"The Bugle Song" (by Alfred Tennyson, 1809-90), says Heydrick, "has for its central theme the undying power of human love. The music is notable for sweetness and delicacy."

The splendour falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story: The long light shakes across the lakes And the wild cataract leaps in glory.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going!

O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!

Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

THE "THREE BELLS" OF GLASGOW.

"The Three Bells of Glasgow," by Whittier (1807-92), cannot be praised too highly for its ethical value. Children always love to learn it after hearing it read correctly and by one who understands and appreciates it. "Stand by" is the motto. My pupils teach it to me once a year and learn it themselves, too.

Beneath the low-hung night cloud That raked her splintering mast The good ship settled slowly, The cruel leak gained fast.

Over the awful ocean Her signal guns pealed out.

Dear G.o.d! was that Thy answer From the horror round about?

A voice came down the wild wind, "Ho! ship ahoy!" its cry: "Our stout _Three Bells_ of Glasgow Shall stand till daylight by!"

Hour after hour crept slowly, Yet on the heaving swells Tossed up and down the ship-lights, The lights of the _Three Bells_!

And ship to ship made signals, Man answered back to man, While oft, to cheer and hearten, The _Three Bells_ nearer ran:

And the captain from her taffrail Sent down his hopeful cry.

"Take heart! Hold on!" he shouted, "The _Three Bells_ shall stand by!"

All night across the waters The tossing lights shone clear; All night from reeling taffrail The _Three Bells_ sent her cheer.

And when the dreary watches Of storm and darkness pa.s.sed, Just as the wreck lurched under, All souls were saved at last.

Sail on, _Three Bells_, forever, In grateful memory sail!

Ring on, _Three Bells_ of rescue, Above the wave and gale!

Type of the Love eternal, Repeat the Master's cry, As tossing through our darkness The lights of G.o.d draw nigh!

JOHN G. WHITTIER.

SHERIDAN'S RIDE.

There never was a boy who did not like "Sheridan's Ride," by T.

Buchanan Read (1822-72). The swing and gallop in it take every boy off from his feet. The children never teach this poem to me, because they love to learn it at first sight. It is easily memorised.

Up from the South at break of day, Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, The affrighted air with a shudder bore, Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door, The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar, Telling the battle was on once more, And Sheridan twenty miles away.

And wider still those billows of war Thundered along the horizon's bar; And louder yet into Winchester rolled The roar of that red sea uncontrolled, Making the blood of the listener cold As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, And Sheridan twenty miles away.

But there is a road from Winchester town, A good, broad highway leading down; And there, through the flush of the morning light, A steed as black as the steeds of night Was seen to pa.s.s as with eagle flight; As if he knew the terrible need, He stretched away with his utmost speed; Hills rose and fell; but his heart was gay, With Sheridan fifteen miles away.

Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering South, The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth; Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster, Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster.

The heart of the steed and the heart of the master Were beating like prisoners a.s.saulting their walls, Impatient to be where the battle-field calls; Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, With Sheridan only ten miles away.

Under his spurning feet the road Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, And the landscape sped away behind Like an ocean flying before the wind.

And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace fire, Swept on, with his wild eye full of ire.

But lo! he is nearing his heart's desire; He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, With Sheridan only five miles away.

The first that the General saw were the groups Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops.

What was done--what to do? A glance told him both, Then striking his spurs, with a terrible oath, He dashed down the line, mid a storm of huzzas, And the wave of retreat checked its course there, because The sight of the master compelled it to pause.

With foam and with dust the black charger was gray; By the flash of his eye, and the red nostrils' play, He seemed to the whole great army to say: "I have brought you Sheridan all the way From Winchester down to save the day!"

Hurrah! hurrah for Sheridan!

Hurrah! hurrah for horse and man!

And when their statues are placed on high, Under the dome of the Union sky, The American soldiers' Temple of Fame, There with the glorious General's name Be it said, in letters both bold and bright: "Here is the steed that saved the day, By carrying Sheridan into the fight From Winchester, twenty miles away!"

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

THE SANDPIPER.

"The Sandpiper," by Celia Thaxter (1836-94), is placed here because a goodly percentage of the children who read it want to learn it.

Across the lonely beach we flit, One little sandpiper and I, And fast I gather, bit by bit, The scattered driftwood, bleached and dry.

The wild waves reach their hands for it, The wild wind raves, the tide runs high, As up and down the beach we flit, One little sandpiper and I.

Above our heads the sullen clouds Scud, black and swift, across the sky; Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds Stand out the white lighthouses high.

Almost as far as eye can reach I see the close-reefed vessels fly, As fast we flit along the beach, One little sandpiper and I.

I watch him as he skims along, Uttering his sweet and mournful cry; He starts not at my fitful song, Nor flash of fluttering drapery.

He has no thought of any wrong, He scans me with a fearless eye; Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong, The little sandpiper and I.

Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night, When the loosed storm breaks furiously?

My driftwood fire will burn so bright!

To what warm shelter canst thou fly?

I do not fear for thee, though wroth The tempest rushes through the sky; For are we not G.o.d's children both, Thou, little sandpiper, and I?

CELIA THAXTER.

LADY CLARE.

Girls always love "Lady Clare" and "The Lord of Burleigh." They like to think that it is enough to be a splendid woman without t.i.tle or wealth.

They want to be loved, if they are loved at all, for their good hearts and graces of mind. Tennyson (1809-92) makes this point repeatedly through his poems.