"And everybody praised the Duke Who this great fight did win."

"But what good came of it at last?"

Quoth little Peterkin.

"Why, that I cannot tell," said he, "But 'twas a famous victory."

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

FIDELITY.

"Fidelity," by William Wordsworth (1770-1850), is placed here out of respect to a boy of eleven years who liked the poem well enough to recite it frequently. The scene is laid on Helvellyn, to me the most impressive mountain of the Lake District of England. Wordsworth is a part of this country. I once heard John Burroughs say: "I went to the Lake District to see what kind of a country it could be that would produce a Wordsworth."

A barking sound the Shepherd hears, A cry as of a dog or fox; He halts--and searches with his eyes Among the scattered rocks; And now at distance can discern A stirring in a brake of fern; And instantly a Dog is seen, Glancing through that covert green.

The Dog is not of mountain breed; Its motions, too, are wild and shy; With something, as the Shepherd thinks, Unusual in its cry: Nor is there any one in sight All round, in hollow or on height; Nor shout, nor whistle strikes his ear; What is the Creature doing here?

It was a cove, a huge recess, That keeps, till June, December's snow.

A lofty precipice in front, A silent tarn below!

Far in the bosom of Helvellyn, Remote from public road or dwelling, Pathway, or cultivated land; From trace of human foot or hand.

There sometimes doth a leaping fish Send through the tarn a lonely cheer; The crags repeat the raven's croak, In symphony austere; Thither the rainbow comes--the cloud-- And mists that spread the flying shroud; And sunbeams; and the sounding blast, That, if it could, would hurry past, But that enormous barrier binds it fast.

Not free from boding thoughts, a while The Shepherd stood: then makes his way Toward the Dog, o'er rocks and stones, As quickly as he may; Nor far had gone, before he found A human skeleton on the ground; The appalled discoverer with a sigh Looks round, to learn the history.

From those abrupt and perilous rocks The Man had fallen, that place of fear!

At length upon the Shepherd's mind It breaks, and all is clear: He instantly recalled the name, And who he was, and whence he came; Remembered, too, the very day On which the traveller pa.s.sed this way.

But hear a wonder, for whose sake This lamentable tale I tell!

A lasting monument of words This wonder merits well.

The Dog, which still was hovering nigh, Repeating the same timid cry, This Dog had been through three months s.p.a.ce A dweller in that savage place.

Yes, proof was plain that, since the day When this ill-fated traveller died, The Dog had watched about the spot, Or by his master's side: How nourished here through such long time He knows, who gave that love sublime; And gave that strength of feeling, great Above all human estimate.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS.

People are more and more coming to recognise the fact that each individual soul has a right to its own stages of development. "The Chambered Nautilus" is for that reason beloved of the ma.s.ses. It is one of the grandest poems ever written. "Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul!" This line alone would make the poem immortal. (1809-94.)

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, Sailed the unshadowed main,-- The venturous bark that flings On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, And coral reefs lie bare, Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; Wrecked is the ship of pearl!

And every chambered cell, Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, As the frail tenant shaped his growing sh.e.l.l, Before thee lies revealed,-- Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!

Year after year beheld the silent toil That spread his l.u.s.trous coil; Still, as the spiral grew, He left the past year's dwelling for the new, Stole with soft step its shining archway through, Built up its idle door, Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea, Cast from her lap, forlorn!

From thy dead lips a clearer note is born Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn!

While on mine ear it rings, Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:--

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll!

Leave thy low-vaulted past!

Let each new temple, n.o.bler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown sh.e.l.l by life's unresting sea!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

CROSSING THE BAR

Tennyson's (1809-92) "Crossing the Bar" is one of the n.o.blest death-songs ever written. I include it in this volume out of respect to a young Philadelphia publisher who recited it one stormy night before the pa.s.sengers of a ship when I was crossing the Atlantic, and also because so many young people have the good taste to love it. It has been said that next to Browning's "Prospice" it is the greatest death-song ever written.

Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me!

And may there be no moaning of the bar, When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep, Too full for sound and foam, When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark!

And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark;

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have cross'd the bar.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

THE OVERLAND-MAIL.

"The Overland-Mail" is a most desirable poem for children to learn.

When one boy learns it the others want to follow. It takes as a hero the man who gives common service--the one who does not lead or command, but follows the line of duty. (1865-.)

In the name of the Empress of India, make way, O Lords of the Jungle wherever you roam, The woods are astir at the close of the day-- We exiles are waiting for letters from Home-- Let the robber retreat; let the tiger turn tail, In the name of the Empress the Overland-Mail!

With a jingle of bells as the dusk gathers in, He turns to the foot-path that leads up the hill-- The bags on his back, and a cloth round his chin, And, tucked in his belt, the Post-Office bill;-- "Despatched on this date, as received by the rail, _Per_ runner, two bags of the Overland-Mail."

Is the torrent in spate? He must ford it or swim.

Has the rain wrecked the road? He must climb by the cliff.

Does the tempest cry "Halt"? What are tempests to him?

The service admits not a "but" or an "if"; While the breath's in his mouth, he must bear without fail, In the name of the Empress the Overland-Mail.

From aloe to rose-oak, from rose-oak to fir, From level to upland, from upland to crest, From rice-field to rock-ridge, from rock-ridge to spur, Fly the soft-sandalled feet, strains the brawny brown chest.

From rail to ravine--to the peak from the vale-- Up, up through the night goes the Overland-Mail.

There's a speck on the hillside, a dot on the road-- A jingle of bells on the foot-path below-- There's a scuffle above in the monkeys' abode-- The world is awake, and the clouds are aglow-- For the great Sun himself must attend to the hail;-- In the name of the Empress the Overland-Mail.

RUDYARD KIPLING.

GATHERING SONG OF DONALD DHU.

Jon, do you remember when you used to spout "Pibroch of Donald Dhu"? I think you were ten years old. Sir Walter Scott's men all have a genius for standing up to their guns, and boys gather up the man's genius when reciting his verse. (1771-1832.)