Poems Every Child Should Know Part 40

And rearing Lindis backward press'd Shook all her trembling bankes amaine; Then madly at the eygre's breast Flung uppe her weltering walls again.

Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout-- Then beaten foam flew round about-- Then all the mighty floods were out.

So farre, so fast the eygre drave, The heart had hardly time to beat Before a shallow seething wave Sobb'd in the gra.s.ses at oure feet: The feet had hardly time to flee Before it brake against the knee, And all the world was in the sea.

Upon the roofe we sate that night, The noise of bells went sweeping by; I mark'd the lofty beacon light Stream from the church tower, red and high-- A lurid mark and dread to see; And awsome bells they were to mee, That in the dark rang "Enderby."

They rang the sailor lads to guide From roofe to roofe who fearless row'd; And I--my sonne was at my side, And yet the ruddy beacon glow'd: And yet he moan'd beneath his breath, "O come in life, or come in death!

O lost! my love, Elizabeth."

And didst thou visit him no more?

Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare The waters laid thee at his doore, Ere yet the early dawn was clear.

Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, The lifted sun shone on thy face, Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place.

That flow strew'd wrecks about the gra.s.s, That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea; A fatal ebbe and flow, alas!

To manye more than myne and mee; But each will mourn his own (she saith); And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.

I shall never hear her more By the reedy Lindis sh.o.r.e, "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, Ere the early dews be falling; I shall never hear her song, "Cusha! Cusha!" all along Where the sunny Lindis floweth, Goeth, floweth; From the meads where melick groweth, When the water winding down, Onward floweth to the town.

I shall never see her more Where the reeds and rushes quiver, s.h.i.+ver, quiver; Stand beside the sobbing river, Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling To the sandy lonesome sh.o.r.e; I shall never hear her calling, "Leave your meadow gra.s.ses mellow, Mellow, mellow; Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow;

"Come uppe, Whitefoot, come uppe, Lightfoot; Quit your pipes of parsley hollow, Hollow, hollow; Come uppe, Lightfoot, rise and follow; Lightfoot, Whitefoot, From your clovers lift the head; Come uppe, Jetty, follow, follow, Jetty, to the milking shed."

JEAN INGELOW.

THE LYE.

"The Lye," by Sir Walter Raleigh (1552-1618), is one of the strongest and most appealing 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 ax that beheaded him. In this poem he "has the last word."

Goe, soule, the bodie's guest, Upon a thanklesse arrant; Feare not to touche the best-- The truth shall be thy warrant!

Goe, since I needs must dye, And give the world the lye.

Goe tell the court it glowes And s.h.i.+nes like rotten wood; Goe tell the church it showes What's good, and doth no good; If church and court reply, Then give them both the lye.

Tell potentates they live Acting by others' actions-- Not loved unlesse they give, Not strong but by their factions; If potentates reply, Give potentates the lye.

Tell men of high condition, That rule affairs of state, Their purpose is ambition, Their practice only hate; And if they once reply, Then give them all the lye.

Tell zeale it lacks devotion; Tell love it is but l.u.s.t; Tell time it is but motion; Tell flesh it is but dust; And wish them not reply, For thou must give the lye.

Tell wit how much it wrangles In tickle points of nicenesse; Tell wisdome she entangles Herselfe in over-wisenesse; And if they do reply, Straight give them both the lye.

Tell physicke of her boldnesse; Tell skill it is pretension; Tell charity of coldnesse; Tell law it is contention; And as they yield reply, So give them still the lye.

Tell fortune of her blindnesse; Tell nature of decay; Tell friends.h.i.+p of unkindnesse; Tell justice of delay; And if they dare reply, Then give them all the lye.

Tell arts they have no soundnesse, But vary by esteeming; Tell schooles they want profoundnesse, And stand too much on seeming; If arts and schooles reply, Give arts and schooles the lye.

So, when thou hast, as I Commanded thee, done blabbing-- Although to give the lye Deserves no less than stabbing-- Yet stab at thee who will, No stab the soule can kill.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

L'ENVOI.

"L'Envoi," by Rudyard Kipling, is a favourite on account of its sweeping a.s.sertion 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 colours have faded, and the youngest critic has died, We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it--lie down for an aeon 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 saints to draw from--Magdalene, 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 G.o.d of Things as They Are!

RUDYARD KIPLING

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 G.o.d or Nature hath a.s.signed; 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 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 desert to give offense.

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 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 glory's thrill is o'er, 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 MOORE.

THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET