Poems Teachers Ask For Volume II Part 53

And what is so huge as the aim of it?

Thundering on through dearth and doubt, Calling the plan of the Maker out, Work, the t.i.tan; Work, the friend, Shaping the earth to a glorious end, Draining the swamps and blasting hills, Doing whatever the Spirit wills-- Rending a continent apart, To answer the dream of the Master heart.

Thank G.o.d for a world where none may s.h.i.+rk-- Thank G.o.d for the splendor of Work!

_Angela Morgan._

Reply to "A Woman's Question"

(_"A Woman's Question" is given on page 129 of Book I, "Poems Teachers Ask For_.")

You say I have asked for the costliest thing Ever made by the Hand above-- A woman's heart and a woman's life, And a woman's wonderful love.

That I have written your duty out, And, man-like, have questioned free-- You demand that I stand at the bar of your soul, While you in turn question me.

And when I ask you to be my wife, The head of my house and home, Whose path I would scatter with suns.h.i.+ne through life, Thy s.h.i.+eld when sorrow shall come--

You reply with disdain and a curl of the lip, And point to my coat's missing b.u.t.ton, And haughtily ask if I want a _cook_, To serve up my _beef_ and my _mutton_.

'Tis a _king_ that you look for. Well, I am not he, But only a plain, earnest man, Whose feet often shun the hard path they should tread, Often shrink from the gulf they should span.

'Tis hard to believe that the rose will fade From the cheek so full, so fair; 'Twere harder to think that a heart proud and cold Was ever reflected there.

True, the rose will fade, and the leaves will fall, And the Autumn of life will come; But the heart that I give thee will be true as in May, Should I make it thy shelter, thy home.

Thou requir'st "all things that are good and true; All things that a man should be"; Ah! lady, my _truth_, in return, doubt not, For the rest, I leave it to thee.

_Nettie H. Pelham._

The Romance of Nick Van Stann

I cannot vouch my tale is true, Nor say, indeed, 'tis wholly new; But true or false, or new or old, I think you'll find it fairly told.

A Frenchman, who had ne'er before Set foot upon a foreign sh.o.r.e, Weary of home, resolved to go And see what Holland had to show.

He didn't know a word of Dutch, But that could hardly grieve him much; He thought, as Frenchmen always do, That all the world could "parley-voo."

At length our eager tourist stands Within the famous Netherlands, And, strolling gaily here and there, In search of something rich or rare, A lordly mansion greets his eyes; "How beautiful!" the Frenchman cries, And, bowing to the man who sate In livery at the garden gate, "Pray, Mr. Porter, if you please, Whose very charming grounds are these?

And, pardon me, be pleased to tell Who in this splendid house may dwell."

To which, in Dutch, the puzzled man Replied what seemed like "Nick Van Stann,"[*]

"Thanks!" said the Gaul; "the owner's taste Is equally superb and chaste; So fine a house, upon my word, Not even Paris can afford.

With statues, too, in every niche; Of course Monsieur Van Stann is rich, And lives, I warrant, like a king,-- Ah! wealth mast be a charming thing!"

In Amsterdam the Frenchman meets A thousand wonders in the streets, But most he marvels to behold A lady dressed in silk and gold; Gazing with rapture on the dame, He begs to know the lady's name, And hears, to raise his wonders more, The very words he heard before!

"Mercie!" he cries; "well, on my life, Milord has got a charming wife; 'Tis plain to see, this Nick Van Stann Must be a very happy man."

Next day our tourist chanced to pop His head within a lottery shop, And there he saw, with staring eyes, The drawing of the mammoth prize.

"Ten millions! 'tis a pretty sum; I wish I had as much at home: I'd like to know, as I'm a sinner, What lucky fellow is the winner?"

Conceive our traveler's amaze To hear again the hackneyed phrase.

"What? no! not Nick Van Stann again?

Faith! he's the luckiest of men.

You may be sure we don't advance So rapidly as that in France: A house, the finest in the land; A lovely garden, nicely planned; A perfect angel of a wife, And gold enough to last a life; There never yet was mortal man So blest--as Monsieur Nick Van Stann!"

Next day the Frenchman chanced to meet A pompous funeral in the street; And, asking one who stood close by What n.o.bleman had pleased to die, Was stunned to hear the old reply.

The Frenchman sighed and shook his head, "Mon Dieu! poor Nick Van Stann is dead; With such a house, and such a wife, It must be hard to part with life; And then, to lose that mammoth prize,-- He wins, and, pop,--the winner dies!

Ah, well! his blessings came so fast, I greatly feared they could not last: And thus, we see, the sword of Fate Cuts down alike the small and great."

[Footnote *: Nicht verstehen:--"I don't understand."]

_John G. Saxe._

Armageddon

Marching down to Armageddon-- Brothers, stout and strong!

Let us cheer the way we tread on, With a soldier's song!

Faint we by the weary road, Or fall we in the rout, Dirge or Paean, Death or Triumph!-- Let the song ring out!

We are they who scorn the scorners-- Love the lovers--hate None within the world's four corners-- All must share one fate; We are they whose common banner Bears no badge nor sign, Save the Light which dyes it white-- The Hope that makes it s.h.i.+ne.

We are they whose bugle rings, That all the wars may cease; We are they will pay the Kings Their cruel price for Peace; We are they whose steadfast watchword Is what Christ did teach-- "Each man for his Brother first-- And Heaven, then, for each."

We are they who will not falter-- Many swords or few-- Till we make this Earth the altar Of a wors.h.i.+p new; We are they who will not take From palace, priest or code, A meaner Law than "Brotherhood"-- A lower Lord than G.o.d.

Marching down to Armageddon-- Brothers, stout and strong!

Ask not why the way we tread on Is so rough and long!

G.o.d will tell us when our spirits Grow to grasp His plan!

Let us do our part to-day-- And help Him, helping Man!

Shall we even curse the madness Which for "ends of State"

Dooms us to the long, long sadness Of this human hate?

Let us slay in perfect pity Those that must not live; Vanquish, and forgive our foes-- Or fall--and still forgive!

We are those whose unpaid legions, In free ranks arrayed, Ma.s.sacred in many regions-- Never once were stayed: We are they whose torn battalions, Trained to bleed, not fly, Make our agonies a triumph,-- Conquer, while we die!

Therefore, down to Armageddon-- Brothers, bold and strong; Cheer the glorious way we tread on, With this soldier song!

Let the armies of the old Flags March in silent dread!

Death and Life are one to us, Who fight for Quick and Dead!

_Edwin Arnold._