MARY HOWITT.

THE RAINBOW.

Triumphal arch, that fills the sky When storms prepare to part, I ask not proud Philosophy To teach me what thou art.

Still seem, as to my childhood's sight, A midway station given, For happy spirits to alight, Betwixt the earth and heaven.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

OLD IRONSIDES.

"Old Ironsides," by Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809-94), is learned readily. Children are untouched by the commercial spirit which is the reproach of this age. "Ingrat.i.tude is the vice of republics," and this poem puts to shame the love of money and the spirit of ingrat.i.tude that could let a national servant become a wreck.

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!

Long has it waved on high, And many an eye has danced to see That banner in the sky; Beneath it rung the battle shout, And burst the cannon's roar;-- The meteor of the ocean air Shall sweep the clouds no more.

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, Where knelt the vanquished foe, When winds were hurrying o'er the flood And waves were white below.

No more shall feel the victor's tread, Or know the conquered knee; The harpies of the sh.o.r.e shall pluck The eagle of the sea!

O, better that her shattered hulk Should sink beneath the wave; Her thunders shook the mighty deep, And there should be her grave; Nail to the mast her holy flag, Set every threadbare sail, And give her to the G.o.d of storms, The lightning and the gale!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

LITTLE ORPHANT ANNIE.

"Little Orphant Annie" certainly earns her "board and keep" when she has "washed the dishes," "swept up the crumbs," "driven the chickens from the porch," and done all the other odds and ends of work on a farm. The poet, James Whitcomb Riley (1853-), has shown how truly a little child may be overtaxed and yet preserve a brave spirit and keen imagination. Children invariably love to learn this poem.

Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay, An' wash the cups and saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away, An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep, An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board-an'-keep; An' all us other children, when the supper things is done, We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun A-list'nin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells about, An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits you Ef you Don't Watch Out!

Onc't they was a little boy wouldn't say his pray'rs-- An' when he went to bed at night, away up-stairs, His mammy heerd him holler, an' his daddy heerd him bawl, An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wasn't there at all!

An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubby hole, an' press, An' seeked him up the chimbly flue, an' ever'-wheres, I guess; But all they ever found was thist his pants an' roundabout!

An' the Gobble-uns'll git you Ef you Don't Watch Out!

An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh an' grin, An' make fun of ever' one, an' all her blood-an'-kin; An' onc't when they was "company," an' ole folks was there, She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care!

An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide, They was two great big Black Things a-standin' by her side, An' they s.n.a.t.c.hed her through the ceilin' 'fore she knowed what she's about!

An' the Gobble-uns'll git you Ef you Don't Watch Out!

An' little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue, An' the lampwick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo!

An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray, An' the lightnin'-bugs in dew is all squenched away,-- You better mind yer parents, an' yer teachers fond an' dear, An' churish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear, An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at cl.u.s.ters all about, Er the Gobble-uns'll git you Ef you Don't Watch Out!

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!

"O Captain! My Captain!" by Walt Whitman (1819-92), is placed here out of compliment to a little boy aged ten who wanted to recite it once a week for a year. This song and Edwin Markham's poem on Lincoln are two of the greatest tributes ever paid to that hero.

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart!

O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths--for you the sh.o.r.es a-crowding, For you they call, the swaying ma.s.s, their eager faces turning; Here Captain! dear father!

This arm beneath your head!

It is some dream that on the deck You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will.

The ship is anch.o.r.ed safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; Exult O sh.o.r.es, and ring O bells!

But I, with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

WALT WHITMAN.

INGRAt.i.tUDE.

"Ingrat.i.tude," by William Shakespeare (1564-1616), is an incisive thrust at a refined vice. It is a part of education to learn to be grateful.

Blow, blow, thou winter wind, Thou are not so unkind As man's ingrat.i.tude; Thy tooth is not so keen Because thou are not seen, Although thy breath be rude.

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, Thou dost not bite so nigh As benefits forgot; Though thou the waters warp, Thy sting is not so sharp As friend remembered not.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

THE IVY GREEN.

"The Ivy Green," by Charles d.i.c.kens (1812-70), is a hardy poem in honour of a hardy plant. There is a wonderful ivy growing at Rhudlan, in northern Wales. Its roots are so large and strong that they form a comfortable seat for many persons, and no one can remember when they were smaller. This ivy envelops a great castle in ruins. Every child in that locality loves the old ivy. It is typical of the ivy as seen all through Wales and England.

O, a dainty plant is the ivy green, That creepeth o'er ruins old!

Of right choice food are his meals, I ween, In his cell so lone and cold.

The walls must be crumbled, the stones decayed.

To pleasure his dainty whim; And the mouldering dust that years have made Is a merry meal for him.

Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green.

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, And a staunch old heart has he!

How closely he twineth, how tight he clings To his friend, the huge oak tree!

And slyly he traileth along the ground, And his leaves he gently waves, And he joyously twines and hugs around The rich mould of dead men's graves.

Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green.

Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed, And nations have scattered been; But the stout old ivy shall never fade From its hale and hearty green.

The brave old plant in its lonely days Shall fatten upon the past; For the stateliest building man can raise Is the ivy's food at last.

Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green.

CHARLES d.i.c.kENS.

THE n.o.bLE NATURE.