Poems Teachers Ask For Volume II Part 47

Your letter, lady, came too late, For heaven had claimed its own; Ah, sudden change--from prison bars Unto the great white throne; And yet I think he would have stayed, To live for his disdain, Could he have read the careless words Which you have sent in vain.

So full of patience did he wait, Through many a weary hour, That o'er his simple soldier-faith Not even death had power; And you--did others whisper low Their homage in your ear, As though among their shallow throng His spirit had a peer?

I would that you were by me now, To draw the sheet aside And see how pure the look he wore The moment when he died.

The sorrow that you gave to him Had left its weary trace, As 'twere the shadow of the cross Upon his pallid face.

"Her love," he said, "could change for me The winter's cold to spring."

Ah, trust of fickle maiden's love, Thou art a bitter thing!

For when these valleys, bright in May, Once more with blossoms wave, The northern violets shall blow Above his humble grave.

Your dole of scanty words had been But one more pang to bear For him who kissed unto the last Your tress of golden hair; I did not put it where he said, For when the angels come, I would not have them find the sign Of falsehood in the tomb.

I've read your letter, and I know The wiles that you have wrought To win that trusting heart of his, And gained it--cruel thought!

What lavish wealth men sometimes give For what is worthless all!

What manly bosoms beat for them In folly's falsest thrall!

You shall not pity him, for now His sorrow has an end; Yet would that you could stand with me Beside my fallen friend!

And I forgive you for his sake, As he--if he be forgiven-- May e'en be pleading grace for you Before the court of Heaven.

To-night the cold winds whistle by, As I my vigil keep Within the prison dead-house, where Few mourners come to weep.

A rude plank coffin holds his form; Yet death exalts his face, And I would rather see him thus Than clasped in your embrace.

To-night your home may s.h.i.+ne with light And ring with merry song, And you be smiling as your soul Had done no deadly wrong; Your hand so fair that none would think It penned these words of pain; Your skin so white--would G.o.d your heart Were half as free from stain.

I'd rather be my comrade dead Than you in life supreme; For yours the sinner's waking dread, And his the martyr's dream!

Whom serve we in this life we serve In that which is to come; He chose his way, you--yours; let G.o.d p.r.o.nounce the fitting doom.

_W.S. Hawkins._

Columbus

A harbor in a sunny, southern city; s.h.i.+ps at their anchor, riding in the lee; A little lad, with steadfast eyes, and dreamy, Who ever watched the waters lovingly.

A group of sailors, quaintly garbed and bearded; Strange tales, that snared the fancy of the child: Of far-off lands, strange beasts, and birds, and people, Of storm and sea-fight, danger-filled and wild.

And ever in the boyish soul was ringing The urging, surging challenge of the sea, To dare,--as these men dared, its wrath and danger, To learn,--as they, its charm and mystery.

Columbus, by the sunny, southern harbor, You dreamed the dreams that manhood years made true; Thank G.o.d for men--their deeds have crowned the ages-- Who once were little dreamy lads like you.

_Helen L. Smith._

The September Gale

I'm not a chicken; I have seen Full many a chill September, And though I was a youngster then, That gale I well remember; The day before, my kite-string snapped, And I, my kite pursuing, The wind whisked off my palm-leaf hat;-- For me two storms were brewing!

It came as quarrels sometimes do, When married folks get clas.h.i.+ng; There was a heavy sigh or two, Before the fire was flas.h.i.+ng,-- A little stir among the clouds, Before they rent asunder,-- A little rocking of the trees, And then came on the thunder.

Lord! how the ponds and rivers boiled, And how the s.h.i.+ngles rattled!

And oaks were scattered on the ground, As if the t.i.tans battled; And all above was in a howl, And all below a clatter,-- The earth was like a frying-pan.

Or some such hissing matter.

It chanced to be our was.h.i.+ng-day, And all our things were drying: The storm came roaring through the lines, And set them all a-flying; I saw the s.h.i.+rts and petticoats Go riding off like witches; I lost, ah! bitterly I wept,-- I lost my Sunday breeches!

I saw them straddling through the air, Alas! too late to win them; I saw them chase the clouds, as if The devil had been in them; They were my darlings and my pride, My boyhood's only riches,-- "Farewell, farewell," I faintly cried,-- "My breeches! O my breeches!"

That night I saw them in my dreams, How changed from what I knew them!

The dews had steeped their faded threads, The winds had whistled through them!

I saw the wide and ghastly rents Where demon claws had torn them; A hole was in their amplest part, As if an imp had worn them.

I have had many happy years And tailors kind and clever, But those young pantaloons have gone Forever and forever!

And not till fate has cut the last Of all my earthly st.i.tches, This aching heart shall cease to mourn My loved, my long-lost breeches!

_O.W. Holmes_

When My s.h.i.+p Comes In

Somewhere, out on the blue sea sailing, Where the winds dance and spin; Beyond the reach of my eager hailing, Over the breakers' din; Out where the dark storm-clouds are lifting, Out where the blinding fog is drifting, Out where the treacherous sand is s.h.i.+fting, My s.h.i.+p is coming in.

O, I have watched till my eyes were aching, Day after weary day; O, I have hoped till my heart was breaking While the long nights ebbed away; Could I but know where the waves had tossed her, Could I but know what storms had crossed her, Could I but know where the winds had lost her, Out in the twilight gray!

But though the storms her course have altered, Surely the port she'll win, Never my faith in my s.h.i.+p has faltered, I know she is coming in.

For through the restless ways of her roaming, Through the mad rush of the wild waves foaming, Through the white crest of the billows combing, My s.h.i.+p is coming in.

Beating the tides where the gulls are flying, Swiftly she's coming in: Shallows and deeps and rocks defying, Bravely she's coming in.

Precious the love she will bring to bless me, Snowy the arms she will bring to caress me, In the proud purple of kings she will dress me-- My s.h.i.+p that is coming in.

White in the suns.h.i.+ne her sails will be gleaming, See, where my s.h.i.+p comes in; At masthead and peak her colors streaming, Proudly she's sailing in; Love, hope and joy on her decks are cheering, Music will welcome her glad appearing, And my heart will sing at her stately nearing, When my s.h.i.+p comes in.

_Robert Jones Burdette._

Solitude