Graded Memory Selections Part 14

SIXTH GRADE

BREAK, BREAK, BREAK.

Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!

And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me.

Oh, well for the fisherman's boy, That he shouts with his sister at play!

Oh, well for the sailor lad, That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately s.h.i.+ps go on To their haven under the hill; But oh, for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!

But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.

--_Alfred, Lord Tennyson._

COLUMBUS--WESTWARD.[18]

Behind him lay the gray Azores, Behind the Gates of Hercules; Before him not the ghost of sh.o.r.es, Before him only sh.o.r.eless seas.

The good mate said: "Now we must pray, For lo, the very stars are gone.

Brave Adm'r'l speak; what shall I say?"

"Why say: 'Sail on! sail on! sail on!'"

"My men grow mutinous 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 Adm'r'l, say, If we sight naught but seas at dawn?"

"Why you shall say at break of day: 'Sail on! sail on! sail on! sail on!'"

They sailed and sailed, as the winds might blow, Until at last the blanched mate said: "Why, not even G.o.d would know Should I and all my men fall dead.

These very winds forget their way, For G.o.d from these dread seas is gone.

Now speak, brave Adm'r'l; speak and say"-- He said: "Sail on! sail on! sail on!"

They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate: "This mad sea shows its teeth to-night.

He curls his lips, he lies in wait, With lifted teeth, as if to bite!

Brave Adm'r'l, say but one good word; What shall we do when hope is gone?"

The words leapt as a leaping sword: "Sail on! sail on! sail on! sail on!"

Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck, And peered through darkness. Ah, that night Of all dark nights! 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 grandest lesson: "On! sail on!"

--_Joaquin Miller._

[18] In a recent critical article, in the London _Athenaeum_ is the sentence: "In point of power, workmans.h.i.+p and feeling, among all the poems written by Americans, we are inclined to give first place to the 'Port of s.h.i.+ps' (or 'Columbus') by Joaquin Miller."

THE DAY IS DONE.

The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters, Not from the bards[19] sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music, Their mighty thoughts suggest Life's endless toil and endeavor; And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor; And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care, And come like the benediction[20]

That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares that infest the day, Shall fold their tents like the Arabs, And as silently steal away.

--_Longfellow._

[19] _bards_, ancient poets.

[20] _benediction_, blessing.

THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIMS.

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 sh.o.r.e.

Not as the conqueror comes, they the true-hearted, came; Not with the roll of 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.

Amidst the storm they sang, and the stars heard, and the sea; And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang with the anthems of the free!

The ocean eagle soared from his nest by the white wave's foam, And the rocking pines of the forest roared--this was their welcome home!

There were men with h.o.a.ry hair amidst that pilgrim band; Why had they come to wither there away from their childhood's 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!