer or to fall where he who conquered he who fell was deemed a dead or living tell such virtue had that patriot breathed so to the soil his soul bequeathed that where so ere his arrows flew heroes in his own likeness grew and warriors sprang from every sod which his awakening footstep trod and now the work of life and death hung on the passing of a breath the fire of conflict burned within the battle trembled to begin yet while the austrians held their ground point for attack was nowhere found where the impatient switzers gazed the unbroken line of lances blazed that line towards suicide to meet and perish at their tyrant's feet how could they rest within their graves and leave their homes the homes of slaves would not they feel their children tread with clanging chains above their head it must not be this day this hour annihilates the invaders power all switzerland is in the field she will not fly she cannot yield she must not fall her better fate here gives her an immortal date few were the numbers she could boast but every free man was a host and felt as to a secret known that one should turn the scale alone while each unto himself was he on whose sole arm hung victory it did depend on one indeed behold him Arnold Winkleried there sounds not to the trump of fame the echo of a nobler name unmarked he stood amid the throng in rumination deep and long till you might see with sudden grace the very thought come o'er his face and by the motion of his form emancipate the bursting storm and by the uplifting of his brow tell where the bolt would strike and how but twas no sooner thought than done the field was in a moment one make way for liberty he cried then ran with arms extended wide as if his dearest friend to clasp ten spears he swept within his grasp make way for liberty he cried their keen points crossed from side to side he bowed amidst them like a tree and thus made way for liberty swift to the breach his comrades fly make way for liberty they cry and through the Austrian phalanx dart as rushed the spears through Arnold's heart while instantaneous as his fall route ruin panic seized them all an earthquake could not overthrow a city with a shore or blow thus Switzerland again was free thus death made way for liberty James Montgomery end of section 70 read by Kara Schallenberg on January 13th 2007 in Oceanside, California poems every child should know edited by Mary E. Burt section 71 read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schallenberg this section contains the following poems life I know not what thou art mercy Polonius's advice a fragment from Mark Anthony's speech and the Skylark part six continued life I know not what thou art life I know not what thou art but know that thou and I must part when or how or where we met I own to me's a secret yet life we've been long together through pleasant and through cloudy weather tis hard to part when friends are dear perhaps twill cost a sigh a tear then steal away give little warning choose thine own time say not good night but in some brighter climb bid me good morning A. L. Barbald Mercy Mercy an excerpt from The Merchant of Venice Polonius's advice from Hamlet and Anthony's speech from Julius Caesar all fragments from Shakespeare 1564 to 1616 find a place in this book because a well-known New York teacher one who is unremitting in his efforts to raise the good taste pupils says a book of poetry could not be complete without these extracts the quality of mercy is not strained it dropeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath it is twice blessed it blesseth him that gives and him that takes tis mightiest in the mightiest it becomes the thrown at monarch better than his crown his scepter shows the force of temporal power the attribute to awe and majesty wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings but mercy is above his sceptered sway it is enthroned in the hearts of kings it is an attribute to god himself and earthly power doth then show likeest gods when mercy seasons justice Shakespeare from The Merchant of Venice Polonius's advice see thou character give thy thoughts no tongue nor any unproportioned thought his act be thou familiar but by no means vulgar the friends thou hast and their adoption tried grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel but do not dull thy palm with entertainment of each new hatched unfledged comrade beware of entrance to a quarrel but being in bear it that the posed may beware of thee give every man thine ear but few thy voice take each man's censure but reserve thy judgment costly thy habit as thy purse can buy but not expressed in fancy rich not gaudy for the apparel oft proclaims the man neither a borrower nor a lender for loan oft loses both itself and friend and borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry this above all to thine own self be true and it must follow as the night the day thou canst not then be false to any man Shakespeare from Hamlet a fragment from Mark Antony's speech this was the noblest Roman of them all all the conspirators save only he did that they did in envy of great Caesar he only in a general honest thought and common good to all made one of them his life was gentle and the elements so mixed in him that nature might stand up and say to all the world this was a man Shakespeare from Julius Caesar the skylark bird of the wilderness blivesome and cumbersome sweet be thy mat and or more land and lee emblem of happiness blessed is thy dwelling place oh to abide in the desert with thee while is thy lay and loud far in the downy cloud love gives it energy love gave it birth where on thy dewy wing thy lay is in heaven thy love is on earth or fell and fountain sheen or more and mountain green or the red streamer that heralds the day over the cloudlet dim over the rainbow's rim musical cherub soar singing away then when the gloaming comes low in the heather blooms sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be emblem of happiness blessed is thy dwelling place oh to abide in the desert with thee Thomas Hogg end of section 71 read by Kara Schellenberg on January 13th, 2007 in Oceanside, California poems every child should know edited by Mary E. Burt section 72 read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schellenberg this section contains the following poems the choir invisible the world is too much with us sonnet on his blindness and she was a phantom of delight part six continued the choir invisible the choir invisible by George Elliott 1819 to 1880 is a fitting exposition in poetry of this Shakespeare of prose oh may I join the choir invisible of those immortal dead who live again in minds made better by their presence live in pulses stirred to generosity in deeds of daring rectitude in scorn of miserable aims that end with self in thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars and with their mild persistence urge men's minds to vaster issues may I reach that purest heaven be to other souls the cup of strength in some great agony and kindle generous ardour feed pure love to get the smiles that have no cruelty be the sweet presence of good diffused and in diffusion ever more intense so shall I join the choir invisible whose music is the gladness of the world the world is too much with us the world is too much with us by Wordsworth 1770 to 1850 is perhaps the greatest sonnet ever written it is true that the eyes of the soul are blinded by a surfeit of worldly goods I went to the Lake District England said John Burroughs to see what kind of a country could produce a Wordsworth of course he found simple houses simple people barren moors heather-clad mountains wildflowers calm lakes plain rugged simplicity the world is too much with us late and soon getting and spending we lay waste our powers little we see in nature that is ours we have given our hearts away a sordid boon this sea that bears her bosom to the moon the winds that will be howling at all hours and are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers for this for everything we are out of tune it moves us not great God I'd rather be a pagan suckled in a creed outworn so might I standing on this pleasantly have glimpses that would make me less forlorn have sight of Proteus rising from the sea or hear old Triton know his weathered horn William Wordsworth on his blindness sonnet on his blindness by John Milton 1608-1674 this is the most stately and pathetic sonnet in existence the soul enduring enforced idleness and loss of power without repining inactivity made to serve a higher end when I consider how my light is spent half my days in this dark world and wide and that one talent which is death to hide lodged with me useless though my soul more bent to serve there with my maker and present my true account lest he returning chide doth God exact day labor light denied I fondly ask but patience to prevent that murmur soon replies God doth not need either man's work or his own gifts who best bear his mild yoke they serve him best his state is kingly thousands at his bidding speed and post or land and ocean without rest they also serve who only stand and wait John Milton she was a phantom of delight she was a phantom of delight by William Wordsworth 1770 to 1850 is included here because it is a picture of woman as she should be not made dainty by finery but by fine ideals she was a phantom of delight when first she gleamed upon my sight a lovely apparition sent to be a moment's ornament her eyes as stars of twilight fair like twilight's to her dusky hair but all things else about her drawn from maytime and the cheerful dawn a dancing shape an image gay to haunt to startle and waylay I saw her upon nearer view a spirit yet a woman too her household motions light and free and steps of virgin liberty a countenance in which did meet sweet records promises as sweet a creature not too bright a food for human nature's daily food for transient sorrows simple wiles praise, blame, love kisses, tears, and smiles and now I see with eye serene the very pulse of the machine a being breathing thoughtful breath a traveller between life and death the reason firm the temperate will endurance, foresight, strength and skill a perfect woman nobly planned to warn, to comfort and command and yet a spirit still and bright with something of angelic light William Wordsworth End of Section 72 Read by Kara Schallenberg on January 14th, 2007 in Oceanside, California Poems Every Child Should Know edited by Mary E. Burt Section 73 Read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schallenberg This section contains just one poem Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard Part 6 Continued Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard I once drove home from Windsor Castle through Eaton down the long hedge bound road which passes the estate of William Penn's descendants to Stoke Pogus the little churchyard where this poem was written They were trimming a great yew tree under which Gray was said to have written this poem The scene is one of peace and quiet The Elegy was a favorite form of poem with the ancients but Gray is said to have reached the climax among poets in this style of verse The great line of the poem is The path of glory leads but to the grave It would almost seem that poetry has for its greatest mission the lesson of proper humility The curfew tolls the knell of parting day The lowing herd winds slowly or the lee The ploughman homeward plods his weary way and leaves the world to darkness and to me Now fades the glimmering landscape on the site and all the air a solemn stillness holds Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight and drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds Save that from yonder ivy mantled tower the moping owl does to the moon complain of such as wandering near her secret bower molest her ancient solitary reign Beneath those rugged elms that yew tree shade where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap each in his narrow cell for ever laid the rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep The breezy call of incense breathing morn the swallowed twittering from the straw-built shed the cox shrill clarion or the echoing horn no more shall rouse them from their lowly bed for them no more the blazing hearth shall burn or busy housewife ply her evening care no children run to lisp their sire's return or climb his knees the envied kiss to share oft did the harvest to their sickle yield their furrow oft the stubborn gleeb has broke how jockened did they drive their team afield how bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke let not ambition mock their useful toil their homely joys and destiny obscure nor grandeur here with a disdainful smile the short and simple annals of the poor the boast of heraldry the pump of power and all that beauty all that wealth air gave a weight alike the inevitable hour the paths of glory lead but to the grave forgive ye proud then voluntary fault if memory to these no trophies raise where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault the peeling anthem swells the note of praise can story earn or animated bust back to its mansion call the fleeting breath can honors voice provoke the silent dust or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death perhaps in this neglected spot is laid some heart once pregnant with celestial fire hands that the rod of empire might have swayed or waked to ecstasy the living liar but knowledge to their eyes her ample page rich with the spoils of time did nare unroll chill penury repressed their noble rage and froze the genial current of the soul full many a gem of purest ray serene the dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear full many a flower is born to blush unseen and waste its sweetness on the desert air some village Hampton that with dauntless breast the little tyrant of his fields withstood some mute inglorious mills in here may rest some crumwell guiltless of his country's blood the plaws of listening senates to command the threats of pain and ruin to despise to scatter plenty or a smiling land and read their history in a nation's eyes their lot for bad nor circumscribed alone their growing virtues but their crimes confined for bad to wade through slaughter to a throne and shut the gates of mercy on mankind the struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide to quench the blushes of ingenuous shame or heap the shrine of luxury and pride with incense kindled at the muses flame far from the madding crowds ignoble strife their sober wishes never learned to stray along the cool sequestered veil of life they kept the noiseless tenor of their way yet he and those bones from insult to protect some frail memorial still erected nigh with uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked implores the passing tribute of a sigh their name their years spelt by the unlettered muse the place of fame and elegy supply and many a holy text around she strews that teach the rustic moralist to die for who to dumb forgetfulness of prey this pleasing anxious being air resigned left the warm precincts of the cheerful day nor cast one longing lingering look behind on some fond breast the parting soul relies some pious drops the closing eye requires in from the tomb the voice of nature cries in in our ashes live their wanted fires for thee who mindful of the unhonoured dead dust in these lines their artless tale relate if chance by lonely contemplation led some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate happily some hoary-headed swain may say oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn brushing with hasty steps the dues away to meet the sun upon the upland lawn there at the foot of yonder nodding beach that reaves its old fantastic roots so high his listless length that noontide would he stretch and pour upon the brook that babbles by hard by yon wood now smiling as in scorn muttering his wayward fancies he would row now drooping woeful one like one for Lorne or crazed with care or crossed in hopeless love one more and I missed him on the custom hill along the heath and near his favorite tree another came nor yet beside the rail nor up the lawn nor at the wood was he the next with dirges due in sad array slow through the churchway path we saw him born approach and read for thou canst read the lay graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn the epitaph here rests his head upon the lap of earth a youth to fortune and to fame unknown fair science frowned not on his humble birth and melancholy marked him for her own large was his bounty and his soul sincere heaven did a recompense as largely send he gave to misery all he had a tear he gained from heaven was all he wished a friend no father seek his merits to disclose or draw his frailties from their dread abode there they alike in trembling hope repose the bosom of his father and his god thomas gray End of section 73 read by Kara Schellenberg on January 14th 2007 in Oceanside, California Poems Every Child Should Know edited by Mary E. Burt Section 74 read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schellenberg This section contains just one poem Rabbi Ben Ezra Part 6 continued Rabbi Ben Ezra by Robert Browning 1812 to 1889 Youth is for dispute and age for counsel Each year each period of a man's life is but the necessary step to the next Youth is an uncertain thing to bank on Rabbi Ben Ezra is a plea for each period in life Aspiration is the keynote Grow old along with me The best is yet to be The last of life for which the first was made Our times are in his hand Who sayeth, a whole I planned Youth shows but half Trust God See all nor be afraid Not that amassing flowers Youth sigh Which rose make ours Which lily leave and then as best recall Not that admiring stars It yearned Nor a jove nor Mars Mine be some figured flame which blends Transcends them all Not for such hopes and fears Annulling youth's brief years Do I remonstrate, folly wide the mark Rather I prize the doubt low kinds exist without Finished and finite clods Untroubled by a spark Poor vaunt of life indeed were a man But formed to feed on joy to solely seek And find and feast Such feasting ended then As sure an end to men Erks care the cropful bird Fret's doubt the mockrammed beast Rejoice we are allied To that which doth provide and not partake Effect and not receive A spark disturbs our clod Nearer we hold of God who gives Than of his tribes that take I must believe Then welcome each rebuff that turns Earth's smoothness rough Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go Be our joys three parts pain Strive and hold cheap the strain Learn nor count the pain Dare never grudge the throw For thence a paradox Which comforts while it mocks Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail I aspired to be and was not comforts me A brute I might have been But would not sink at the scale What is he but a brute Whose flesh has soul to suit Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play To man propose this test Thy body at its best How far can that project thy soul On its lone way Yet gifts should prove their use I own the past profuse of power each side Perfection every turn Eye's ears took in their dole Brain treasured up the hole Should not the heart beat once How good to live and learn Not once beat praise be thine I see the whole design I who saw power see now love perfect too Perfect at call thy plan Thanks that I was a man Maker remake complete I trust what thou shalt do For pleasant is this flesh Our soul and its rose mesh Pulled ever to the earth Still yearns for rest Would we some prize might hold To match those manifold possessions Of the brute gain most as we did best Let us not always say Despite of this flesh today I strove made head Gained ground upon the hole As the bird wings and sings Let us cry all good things our hours Nor soul helps flesh more now Than flesh helps soul Therefore I summon age To grant youth's heritage Life struggle having so far reached its term Thence shall I pass approved A man for I removed From the developed brute A god though in the germ I shall thereupon take rest ere I be gone once more On my adventure brave and new Fearless and unperplexed When I wage battle next What weapons to select What armor to endu Youth ended I shall try My gain or loss thereby Leave the fire ashes What survives is gold And I shall weigh the same Give life its praise or blame Young all lay in dispute I shall know being old For note when evening shuts A certain moment cuts the deed off Calls the glory from the gray A whisper from the west shoots Add this to the rest Take it and try its worth Here dies another day So still within this life Though lifted or at strife Let me discern, compare Pronounce at last This rage was right In the main, that acquiescence vain The future I may face now I have proved the past For more is not reserved To man with soul just nerved To act tomorrow what he learns today Here work enough to watch The master work and catch hints Of the proper craft, tricks Of the tool's true play As it was better Youth should strive Through acts uncouth toward making Than repose on ought-found maid So better age exempt From strife should know than tempt further Thou waitedest age, wait death Nor be afraid Enough now if the right And good and infinite be named here As thou callest thy hand thine own With knowledge absolute, subject to no dispute From fools that crowded youth Nor let thee feel alone Be there for once and all Severed great minds from small Announced to each his station in the past Was I the world arraigned Were they my soul disdained, right? Let age speak the truth And give us peace at last Now who shall arbitrate Ten men love what I hate Shun what I follow Slight what I receive Ten who in ears and eyes Match me, we all surmise They this thing and I that Whom shall my soul believe? Not on the vulgar mass Called work must sentence pass Things done that took the eye And had the price Or which from level-stand The low world laid its hand Found straightway to its mind Could value in a trice But all the world's coarse thumb And finger failed to plumb so past In making up the main account All instincts immature All purposes unsure That weighed not at his work Yet swelled the man's amount Thoughts hardly to be packed Into a narrow act, fancies That broke through language and escaped All I could never be All men ignored in me This I was worth to God Whose wheel the pitcher shaped I note that potter's wheel That metaphor and feel Why time spins fast Why passive lies our play Thou to whom fools propound When the wine makes its round Since life fleets all is changed The past gone sees to-day Fool, all that is at all Lasts ever past recall Earth changes but thy soul And God stands sure What entered into thee That was is and shall be Time's wheel runs back or stops Potter and clay endure He fixed thee In this dance of plastic circumstance This present thou for sooth Woods'd feign arrest Machinery just meant To give thy soul its bent Try thee and turn thee forth Sufficiently impressed What though the earlier grooves Which ran the laughing loves Around thy base No longer pause and press What though about thy rim Skull things in order grim Grow out in graver mood Obey the sterner stress Look not thou down But up to uses of a cup The festal board lamps flash And trumpets peel The new wines foaming flow The master's lips aglow Thou heaven's consummate cup What needs thou with Earth's wheel? But I need now As then thee God And since not even while The whorl was worse did I To the wheel of life with shapes And colors rife bound dizzily Mistake my end to slake thy thirst So take and use thy work Amend what flaws may lurk What strain of the stuff What warpings pass the aim My times be in thy hand Perfect the cup as planned Lest age approve of youth And death complete the same Robert Browning End of Section 74 Read by Kara Schallenberg On January 14, 2007 In Oceanside, California Poems Every Child Should Know Edited by Mary E. Burt Section 75 Read for LibriVox.org By Kara Schallenberg This section contains the following poems Prosperous Recessional Prosperous by Robert Browning 1812 to 1889 Is the greatest death song ever written It is a battle song And a pan of victory This poem is included in this book Because these lines are enough to reconcile Anyone to any fate Fear death To feel the fog in my throat The mist in my face When the snows begin And the blasts denote The greatest death song ever written And the blasts denote I am nearing the place The power of the night The press of the storm The post of the foe Where he stands The arch fear in a visible form Yet the strong man must go For the journey is done And the summit attained And the barriers fall Though a battle to fight Erregerden be gained The reward of it all So one fight more The best and the last I would hate that death bandaged My eyes and forebore And made me creep past No, let me taste the whole of it Fair like my peers The heroes of old They're the brunt In a minute pay glad life's arrears Of pain, darkness and cold For sudden the worst turns The best to the brave The black minutes at end The rage rage The fiend voices that rave Shall dwindle, shall blend Shall change, shall become First a peace out of pain Then a light, then thy breast O thou soul of my soul I shall clasp thee again And with God be the rest Robert Browning Recessional The Recessional by Rudyard Kipling Is one of the most popular poems Of this century. A rage and a nation drunk with power A rebuke to materialistic tendencies And boastfulness A protest against pride God of our fathers Known of old Lord of our far flung battle line Beneath whose awful hand We hold dominion over parliament pine Lord God of hosts Be with us yet Lest we forget The tumult and the shouting dies The captains and the kings depart Still stands thine ancient sacrifice An humble and a contrite heart Lord God of hosts Be with us yet Lest we forget Lest we forget Far call Our navies melt away On dune and headland sinks the fire Low all our pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre Judge of the nations Spare us yet Lest we forget Lest we forget If drunk with the sight of power We loose wild tongues That have not the in awe Such boasting as the Gentiles use Or lesser breeds without the law Lord God of hosts Be with us yet Lest we forget Lest we forget For heathen heart that puts her trust In wreaking tube and iron shard All valiant dust That builds on dust And guarding calls not thee to guard For frantic boast And foolish word Thy mercy on thy people, Lord Amen Rudyard Kipling Ozymandias of Egypt Ozymandias of Egypt By Percy Biss Shelley 1792-1822 This sonnet is a rebuke To the insolent pride Of kings and empires. It is extremely picturesque. It finds a place here because more elderly scholars Of good judgment are pleased with it. I remember an old grey-haired scholar in Chicago Who often recited it to his friends, merely because It touched his fancy. I met a traveller from an antique land Who said, Too vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand half sunk A shattered visage lies Whose frown and wrinkled lip And sneer of cold command Tell that it sculpt her well Those passions red which yet survive Stamped on these lifeless things The hand that mocked them And the heart that fed And on the pedestal these words appear My name is Ozymandias, king of kings Look on my works, ye mighty and despair Nothing beside remains Round the decay of that colossal wreck Boundless sand bear The lone and level sands Stretch far away Percy Biss Shelley End of section 75 Read by Kara Schellenberg on January 14, 2007 In Oceanside, California Poems Every Child Should Know Edited by Mary E. Burt Section 76 Read for LibraVox.org by Kara Schellenberg This section contains two poems Mortality and On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer Part 6 continued Mortality Mortality by William Knox, 1789-1825 Is always quoted as Lincoln's favorite poem Oh, why should the spirit of Mortle be proud Like a fast-flipping meteor, a fast-flying cloud A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave He passes from life to his rest in the grave The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade Be scattered around and together be laid And the young and the old and the low and the high Shall molder to dust and together shall lie The child that a mother attended and loved The mother that infants' affection that proved The husband that mother and infant that blessed Each all are away to their dwelling of rest The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow In whose eye shone beauty and pleasure Her triumphs are by, and the memory of those That beloved her and praised are alike From the minds of the living erased The hand of the king that the scepter hath borne The brow of the priest that the miter hath worn The eye of the sage and the heart of the brave Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap The herdsmen who climbed with his goats to the steep The beggar that wandered in search of his bread Have faded away like the grass that we tread The saint that enjoyed the communion of heaven The sinner that dared to remain unforgiven The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust So the multitude goes like the flower and the weed That wither away to let others succeed So the multitude comes, even those we behold To repeat every tale that hath often been told For we are the same that our fathers have been We see the same sights that our fathers have seen We drink the same stream and we feel the same sun And we run the same course that our fathers have run The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think From the death we are shrinking from they too would shrink To the life we are clinging to they too would cling But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing They loved but their story we cannot unfold They scorned but the heart of the haughty is cold They grieved but no wail from their slumbers may come They enjoyed but the voice of their gladness is dumb They died, aye they died, and we things that are now Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow Who make in their dwellings a transient abode Meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage road Yea, hope and despondence and pleasure and pain Are mingled together like sunshine and rain And the smile and the tear and the song and the dirge Will follow each other like surge upon surge Tis the wink of an eye, tis the draught of a breath From the blossom of health to the paleness of death From the gilded saloon to the beer and the shroud Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud? William Knox On first looking into Chapman's Homer By John Keats, 1795 to 1821 The last four lines of this sonnet form the most tremendous climax in literature The picture is as vivid as if done with a brush Every great book, every great poem is a new world, an undiscovered country Every learned person is a whole territory, a universe of new thought Everyone who does anything with a heart for it Every specialist, everyone, however simple, who is strenuous and genuine Is a new discovery Let us give credit to the smallest planet that is true to its own orbit Much have I traveled in the realms of gold and many goodly states and kingdoms seen Round many western islands have I been which bards infieldy to Apollo-hole Oft of one wide expanse had I been told that deep-browed Homer ruled as his domain Yet did I never breathe its pure serene till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold Then felt I like some watcher of the skies when a new planet swims into his ken Or like Stout Cortes when, with eagle eyes, he stared at the Pacific And all his men looked at each other with a wild surmise Silent upon a peak in Darien John Keats End of Section 76 Read by Kara Schellenberg on January 14, 2007, in Oceanside, California Poems Every Child Should Know Edited by Mary E. Burt Section 77 Read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schellenberg This section contains just one poem Herva Real Part 6 Continued Herva Real, by Robert Browning, 1812 to 1889, is a poem for older boys Here is a hero who does a great deed simply as a part of his day's work He puts no value on what he has done because he could have done no other way On the sea and at the hoag, 1692, did the English fight the French, woe to France And the 31st of May, helter-skelter through the blue, like a crowd of frightened porpoises, a shoal of sharks pursue Came crowding ship-on-ship to St. Mallow on the Rance with the English fleet in view To us the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase, first and foremost of the drove in his great ship, Gampraville Close on him fled, great and small, 22 good ships in all, and they signaled to the place Help the winners of a race, get us guidance, give us harbour, take us quick, or quicker still, here's the English can and will Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leaped on board Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass, laughed they Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored Shall the formidable here, with her twelve and eighty guns, think to make the river mouth by the single narrow way Trust to enter where it is ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, and with flow at full beside Now, to slackest ebb of tide, reach the mooring, rather say while rock stands or water runs, not a ship will leave the bay Then was call the council straight, brief and bitter the debate Here's the English at our heels, would you have them taken toe, all that's left us of the fleet, linked together, stern and bow For a prize to Plymouth Sound, better run the ships aground Ended Gampraville his speech Not a minute more to wait, let the captains all and each shove a shore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach France must undergo her fate Give the word, but no such word was ever spoke or heard, for up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these A captain, a lieutenant, a mate, first, second, third No such man of mark and meet with his betters to compete, but a simple Breton sailor pressed by Torville for the fleet A poor coasting pilot he, Hervéryl, the Croissacese And what mockery or malice have we here, cries Hervéryl? Are you mad, you maloines? Are you cowards, fools or rogues? Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell on my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell Tooks to the offing here and grieve where the river disembugs Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lines for? Morn and eve, night and day, have I piloted your bay? Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor Burn the fleet and ruin France, that were worse than fifty hogs Sirs, they know I speak the truth, sirs, believe me, there's a way Only let me lead the line, have the biggest ship to steer Get this formidable clear, make the others follow mine And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well Right to Solidor, past grieve, and there lay them safe and sound And if one ship misbehave, heal so much as great the ground Why, I've nothing but my life, here's my head, cries Hervéryl Not a minute more to wait, steer us in, then small and great Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron, cried its chief Captains give the sailor place, he is admiral, in brief Still the north wind by God's grace, see the noble fellow's face As the big ship with a bound clears the entry like a hound Keeps the passage as its inch of way where the wide seas profound See safe through shoal and rock how they follow in a flock Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground Not a spar that comes to grief The peril, sea, is past, all are harbored to the last And just as Hervéryl hollers anchor, sure as fate Up the English come, too late So the storm subsides to calm They see the green trees wave on the heights or looking grave Hearts that bled are stanched with balm Just our rapture to enhance Let the English rake the bay, gnash their teeth and glare a scant As they cannonade away Neath our empire's solidor, pleasant riding on the rants How hope succeeds despair on each captain's countenance Outburst all with one accord This is paradise for hell Let France, let France's king thank the man that did the thing What a shout and all one word Hervéryl As he stepped in front once more, not a symptom of surprise In the frank blue Breton eyes, just the same man as before Then said D'Amfraville My friend, I must speak out at the end, though I find the speaking hard Praise is deeper than the lips, you have saved the king his ships You must name your own reward Faith, our son was near eclipse, demand whatever you will France remains your debtor still, ask to heart's content and have Or my name's not D'Amfraville Then a beam of fun out broke on the bearded mouth that spoke As the honest heart laughed through those frank eyes of Breton blue Since I needs must say my say, since on board the duty's done And from Malo Rhodes to Croisac Point, what is it but a run Since tis ask and have, I may, since the others go ashore Come, a good whole holiday, leave to go and see my wife Whom I call the bell auror That he asked, and that he got, nothing more Name and deed alike are lost, not a pillar nor a post In his Croisac keeps alive the feet as it befell Not a head in white and black on a single fishing smack In memory of the man, but for whom had gone to rack All that France saved from the fight, once England bore the bell Go to Paris, rank on rank, search the hero's flung pel mel On the louvre, face and flank You shall look long enough ere you come to Hervéryl So, for better and for worse, Hervéryl, accept my verse In my verse, Hervéryl, do thou once more Save the squadron, honour France, love thy wife, the bell auror Robert Browning End of section 77 Read by Kara Schellenberg on January 15, 2007 in Oceanside, California Poems Every Child Should Know Edited by Mary E. Burke Section 78 Read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schellenberg This section contains two poems The Problem and Two America Part 6 Continued The Problem The Problem by Ralph Waldo Emerson 1803 to 1880 Is quoted from one end of the world to the other Emerson teaches one lesson above all others That each soul must work out for itself its latent force Its own individual expression And that with a sad sincerity The bishop of the soul can do no more I like a church, I like a cowl I love a prophet of the soul And on my heart monastic aisles Fall like sweet strains or pensive smiles Yet not, for all his faith can see Would I that cowled churchman be Why should the vest on him allure Which I could not on me endure Not from a vain or shallow thought His awful jove young Phidias brought Never from lips of Cunningfell The thrilling Delphic Oracle Out from the heart of nature The burdens of the Bible old The litanies of nations came Like the volcano's tongue of flame Up from the burning core below The canticles of love and woe The hand that rounded Peter's dome And groined the aisles of Christian Rome Wrought in a sad certainty Himself from God he could not free He build it better than he knew The conscious stone to beauty grew Nost thou what woe beyond Wood-bird's nest of leaves And feathers from her breast Or how the fish outbilt her shell Painting with more in each annual cell Or how the sacred pine-tree adds To her old leaves new myriads Such and so grew these holy piles While love and terror laid the tiles Earth proudly wears the Parthenon As the best gem upon her zone And mourning opes with haste her lids To gaze upon the pyramids Evelyn's abbeys bends the sky As on its friends with kindred eye For out of thoughts interior sphere These wonders rose to upper air And nature gladly gave them place Adopted them into her race And granted them an equal date With Andes and with Errorath These temples grew as grows the grass Art might obey but not surpass The passive master lent his hand To the vast soul that Orhim planned And the same power that reared the shrine Bestrode the tribes that knelt within Ever the fiery Pentecost Guards with one flame the countless host Trances the heart through chanting choirs And through the priest the mine inspires The word unto the prophet spoken Was written on tables yet unbroken The word by seers or sibles told In groves of oak or faines of gold Still floats upon the morning wind Still whispers to the willing mind One accent of the Holy Ghost The heedless world hath never lost I know what say the Fathers wise The book itself before me lies Old Chrysostom, best Augustine And he who blent both in his line The younger golden lips or mines Taylor, the Shakespeare of divines His words are music in my ear I see his cowled portrait dear And yet for all his faith could see I would not the good bishop be Ralph Waldo Emerson To America To America, included by permission Of the poet Laureate, is a good poem And a great poem. It is a keen thrust At the common practice of teaching American Children to hate the English of these days On account of the actions of a silly Old King dead a hundred years Alfred Austin deserves great credit For this poem. What is the voice I hear On the winds of the western sea? Sentinel, listen from outcape clear And say what the voice may be Tis a proud free people calling loud To a people proud and free And it says to them Kinsmen, hail, we severed have been Too long, now let us have done With a worn out tale, the tale Of an ancient wrong, and our friendship Last long as our love doth And be stronger than death is strong Answer them, sons of the self-same race And blood of the self-same clan Let us speak with each other face To face and answer as man to man And loyally love and trust each other As none but free men can Now fling them out to the breeze Shamrock the salend rose And the star-spangled banner unfurl With these, a message to friends and foes Wherever the sails of peace are seen And wherever the war wind blows A message to bond and thrall to wake For wherever we come we twain The throne of the tyrant shall rock And quake, and his menace be void And vain. For you are lords Of a strong land, and we are lords Of the main. Yes, this is the voice of the bluff March gale, we severed have been Too long, but now we have done With a worn out tale, the tale Of an ancient wrong, and our Friendship last long as love Doth last, and stronger than Death is strong. Alfred Austin. End of Section 78, read by Kara Schallenberg on January 15th, 2007 in Oceanside, California. Poems Every Child Should Know edited by Mary E. Burke Section 79, read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schallenberg. This section contains just one poem, The English Flag. Part 6 continued. The English Flag. It is quite true that the English flag stands for freedom the world over. Wherever it floats almost anyone is safe, whether English or not. Winds of the world give answer, they are whimpering to and fro, and what should they know of England, who only England know? The poor little street-bread people that vapor and fume and brag, they are lifting their heads in the stillness to yelp at the English flag. Must we borrow a clout from the boar to plaster anew with dirt, an image, or an English-coward shirt? We may not speak of England, her flags to sell or share. What is the flag of England? Winds of the world declare. The North Wind blew. From Bergen my steel-shod vanguards go, I chase your lazy whalers home from the disco-flow. By the great North Lights above me I work the will of God that the liner splits on the ice I barred my gates with iron, I shuttered my doors with flame because to force my ramparts your nutshell navies came. I took the sun from their presence, I cut them down with my blast, and they died, but the flag of England blew free ere the spirit passed. The lean white bear hath seen it in the long, long arctic night. The musk ox knows the standard that fluts the northern light. The birds to dare, you have but my drifts to conquer, go forth, for it is there. The South Wind sighed. From the virgins my mid-sea course was tain, over a thousand islands lost in an idle main, where the sea-egg flames on the coral and the long-backed breakers croon their endless ocean legends to the lazy locked lagoon. Strayed amid lonely islets, mazed I waked the palms to laughter, I tossed the scud in the breeze. Never was isle so little, never was sea so lone, but over the scud and the palm trees an English flag was known. I have wrenched it free from the hal yard to hang for a wisp on the horn. I have chased it north to the lizard, ribboned and rolled and torn. I have spread its fold or the dying and drift in a hopeless sea. I have hurled its swift on the salver and seen the slave set free. My basking sunfish know it and wheeling albatross, where the lone wave fills with fire beneath the southern cross. What is the flag of England? You have but my reefs to dare, you have but my seas to furrow, go forth for it is there. The east wind roared. From the curleys the bitter seas I come and meme and call the home wind, for I bring English home. Look look well to your shipping, by the breath of my mad typhoon I swept your close-packed prayer and beached your best at Kowloon. The reeling junks behind me and the racing seas before I raped your richest roadstead I plundered Singapore. I set my hand on the hoogly as a hooded snake she rose and I flung your stoutest steamers to roost with the startled crows. Never the wildfowl awake, but a soul goes out on the east wind that died for England's sake. Man or woman or suckling, mother or bride or maid, because on the bones of the English the English flag is stayed. The desert dust hath dimmed it, the flying wild-ass nose, the scared white leopard winds it across the taintless snows. What is the flag of England? You have but my son to dare, you have but my sands to travel, go forth, for it is there. The west wind called in squadrons the thoughtless galleons fly that bear the wheat and cattle lest street-bread people die. They make my might their porter, they make my house their path, till I loose my neck from their rudder and whelm them all in my wrath. I draw the gliding fogbank as a snake is drawn from the hole, one to the other, the frightened ship-bells toll, for day is a drifting terror till I raise the shroud with my breath, and they see strange boughs above them and the two go locked to death. But whether in calm or wrack wreath, whether by dark or day, I heave them whole to the conger or rip their plates away, first of the scattered legions under a shrieking sky dipping between the rollers, the English flag the dead dumb fog hath wrapped it, the frozen dews have kissed, the naked stars have seen it, a fellow star in the mist. What is the flag of England? He have but my breath to dare, he have but my waves to conger, go forth, for it is there. Rudyard Kipling End of section 79 read by Kara Schallenberg on January 15, 2007 in Oceanside, California Poems Every Child Should Know edited by Mary E. Burke Section 80 read for LibriVox.org by Kara Schallenberg. This section contains just one poem, The Man With The Ho Part 6 continued The Man With The Ho The Man With The Ho is purely an American product and every American ought to be proud of it, for we want no such type allowed to be developed in this country as the low-browed peasant of France. This poem is a stroke of genius. The story goes that it so offended a modern plutocrat that he offered a reward of $10,000 to anyone who could write an equally good poem in rebuttal. The Man With The Ho has won for Edward Markham the title of poet laureate of the laboring classes written after seeing the painting by Millet. God made man in his own image in the image of God 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? Who's was the hand that slanted back this brow whose breath blew out the light within this brain? Is this the thing the Lord God made and gave to have dominion over sea and land? To trace the stars and search the heavens for power to feel the passion of eternity? Is this the dream he dreamed who shaped the suns and marked their ways upon the ancient deep? Down all the stretch of hell to its last gulf there is no shape more terrible than this more tongued with censure of the world's blind greed more filled with signs and portents for the soul more fraught with menace to the universe. What gulfs between him and the seraphim slave of the wheel of labour what to him are Plato and the swing of Pleiades? What the long reaches of the riffs of song? The rift of dawn the reddening of the rose through this dread shape the suffering ages look times tragedy is in that aching stoop. Through this dread shape humanity betrayed plundered profane and disinherited cries protest to the judges of the world a protest that is also prophecy. Oh masters lords and rulers in all lands is this the handy work you give to God this monstrous thing distorted and soul quenched how will you ever straighten up this shape touch it again with immortality give back the upward looking and the light rebuild in it the music and the dream make right the immemorial infamies perfidious wrongs immedicable woes oh masters lords and rulers in all lands how will the future reckon with this man how answer his brute question in that hour when whirlwinds of rebellion shake the world how will it be with kingdoms and with kings with those who shaped him to the thing he is when this dumb terror shall reply to God after the silence of the centuries edwin markham end of section 80 read acara shallenberg on january 15th 2007 california poems every child should know edited by mary e burt section 81 read for libravox.org by carah shallenberg this section contains one poem song of myself part six continued song of myself the song of myself is one of walt whitman's most characteristic poems i love the swing and the stride of his great long lines i love his rough shod way of trampling down and kicking out of the way the conventionalities that spring up like poisonous mushrooms to make the world a vast labyrinth of petty proprieties until everything is nasty i love the oxygen he pours on the world i love his genius for brotherliness his picture of the negro with rolling eyes and the firelock in the corner the excerpts are some of his best lines i celebrate myself and sing myself and what i assume you shall assume for every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you i loaf and invite my soul i lean and loaf at my ease observing a spear of summer grass my tongue every atom of my blood formed from this soil this air born here of parents born from parents the same and their parents the same i now 37 years old in perfect health begin hoping to cease not till death i harbor for good or bad i permit to speak at every hazard nature without check the original energy have you reckoned a thousand acres much have you reckoned the earth much have you practiced so long to learn to read have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems you shall possess the good of the earth and sun there are millions of sons left you shall no longer take things at second or third hand nor look through the eyes of the dead nor feed on the specters in books you shall not look through my eyes either nor take things from me you shall listen to all sides after them from yourself a child said what is the grass fetching it to me with full hands how could i answer the child i do not know what it is any more than he i guess it must be the flag of my disposition out of hopeful green stuff woven or i guess it is the handkerchief of the lord a scented gift and remembrance designedly dropped bearing some way in the corners that we may see and remark and say who's alone far in the wilds and mountains i hunt wandering amazed at my own lightness and glee in the late afternoon choosing a safe spot to pass the night kindling a fire and broiling the fresh killed game falling asleep on the gathered leaves with my dog and gun by my side the Yankee Clipper under her sky sales she cuts the sparkle and scud my eyes settle the land i bend at her prow or shout joyously from the deck the boatman and clam diggers arose early and stopped for me i tucked my trouser ends in my boots and went and had a good time you should have been with us that day round the chowder kettle the runaway slave came to my house and stopped outside i heard his motions crackling the twigs of the woodpile through the swung half door of the kitchen i saw him limpsy and weak and went where he sat on a log and led him in and assured him and brought water and filled a tub for his sweat at body and bruised feet and gave him a room that entered from my own and gave him some coarse clean clothes and remember perfectly well his revolving eyes and his awkwardness and remember putting blasters on the galls of his neck and ankles he stayed with me a week before he was recuperated and passed north i had him sit next to me at table my firelock leaned in the corner i am the poet of the woman the same as the man and i say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man and i say there is nothing greater than the mother of men i understand the large hearts of heroes the courage present times and all times how the skipper saw the crowded and rudderless wreck of the steamship and death chasing it up and down the storm how he knuckled tight and gave not back an inch and was faithful of days and faithful of nights and chalked in large letters on a board be of good cheer we will not desert you how he followed them and tacked with them three days and would not give it up how he saved the drifting company at last how the like loose-gowned women looked when boated from the side of their prepared graves how the silent old faced infants and the lifted sick and the sharp-lipped unshaved men all this i swallow it tastes good i like it well it becomes mine i am the man i suffered i was there the disdain and calmness of martyrs the mother of old condemned for a witch burned with dry wood her children gazing on the hounded slave that flags in the race leans by the fence blowing covered with sweat i am the hounded slave i wince at the bite of the dogs hell and despair are upon me crack and again crack the marksmen i clutch the rails of the fence my gourd ribs thinned with the ooze of my skin i fall on the weeds and stones the riders spur their unwilling horses haul close taunt my dizzy ears and beat me violently over the head with whip stocks old age superbly rising oh welcome ineffable grace of dying days see ever so far there is limitless space outside of that count ever so much there is limitless time around that my rendezvous is appointed the lord will be there and wait till i come on perfect terms the great camarado the true lover for whom i pine will be there and whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own funeral dressed in his shroud and to glance with an eye or show a bean in its pod confounds the learning of all times and there is no trade or employment but the young man following it may become a hero and there is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the wheeled universe and i say to any man or woman let your soul stand cool and composed before a million universes i see something of god each hour of the 24 and each moment then in the faces of men and women i see god and in my own face in the glass i find letters from god dropped in the street and everyone is signed by god's name and i leave them where they are for i know that where so ere i go others will punctually come forever and ever listener up there what have you to confide in me look in my face while i snuff the sidle of evening talk honestly no one else hears you and i stay only a minute longer who has done his day's work who will soonest be through with his supper who wishes to walk with me i too am not a bit tamed i too am untranslatable i sound my barbaric yop over the roofs of the world walt whitman end of section 81 read by kara shallenberg www.kara.org on january 15th 2007 in oceanside california and the end of the entire book poems every child should know edited by mary e burt published in 1904