AMERICA.

"America" (Samuel Francis Smith, 1808-95) is a good poem to learn as a poem, regardless of the fact that every American who can sing it ought to know it, that he may join in the chorus when patriotic celebrations call for it. My boys love to repeat the entire poem, but I often find ma.s.ses of people trying to sing it, knowing only one stanza. It is our national anthem, and a part of our education to know every word of it.

My country, 'tis of thee, Sweet land of liberty, Of thee I sing; Land where my fathers died, Land of the Pilgrims' pride; From every mountain side, Let freedom ring.

My native country, thee-- Land of the n.o.ble free-- Thy name I love; I love thy rocks and rills, Thy woods and templed hills; My heart with rapture thrills, Like that above.

Let music swell the breeze, And ring from all the trees Sweet freedom's song; Let mortal tongues awake; Let all that breathe partake; Let rocks their silence break-- The sound prolong.

Our fathers' G.o.d, to Thee, Author of liberty, To Thee we sing: Long may our land be bright With freedom's holy light: Protect us by Thy might, Great G.o.d, our King.

S.F. SMITH.

THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIMS.

"The Landing of the Pilgrims," by Felicia Hemans (1749-1835), is a poem that children want when they study the early history of America.

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 the 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.

Amid the storm they sang, And the stars heard, and the sea, And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem 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, Amid 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!

Ay! call it holy ground, The soil where first they trod: They have left unstained what there they found, Freedom to worship G.o.d.

FELICIA HEMANS.

THE LOTOS-EATERS.

The main idea in "The Lotos-Eaters" is, are we justified in running away from unpleasant duties? Or, is insensibility justifiable?

Laddie, do you recollect learning this poem after we had read the story of "Odysseus"? "The struggle of the soul urged to action, but held back by the spirit of self-indulgence." These were the points we discussed.

Alfred Tennyson (1809-92).

"Courage!" he said, and pointed toward the land, "This mounting wave will roll us sh.o.r.eward soon."

In the afternoon they came unto a land In which it seemed always afternoon.

All round the coast the languid air did swoon, Breathing like one that hath a weary dream.

Full-faced above the valley stood the moon; And like a downward smoke, the slender stream Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem.

A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke, Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go; And some thro' wavering lights and shadows broke, Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below.

They saw the gleaming river seaward flow From the inner land: far off, three mountain-tops, Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, Stood sunset-flush'd: and, dew'd with showery drops, Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse.

The charmed sunset linger'd low adown In the red West: thro' mountain clefts the dale Was seen far inland, and the yellow down Border'd with palm, and many a winding vale And meadow, set with slender galingale; A land where all things always seem'd the same!

And round about the keel with faces pale, Dark faces pale against that rosy flame, The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came.

Branches they bore of that enchanted stem, Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave To each, but whoso did receive of them, And taste, to him the gushing of the wave Far, far away did seem to mourn and rave On alien sh.o.r.es; and if his fellow spake, His voice was thin, as voices from the grave; And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all awake, And music in his ears his beating heart did make.

They sat them down upon the yellow sand, Between the sun and moon upon the sh.o.r.e; And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland, Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar, Weary the wandering fields of barren foam.

Then some one said, "We will return no more;"

And all at once they sang, "Our island home Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam."

ALFRED TENNYSON.

MOLY.

"Moly" (mo'ly), by Edith M. Thomas (1850-), in the best possible presentation of the value of integrity. This poem ranks with "Sir Galahad," if not above it. It is a stroke of genius, and every American ought to be proud of it. Every time my boys read "Odysseus" or the story of Ulysses with me we read or learn "Moly." The plant moly grows in the United States as well as in Europe.

Traveller, pluck a stem of moly, If thou touch at Circe's isle,-- Hermes' moly, growing solely To undo enchanter's wile!

When she proffers thee her chalice,-- Wine and spices mixed with malice,-- When she smites thee with her staff To transform thee, do thou laugh!

Safe thou art if thou but bear The least leaf of moly rare.

Close it grows beside her portal, Springing from a stock immortal, Yes! and often has the Witch Sought to tear it from its niche; But to thwart her cruel will The wise G.o.d renews it still.

Though it grows in soil perverse, Heaven hath been its jealous nurse, And a flower of snowy mark Springs from root and sheathing dark; Kingly safeguard, only herb That can brutish pa.s.sion curb!

Some do think its name should be Shield-Heart, White Integrity.

Traveller, pluck a stem of moly, If thou touch at Circe's isle,-- Hermes' moly, growing solely To undo enchanter's wile!

EDITH M. THOMAS.

CUPID DROWNED.

"Cupid Drowned" (1784-1859), "Cupid Stung" (1779-1852), and "Cupid and My Campasbe" (1558-1606) are three dainty poems recommended by Mrs.

Margaret Mooney, of the Albany Teachers' College, in her "Foundation Studies in Literature." Children are always delighted with them.

T'other day as I was twining Roses, for a crown to dine in, What, of all things, 'mid the heap, Should I light on, fast asleep, But the little desperate elf, The tiny traitor, Love, himself!

By the wings I picked him up Like a bee, and in a cup Of my wine I plunged and sank him, Then what d'ye think I did?--I drank him.

Faith, I thought him dead. Not he!

There he lives with tenfold glee; And now this moment with his wings I feel him tickling my heart-strings.

LEIGH HUNT.