Graded Memory Selections Part 15

Ay, call it holy ground, the soil where first they trod: They left unstained, what there they found, Freedom to wors.h.i.+p G.o.d.

--_Mrs. Hemans._

HE PRAYETH BEST.

"He prayeth best, who loveth best All things both great and small; For the dear G.o.d who loveth us, He made and loveth all."

--_Coleridge._

EACH AND ALL.

Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown, Of thee from the hilltop looking down; The heifer that lows in the upland farm, Far heard, lows not thine ear to charm, The s.e.xton, tolling his bell at noon, Deems not that great Napoleon Stops his horse, and lists with delight, Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height; Nor knowest thou what argument Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent.

All are needed by each one; Nothing is fair or good alone.

I thought the sparrow's note from heaven, Singing at dawn on the alder bough; I brought him home, in his nest, at even, He sings the song, but it cheers not now, For I did not bring the river and sky; He sang to my ear, they sang to my eye.

The delicate sh.e.l.ls lay on the sh.o.r.e; The bubbles of the latest wave Fresh pearls to their enamel gave, And the bellowing of the savage sea Greeted their safe escape to me.

I wiped away the weeds and foam, I fetched my sea-born treasures home; But the poor, unsightly, noisome things Had left their beauty on the sh.o.r.e With the sun and the sand and the wild uproar.

The lover watched his graceful maid, As mid the virgin train she strayed, Nor knew her beauty's best attire Was woven still by the snow-white quire.

At last she came to his hermitage, Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage; The gay enchantment was undone, A gentle wife, but fairy none.

When I said, "I covet truth; Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat; I leave it behind with the games of youth."

As I spoke, beneath my feet The ground pine curled its pretty leaf, Running over the club-moss burrs; I inhaled the violet's breath; Around me stood the oaks and firs, Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground.

Over me soared the eternal sky, Full of light and of deity; Again I saw, again I heard, The rolling river, the morning bird; Beauty through my senses stole: I yielded myself to the perfect whole.

--_Emerson._

PAUL REVERE'S RIDE.

Listen, my children, and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere.

On the eighteenth of April in Seventy-five; Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and year.

He said to his friend, "If the British march By land or sea from the town[21] to-night, Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch Of the North Church tower as a signal light-- One if by land, and two if by sea, And I on the opposite sh.o.r.e[22] will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middles.e.x village and farm, For the country folk to be up and to arm."

Then he said "Good-night!" and with m.u.f.fled oar Silently rowed to the Charlestown sh.o.r.e, Just as the moon rose over the bay, Where swinging wide at her moorings lay The Somerset, British man-of-war; A phantom s.h.i.+p, with each mast and spar Across the moon like a prison bar, And a huge black hulk that was magnified By its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street, Wanders and watches with eager ears, Till in the silence around him he hears The muster of men at the barrack door, The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, And the measured tread of the grenadiers[23]

Marching down to their boats on the sh.o.r.e.

Then he climbed to the tower of the church, Up the wooden stairs with stealthy tread, To the belfry chamber overhead, And startled the pigeons from their perch, On the sombre rafters, that round him made Ma.s.ses and moving shapes of shade-- Up the light ladder, slender and tall, To the highest window in the wall, Where he paused to listen and look down A moment on the roofs of the town, And the moonlight flowing over all.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride On the opposite sh.o.r.e walked Paul Revere Now he patted his horse's side, Now gazed at the landscape far and near, Then, impetuous, stamped the earth, And turned and tightened his saddle girth; But mostly he watched with eager search The belfry-tower of the old North Church, As it rose above the graves on the hill, Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.

And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!

He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight A _second_ lamp in the belfry burns!

A hurry of hoofs in the village street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, And beneath from the pebbles, in pa.s.sing, a spark Struck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet; That was all! And yet through the gloom and the light, The fate of a nation was riding that night.

It was twelve by the village clock When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.

He heard the crowing of the c.o.c.k, And the barking of the farmer's dog, And felt the damp of the river fog, That rises when the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock, When he rode into Lexington.

He saw the gilded weatherc.o.c.k Swim in the moonlight as he pa.s.sed, And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, Gaze at him with a spectral stare, As if they already stood aghast At the b.l.o.o.d.y work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock, When he came to the bridge in Concord town.

He heard the bleating of the flock, And the twitter of the birds among the trees, And felt the breath of the morning breeze Blowing over the meadows brown.

So through the night rode Paul Revere; And so through the night went his cry of alarm To every Middles.e.x village and farm-- A cry of defiance and not of fear, A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo forever more!

For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, Through all our history, to the last, In the hour of darkness and peril and need, The people will waken and listen to hear The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

--_Longfellow._

[21] Boston.

[22] Charlestown.

[23] _grenadiers_, British soldiers.

BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC.

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord; He is tramping out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword; His truth is marching on.

I have seen him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps; They have builded him an altar in the evening dews and damps; I have read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps: His day is marching on.

I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnished rows of steel; "As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal; Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel; Since G.o.d is marching on."

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment seat; Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer him! be jubilant, my feet!

Our G.o.d is marching on.

In the beauty of the lilies, Christ was born across the sea, With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me; As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, While G.o.d is marching on.

--_Julia Ward Howe._

THE BAREFOOT BOY.[24]

Blessings on thee, little man, Barefoot boy with cheeks of tan!

With thy turned up pantaloons And thy merry whistled tunes; With thy red lips, redder still, Kissed by strawberries on the hill; With the suns.h.i.+ne on thy face, Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace; From my heart I give thee joy!-- I was once a barefoot boy!

Oh, for boyhood's painless play, Sleep that wakes in laughing day, Health that mocks the doctor's rules, Knowledge never learned in schools, Of the wild bee's morning chase, Of the wild flower's time and place, How the tortoise bears his sh.e.l.l, How the woodchuck digs his cell,

How the robin feeds her young, How the oriole's nest is hung, Where the whitest lilies blow, Where the freshest berries grow, Where the ground-nut trails its vine, Where the wood-grape's cl.u.s.ters s.h.i.+ne, Of the black wasp's cunning way, Mason of his walls of clay.

Oh, for boyhood's time of June, Crowding years in one brief moon, When all things I heard or saw Me, their master, waited for!