Poems Every Child Should Know Part 36

"My strength is as the strength of ten Because my heart is pure."

My good blade carves the casques of men, My tough lance thrusteth sure, My strength is as the strength of ten, Because my heart is pure.

The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, The hard brands s.h.i.+ver on the steel, The splintered spear-shafts crack and fly, The horse and rider reel: They reel, they roll in clanging lists, And when the tide of combat stands, Perfume and flowers fall in showers, That lightly rain from ladies' hands.

How sweet are looks that ladies bend On whom their favours fall!

For them I battle till the end, To save from shame and thrall: But all my heart is drawn above, My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine: I never felt the kiss of love, Nor maiden's hand in mine.

More bounteous aspects on me beam, Me mightier transports move and thrill; So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer A virgin heart in work and will.

When down the stormy crescent goes, A light before me swims, Between dark stems the forest glows, I hear a noise of hymns: Then by some secret shrine I ride; I hear a voice, but none are there; The stalls are void, the doors are wide, The tapers burning fair.

Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, The silver vessels sparkle clean, The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, And solemn chaunts resound between.

Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres I find a magic bark; I leap on board: no helmsman steers, I float till all is dark.

A gentle sound, an awful light!

Three angels bear the holy Grail: With folded feet, in stoles of white, On sleeping wings they sail.

Ah, blessed vision! blood of G.o.d!

My spirit beats her mortal bars, As down dark tides the glory slides, And star-like mingles with the stars.

When on my goodly charger borne Thro' dreaming towns I go, The c.o.c.k crows ere the Christmas morn, The streets are dumb with snow.

The tempest crackles on the leads, And, ringing, springs from brand and mail; But o'er the dark a glory spreads, And gilds the driving hail.

I leave the plain, I climb the height; No branchy thicket shelter yields; But blessed forms in whistling storms Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields.

A maiden knight--to me is given Such hope, I know not fear; I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven That often meet me here.

I muse on joy that will not cease, Pure s.p.a.ces cloth'd in living beams, Pure lilies of eternal peace, Whose odours haunt my dreams; And, stricken by an angel's hand, This mortal armour that I wear, This weight and size, this heart and eyes, Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air.

The clouds are broken in the sky, And thro' the mountain-walls A rolling organ-harmony Swells up, and shakes and falls.

Then move the trees, the copses nod, Wings flutter, voices hover clear: "O just and faithful knight of G.o.d!

Ride on! the prize is near."

So pa.s.s I hostel, hall, and grange; By bridge and ford, by park and pale, All-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide, Until I find the holy Grail.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

A NAME IN THE SAND.

"A Name in the Sand," by Hannah Flagg Gould (1789-1865), is a poem to correct our ready overestimate of our own importance.

Alone I walked the ocean strand; A pearly sh.e.l.l was in my hand: I stooped and wrote upon the sand My name--the year--the day.

As onward from the spot I pa.s.sed, One lingering look behind I cast; A wave came rolling high and fast, And washed my lines away.

And so, methought, 'twill shortly be With every mark on earth from me: A wave of dark oblivion's sea Will sweep across the place Where I have trod the sandy sh.o.r.e Of time, and been, to be no more, Of me--my day--the name I bore, To leave nor track nor trace.

And yet, with Him who counts the sands And holds the waters in His hands, I know a lasting record stands Inscribed against my name, Of all this mortal part has wrought, Of all this thinking soul has thought, And from these fleeting moments caught For glory or for shame.

HANNAH FLAGG GOULD.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

PART VI.

"Grow old along with me!

The best is yet to be,-- The last of life, for which the first was made."

THE VOICE OF SPRING.

"The Voice of Spring," by Felicia Hemans (1749-1835), becomes attractive as years go on. The line in this poem that captivated my youthful fancy was:

"The larch has hung all his ta.s.sels forth,"

The delight with which trees hang out their new little ta.s.sels every year is one of the charms of "the pine family." John Burroughs sent us down a tiny hemlock, that grew in our window-box at school for five years, and every spring it was a new joy on account of the fine, tender ta.s.sels. Mrs. Hemans had a vivid imagination backed up by an abundant information.

I come, I come! ye have called me long; I come o'er the mountains, with light and song.

Ye may trace my step o'er the waking earth By the winds which tell of the violet's birth, By the primrose stars in the shadowy gra.s.s, By the green leaves opening as I pa.s.s.

I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut-flowers By thousands have burst from the forest bowers, And the ancient graves and the fallen fanes Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains; But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, To speak of the ruin or the tomb!

I have looked o'er the hills of the stormy North, And the larch has hung all his ta.s.sels forth; The fisher is out on the sunny sea, And the reindeer bounds o'er the pastures free, And the pine has a fringe of softer green, And the moss looks bright, where my step has been.

I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh, And called out each voice of the deep blue sky, From the night-bird's lay through the starry time, In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime, To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes, When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks.

From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain; They are sweeping on to the silvery main, They are flas.h.i.+ng down from the mountain brows, They are flinging spray o'er the forest boughs, They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves, And the earth resounds with the joy of waves.

FELICIA HEMANS.

THE FORSAKEN MERMAN.

"The Forsaken Merman," by Matthew Arnold (1822-88), is a poem that I do not expect children to appreciate fully, even when they care enough for it to learn it. It is too long for most children to commit to memory, and I generally a.s.sign one stanza to one pupil and another to another pupil until it is divided up among them. The poem is a masterpiece.

Doubtless the poet meant to show that the forsaken merman had a greater soul to save than the woman who sought to save her soul by deserting natural duty. Salvation does not come through the faith that builds itself at the expense of love.

Come, dear children, let us away; Down and away below!

Now my brothers call from the bay, Now the great winds sh.o.r.eward blow, Now the salt tides seaward flow; Now the wild white horses play, Champ and chafe and toss in the spray.

Children dear, let us away!

This way, this way!

Call her once before you go-- Call once yet!

In a voice that she will know: "Margaret! Margaret!"

Children's voices should be dear (Call once more) to a mother's ear; Children's voices, wild with pain-- Surely she will come again!

Call her once and come away; This way, this way!

"Mother dear, we cannot stay!

The wild white horses foam and fret."

Margaret! Margaret!

Come, dear children, come away down; Call no more!