«Детская литература: Учебное пособие для учителей и педагогических классов»

"Speak, father!" once again he cried,

"If I may yet be gone!"

And but the booming shots replied,

And fast the flames rolled on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,

And in his waving hair,

And looked from that lone post of death

In still, yet brave despair.

And shouted but once more aloud,

"My father! must I stay?"

While o'er him, fast, through sail and shroud,

The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendor wild,

They caught the flag on high,

And streamed above the gallant child,

Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder sound:

The boy,—oh! where was he?

Ask of the winds, that far around

With fragments strewed the sea,—

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,

That well had borne their part,—

But the noblest thing that perished there,

Was that young, faithful heart.

The five numbers that follow are from the works of the great English poet and mystic William Blake (1757-1827). All except the first are given in their entirety. No. 328 is made up of three couplets taken from the loosely strung together Auguries of Innocence. Nos. 329, 330, and 332 are from Songs of Innocence (1789), where the last was printed as an introduction without any other title. No. 331 is from Songs of Experience (1794). Blake labored in obscurity and poverty, though he has now come to be regarded as one of England's most important poets. It is not necessary that children should understand fully all that Blake says, but it is important for teachers to realize that most children are natural mystics and that Blake's poetry, more than any other, is the natural food for them.

328

ТРИ ВЕЩИ, КОТОРЫЕ НУЖНО ПОМНИТЬ

WILLIAM BLAKE

A Robin Redbreast in a cage,

Puts all heaven in a rage.

A skylark wounded on the wing

Doth make a cherub cease to sing.

He who shall hurt the little wren

Shall never be beloved by men.

329

ЯГНЕНОК

WILLIAM BLAKE

Little lamb, who made thee?

Dost thou know who made thee,

Gave thee life, and bade thee feed

By the stream and o'er the mead;

Gave thee clothing of delight,

Softest clothing, woolly, bright;

Gave thee such a tender voice,

Making all the vales rejoice?

Little lamb, who made thee?

Dost thou know who made thee?

Little lamb, I'll tell thee,

Little lamb, I'll tell thee.

He is called by thy name,

For He calls himself a Lamb:

He is meek and he is mild,

He became a little child.

I a child and thou a lamb,

We are called by His name.

Little lamb, God bless thee,

Little lamb, God bless thee.

330

ПАСТУХ

WILLIAM BLAKE

How sweet is the shepherd's sweet lot;

From the morn to the evening he strays;

He shall follow his sheep all the day,

And his tongue shall be filled with praise.

For he hears the lambs' innocent call,

And he hears the ewes' tender reply;

He is watchful while they are in peace,

For they know when their shepherd is nigh.

331

ТИГР

WILLIAM BLAKE

Tiger, tiger, burning bright

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies

Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

On what wings dare he aspire?

What the hand dare seize thy fire?

And what shoulder and what art

Could twist the sinews of thy heart?

And when thy heart began to beat,

What dread hand formed thy dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?

In what furnace was thy brain?

What the anvil? what dread grasp

Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,

And water'd heaven with their tears,

Did He smile His work to see?

Did He who made the lamb make thee?

Tiger, tiger, burning bright

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

332

ДУДОЧНИК

WILLIAM BLAKE

Piping down the valleys wild,

Piping songs of pleasant glee,

On a cloud I saw a child,

And he laughing said to me:—

"Pipe a song about a lamb":

So I piped with merry cheer.

"Piper, pipe that song again":

So I piped; he wept to hear.

"Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe,

Sing thy songs of happy cheer":

So I sung the same again,

While he wept with joy to hear.

"Piper, sit thee down and write

In a book that all may read."

So he vanish'd from my sight;

And I pluck'd a hollow reed,

And I made a rural pen,

And I stain'd the water clear,

And I wrote my happy songs

Every child may joy to hear.

333

Eliza Cook (1818-1889) was an English poet who had quite a vogue in her day, and whose poem "Try Again" deals with one of those incidents held in affectionate remembrance by youth. Bruce and the spider may be less historically true, but it seems destined to eternal life alongside Leonidas and his Spartans. Older readers may remember Miss Cook's "My Old Arm Chair," which is usually given the place of honor as her most popular poem.

ПОПРОБУЙ ЕЩЕ РАЗ

ELIZA COOK

King Bruce of Scotland flung himself down

In a lonely mood to think:

'Tis true he was monarch, and wore a crown,

But his heart was beginning to sink.

For he had been trying to do a great deed,

To make his people glad;

He had tried and tried, but couldn't succeed;

And so he became quite sad.

He flung himself down in low despair,

As grieved as man could be;

And after a while as he pondered there,

"I'll give it all up," said he.

Now, just at the moment, a spider dropped,

With its silken, filmy clue;

And the King, in the midst of his thinking, stopped

To see what the spider would do.

'Twas a long way up to the ceiling dome,

And it hung by a rope so fine,

That how it would get to its cobweb home

King Bruce could not divine.

It soon began to cling and crawl

Straight up, with strong endeavor;

But down it came with a slippery sprawl,

As near to the ground as ever.

Up, up it ran, not a second to stay,

To utter the least complaint,

Till it fell still lower, and there it lay,

A little dizzy and faint.

Its head grew steady—again it went,

And traveled a half yard higher;

'Twas a delicate thread it had to tread,

And a road where its feet would tire.

Again it fell and swung below,

But again it quickly mounted;

Till up and down, now fast, now slow,

Nine brave attempts were counted.

"Sure," cried the King, "that foolish thing

Will strive no more to climb;

When it toils so hard to reach and cling,

And tumbles every time."

But up the insect went once more;

Ah me! 'tis an anxious minute;

He's only a foot from his cobweb door.

Oh, say, will he lose or win it?

Steadily, steadily, inch by inch,

Higher and higher he got;

And a bold little run at the very last pinch

Put him into his native cot.

"Bravo, bravo!" the King cried out;

"All honor to those who try;

The spider up there, defied despair;

He conquered, and why shouldn't I?"

And Bruce of Scotland braced his mind,

And gossips tell the tale,

That he tried once more as he tried before,

And that time did not fail.

Pay goodly heed, all ye who read,

And beware of saying, "I can't";

'Tis a cowardly word, and apt to lead

To idleness, folly, and want.

Whenever you find your heart despair

Of doing some goodly thing,

Con over this strain, try bravely again,

And remember the spider and King!

334

Nonsense verse seems to have its special place in the economy of life as a sort of balance to the over-serious tendency. One of the two great masters of verse of this sort was the English author Edward Lear (1812-1888). He was also a famous illustrator of books and magazines. Among his juvenile books, illustrated by himself, were Nonsense Songs and More Nonsense Songs. All his verse is now generally published under the first title. Good nonsense verse precludes explanation, the mind of the hearer being too busy with the delightfully odd combinations to figure on how they happened.

СОВА И КОШЕЧКА

EDWARD LEAR

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea

In a beautiful pea-green boat:

They took some honey, and plenty of money

Wrapped up in a five-pound note.

The Owl looked up to the stars above,

And sang to a small guitar,

"O lovely Pussy, O Pussy, my love,

What a beautiful Pussy you are,

You are,

You are!

What a beautiful Pussy you are!"

Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl,

How charmingly sweet you sing!

Oh! let us be married; too long we have tarried:

But what shall we do for a ring?"

They sailed away, for a year and a day,

To the land where the bong-tree grows;

And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood,

With a ring at the end of his nose,

His nose,

His nose,

With a ring at the end of his nose.

"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling

Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."

So they took it away, and were married next day

By the Turkey who lives on the hill.

They dined on mince, and slices of quince,

Which they ate with a runcible spoon;

And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,

They danced by the light of the moon,

The moon,

The moon,

They danced by the light of the moon.

335

СТОЛ И СТУЛ

EDWARD LEAR

Said the Table to the Chair,

"You can hardly be aware

How I suffer from the heat

And from chilblains on my feet.

If we took a little walk,

We might have a little talk;

Pray let us take the air,"

Said the Table to the Chair.

Said the Chair unto the Table,

"Now, you know we are not able:

How foolishly you talk,

When you know we cannot walk!"

Said the Table with a sigh,

"It can do no harm to try.

I've as many legs as you:

Why can't we walk on two?"

So they both went slowly down,

And walked about the town

With a cheerful bumpy sound

As they toddled round and round;

And everybody cried,

As they hastened to their side,

"See! the Table and the Chair

Have come out to take the air!"

But in going down an alley,

To a castle in a valley,

They completely lost their way,

And wandered all the day;

Till, to see them safely back,

They paid a Ducky-quack,

And a Beetle, and a Mouse,

Who took them to their house.

Then they whispered to each other,

"O delightful little brother,

What a lovely walk we've taken!

Let us dine on beans and bacon."

So the Ducky and the leetle

Browny-mousy and the Beetle

Dined, and danced upon their heads

Till they toddled to their beds.

336

ПОББЛ, У КОТОРОГО НЕТ ПАЛЬЦЕВ НА НОГАХ

EDWARD LEAR

The Pobble who has no toes

Had once as many as we;

When they said, "Some day you may lose them all";

He replied—"Fish fiddle-de-dee!"

And his Aunt Jobiska made him drink

Lavender water tinged with pink,

For she said, "The world in general knows

There's nothing so good for a Pobble's toes!"

The Pobble who has no toes

Swam across the Bristol Channel;

But before he set out he wrapped his nose

In a piece of scarlet flannel.

For his Aunt Jobiska said, "No harm

Can come to his toes if his nose is warm;

And it's perfectly known that a Pobble's toes

Are safe—provided he minds his nose."

The Pobble swam fast and well,

And when boats or ships came near him

He tinkledy-binkledy-winkled a bell,

So that all the world could hear him.

And all the Sailors and Admirals cried,

When they saw him nearing the farther side,—

"He has gone to fish for his Aunt Jobiska's

Runcible Cat with crimson whiskers!"

But before he touched the shore,

The shore of the Bristol Channel,

A sea-green Porpoise carried away

His wrapper of scarlet flannel.

And when he came to observe his feet,

Formerly garnished with toes so neat,

His face at once became forlorn

On perceiving that all his toes were gone!

And nobody ever knew,

From that dark day to the present,

Whoso had taken the Pobble's toes,

In a manner so far from pleasant.

Whether the shrimps or crawfish gray,

Or crafty Mermaids stole them away—

Nobody knew; and nobody knows

How the Pobble was robbed of his twice five toes!

The Pobble who has no toes

Was placed in a friendly Bark,

And they rowed him back, and carried him up

To his Aunt Jobiska's Park.

And she made him a feast at his earnest wish

Of eggs and buttercups fried with fish;—

And she said,—"It's a fact the whole world knows,

That Pobbles are happier without their toes."

337

The two great classics among modern nonsense books are Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass. They are in prose with poems interspersed. "The Walrus and the Carpenter," is from Through the Looking Glass, while "A Strange Wild Song," is from Sylvie and Bruno. This latter book never achieved the success of its forerunners, though it has some delightful passages, as in the case of the poem given. Lewis Carroll was the pseudonym of Charles Lutwidge Dodgson (1832-1898), an English mathematician at Oxford University.

МОРЖ И ПЛОТНИК

"LEWIS CARROLL"

The sun was shining on the sea,

Shining with all his might:

He did his very best to make

The billows smooth and bright—

And this was odd, because it was

The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily,

Because she thought the sun

Had got no business to be there

After the day was done—

"It's very rude of him," she said,

"To come and spoil the fun!"

The sea was wet as wet could be.

The sands were dry as dry.

You could not see a cloud, because

No cloud was in the sky;

No birds were flying overhead—

There were no birds to fly.

The Walrus and the Carpenter

Were walking close at hand;

They wept like anything to see

Such quantities of sand:

"If this were only cleared away,"

They said, "it would be grand!"

"If seven maids with seven mops

Swept it for half a year,

Do you suppose," the Walrus said,

"That they could get it clear?"

"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,

And shed a bitter tear.

"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"

The Walrus did beseech.

"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,

Along the briny beach:

We cannot do with more than four,

To give a hand to each."

The eldest Oyster looked at him,

But never a word he said:

The eldest Oyster winked his eye,

And shook his heavy head—

Meaning to say he did not choose

To leave the oyster-bed.

But four young Oysters hurried up,

All eager for the treat:

Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,

Their shoes were clean and neat—

And this was odd, because, you know,

They hadn't any feet.

Four other Oysters followed them,

And yet another four;

And thick and fast they came at last,

And more, and more, and more—

All hopping through the frothy waves,

And scrambling to the shore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter

Walked on a mile or so,

And then they rested on a rock

Conveniently low:

And all the little Oysters stood

And waited in a row.

"The time has come," the Walrus said,

"To talk of many things:

Of shoes—and ships—and sealing wax

Of cabbages—and kings—

And why the sea is boiling hot—

And whether pigs have wings."

"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,

"Before we have our chat;

For some of us are out of breath,

And all of us are fat!"

"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.

They thanked him much for that.

"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,

"Is what we chiefly need:

Pepper and vinegar besides

Are very good indeed—

Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,

We can begin to feed."

"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,

Turning a little blue.

"After such kindness, that would be

A dismal thing to do!"

"The night is fine," the Walrus said.

"Do you admire the view?

"It was so kind of you to come!

And you are very nice!"

The Carpenter said nothing but

"Cut me another slice:

I wish you were not quite so deaf—

I've had to ask you twice!"

"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,

"To play them such a trick,

After we've brought them out so far,

And made them trot so quick!"

The Carpenter said nothing but

"The butter's spread too thick!"

"I weep for you," the Walrus said:

"I deeply sympathize."

With sobs and tears he sorted out

Those of the largest size,

Holding his pocket handkerchief

Before his streaming eyes.

"O Oysters," cried the Carpenter,

"You've had a pleasant run!

Shall we be trotting home again?"

But answer came there none—

And this was scarcely odd, because

They'd eaten every one.

338

СТРАННАЯ ДИКАЯ ПЕСНЯ

"LEWIS CARROLL"

He thought he saw a Buffalo

Upon the chimney-piece:

He looked again, and found it was

His Sister's Husband's Niece.

"Unless you leave this house," he said,

"I'll send for the Police."

He thought he saw a Rattlesnake

That questioned him in Greek:

He looked again, and found it was

The Middle of Next Week.

"The one thing I regret," he said,

"Is that it cannot speak!"

He thought he saw a Banker's Clerk

Descending from the 'bus:

He looked again, and found it was

A Hippopotamus.

"If this should stay to dine," he said,

"There won't be much for us!"

He thought he saw a Kangaroo

That worked a coffee-mill;

He looked again, and found it was

A Vegetable-Pill.

"Were I to swallow this," he said,

"I should be very ill."

He thought he saw a Coach and Four

That stood beside his bed:

He looked again, and found it was

A Bear without a Head.

"Poor thing," he said, "poor silly thing!

It's waiting to be fed!"

He thought he saw an Albatross

That fluttered round the Lamp:

He looked again, and found it was

A Penny Postage-Stamp.

"You'd best be getting home," he said:

"The nights are very damp!"

He thought he saw a Garden Door

That opened with a key:

He looked again, and found it was

A Double-Rule-of-Three:

"And all its mystery," he said,

"Is clear as day to me!"

He thought he saw an Argument

That proved he was the Pope:

He looked again, and found it was

A Bar of Mottled Soap.

"A fact so dread," he faintly said,

"Extinguishes all hope!"

339

Isaac Watts (1674-1748) was an English minister and the writer of many hymns still included in our hymn books. He had a notion that verse might be used as a means of religious and ethical instruction for children, and wrote some poems as illustrations of his theory so that they might suggest to better poets how to carry out the idea. But Watts did this work so well that two or three of his poems and several of his stanzas have become common possessions. They are dominated, of course, by the heavy didactic moralizing, but are all so genuine and true that young readers feel their force and enjoy them.

ПРОТИВ ПРАЗДНОСТИ И ОЗОРСТВА

ISAAC WATTS

How doth the little busy bee

Improve each shining hour,

And gather honey all the day

From every opening flower!

How skilfully she builds her cell,

How neat she spreads the wax!

And labors hard to store it well

With the sweet food she makes.

In works of labor or of skill,

I would be busy too;

For Satan finds some mischief still

For idle hands to do.

In books, or work, or healthful play,

Let my first years be past,

That I may give for every day

Some good account at last.

340

ЗНАМЕНИТЫЕ ОТРЫВКИ ИЗ ДОКТОРА УОТТСА

O 'tis a lovely thing for youth

To walk betimes in wisdom's way;

To fear a lie, to speak the truth,

That we may trust to all they say.

But liars we can never trust,

Though they should speak the thing that's true;

And he that does one fault at first,

And lies to hide it, makes it two.

(From "Against Lying")

Whatever brawls disturb the street,

There should be peace at home;

Where sisters dwell and brothers meet,

Quarrels should never come.

Birds in their little nests agree:

And 'tis a shameful sight,

When children of one family

Fall out, and chide, and fight.

(From "Love between Brothers and Sisters")

How proud we are! how fond to show

Our clothes, and call them rich and new!

When the poor sheep and silk-worm wore

That very clothing long before.

The tulip and the butterfly

Appear in gayer coats than I;

Let me be dressed fine as I will,

Flies, worms, and flowers exceed me still.

Then will I set my heart to find

Inward adornings of the mind;

Knowledge and virtue, truth and grace,

These are the robes of richest dress.

(From "Against Pride in Clothes")

Let dogs delight to bark and bite,

For God hath made them so;

Let bears and lions growl and fight,

For 'tis their nature to.

But, children, you should never let

Such angry passions rise;

Your little hands were never made

To tear each other's eyes.

(From "Against Quarreling and Fighting")

Most of the work of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882) is within the range of children's interests and comprehension. Three poems are given here, "The Skeleton in Armor," as representative of Longfellow's large group of narrative poems, "The Day Is Done," as an expression of the value of poetry in everyday life, and "The Psalm of Life," as the finest and most popular example of his hortatory poems.

341

"The Skeleton in Armor" is one of Longfellow's first and best American art ballads. In Newport, Rhode Island, is an old stone tower known as the "Round Tower," which some people think was built by the Northmen, though it probably was not. In 1836 workmen unearthed a strange skeleton at Fall River, Massachusetts. It was wrapped in bark and coarse cloth. On the breast was a plate of brass, and around the waist was a belt of brass tubes. Apparently it was not the skeleton of an Indian, and people supposed it might have been that of one of the old Norsemen. Longfellow used these two historic facts as a basis for the plot of his poem, which he wrote in 1840.

СКЕЛЕТ В ДОСПЕХАХ

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

"Speak! speak! thou fearful guest!

Who, with thy hollow breast

Still in rude armor drest,

Comest to daunt me!

Wrapt not in Eastern balms,

But with thy fleshless palms

Stretched, as if asking alms,

Why dost thou haunt me?"

Then, from those cavernous eyes

Pale flashes seemed to rise,

As when the Northern skies

Gleam in December;

And, like the water's flow

Under December's snow,

Came a dull voice of woe

From the heart's chamber.

"I was a Viking old!

My deeds, though manifold,

No Skald in song has told,

No Saga taught thee!

Take heed, that in thy verse

Thou dost the tale rehearse,

Else dread a dead man's curse!

For this I sought thee.

"Far in the Northern Land,

By the wild Baltic's strand,

I, with my childish hand,

Tamed the ger-falcon;

And, with my skates fast-bound.

Skimmed the half-frozen Sound,

That the poor whimpering hound

Trembled to walk on.

"Oft to his frozen lair

Tracked I the grisly bear,

While from my path the hare

Fled like a shadow;

Oft through the forest dark

Followed the were-wolf's bark,

Until the soaring lark

Sang from the meadow.

"But when I older grew,

Joining a corsair's crew,

O'er the dark sea I flew

With the marauders.

Wild was the life we led;

Many the souls that sped,

Many the hearts that bled,

By our stern orders.

"Many a wassail-bout

Wore the long Winter out;

Often our midnight shout

Set the cocks crowing,

As we the Berserk's tale

Measured in cups of ale,

Draining the oaken pail,

Filled to o'erflowing.

"Once, as I told in glee

Tales of the stormy sea,

Soft eyes did gaze on me,

Burning, yet tender;

And as the white stars shine

On the dark Norway pine,

On that dark heart of mine

Fell their soft splendor.

"I wooed the blue-eyed maid,

Yielding, yet half afraid,

And in the forest's shade

Our vows were plighted.

Under its loosened vest

Fluttered her little breast,

Like birds within their nest

By the hawk frighted.

"Bright in her father's hall

Shields gleamed upon the wall,

Loud sang the minstrels all,

Chanting his glory:

When of old Hildebrand

I asked his daughter's hand,

Mute did the minstrel stand

To hear my story.

"While the brown ale he quaffed,

Loud then the champion laughed,

And as the wind-gusts waft

The sea-foam brightly,

So the loud laugh of scorn,

Out of those lips unshorn,

From the deep drinking-horn

Blew the foam lightly.

"She was a Prince's child,

I but a Viking wild,

And though she blushed and smiled,

I was discarded!

Should not the dove so white

Follow the sea-new's flight,

Why did they leave that night

Her nest unguarded?

"Scarce had I put to sea,

Bearing the maid with me,—

Fairest of all was she

Among the Norsemen!—

When on the white-sea strand,

Waving his armèd hand,

Saw we old Hildebrand,

With twenty horsemen.

"Then launched they to the blast,

Bent like a reed each mast,

Yet we were gaining fast,

When the wind failed us;

And with a sudden flaw

Came round the gusty Skaw,

So that our foe we saw

Laugh as he hailed us.

"And as to catch the gale

Round veered the flapping sail,

'Death!' was the helmsman's hail,

Death without quarter!

Mid-ships with iron-keel

Struck we her ribs of steel;

Down her black hulk did reel

Through the black water.

"As with his wings aslant,

Sails the fierce cormorant,

Seeking some rocky haunt,

With his prey laden;

So toward the open main,

Beating the sea again,

Through the wild hurricane,

Bore I the maiden.

"Three weeks we westward bore,

And when the storm was o'er,

Cloud-like we saw the shore

Stretching to leeward;

There for my lady's bower

Built I the lofty tower,

Which, to this very hour,

Stands looking seaward.

"There lived we many years;

Time dried the maiden's tears;

She had forgot her fears,

She was a mother;

Death closed her mild blue eyes,

Under that tower she lies;

Ne'er shall the sun arise

On such another!

"Still grew my bosom then,

Still as a stagnant fen!

Hateful to me were men,

The sunlight hateful!

In the vast forest here,

Clad in my warlike gear,

Fell I upon my spear,

Oh, death was grateful!

"Thus, seamed with many scars,

Bursting these prison bars,

Up to its native stars

My soul ascended!

There from the flowing bowl

Deep drinks the warrior's soul,

Skoal! to the Northland! Skoal!"

—Thus the tale ended.

342

ДЕНЬ ЗАВЕРШЕН

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

The day is done, and the darkness

Falls from the wings of Night.

As a feather is wafted downward

From an eagle in its flight.

I see the lights of the village

Gleam through the rain and the mist,

And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me

That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,

That is not akin to pain,

And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,

Some simple and heartfelt lay,

That shall soothe this restless feeling,

And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,

Not from the bards sublime,

Whose distant footsteps echo

Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,

Their mighty thoughts suggest

Life's endless toil and endeavor;

And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,

Whose songs gushed from his heart,

As showers from the clouds of summer,

Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,

And nights devoid of ease,

Still heard in his soul the music

Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet

The restless pulse of care,

And come like the benediction

That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume

The poem of thy choice,

And lend to the rhyme of the poet

The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music,

And the cares that infest the day,

Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,

And as silently steal away.

343

ПСАЛОМ ЖИЗНИ

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,

Life is but an empty dream!—

For the soul is dead that slumbers,

And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!

And the grave is not its goal;

Dust thou art, to dust returnest,

Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,

Is our destined end or way;

But to act, that each tomorrow

Find us farther than today.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,

Still, like muffled drums, are beating

Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,

In the bivouac of Life,

Be not like dumb, driven cattle!

Be a hero in the strife.

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!

Let the dead Past bury its dead!

Act,—act in the living Present!

Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime,

And, departing, leave behind us

Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,

Sailing o'er life's solemn main,

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,

Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,

With a heart for any fate;

Still achieving, still pursuing,

Learn to labor and to wait.

344

Historians usually mention Charles Kingsley (1819-1875) only as an English novelist, but it seems probable that eventually he will be remembered chiefly for his work in juvenile literature. His Water Babies is popular with children of the fourth and fifth grade, while his book of Greek myths entitled The Heroes is a classic for older children. The next two poems are popular with both adults and children. Kingsley was a minister and his church was located in Devon so that the tragedies of the sea among the fisher folk were often brought to his attention. Both these poems deal with such tragedies.

ТРИ РЫБАКА

CHARLES KINGSLEY

Three fishers went sailing out into the west,—

Out into the west as the sun went down;

Each thought of the woman who loved him the best,

And the children stood watching them out of the town;

For men must work, and women must weep;

And there's little to earn, and many to keep,

Though the harbor bar be moaning.

Three wives sat up in the light-house tower,

And trimmed the lamps as the sun went down;

And they looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower,

And the rack it came rolling up, ragged and brown;

But men must work, and women must weep,

Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,

And the harbor bar be moaning.

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands

In the morning gleam as the tide went down,

And the women are watching and wringing their hands,

For those who will never come back to the town;

For men must work, and women must weep,—

And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep,—

And good-by to the bar and its moaning.

345

ПЕСКИ ДИ

CHARLES KINGSLEY

"O Mary, go and call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home

Across the sands of Dee!"

The western wind was wild and dank with foam,

And all alone went she.

The western tide crept up along the sand,

And o'er and o'er the sand,

And round and round the sand,

As far as eye could see.

The rolling mist came down and hid the land:

And never home came she.

"Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair—

A tress of golden hair,

A drownèd maiden's hair

Above the nets at sea?

Was never salmon yet that shone so fair

Among the stakes on Dee."

They rowed her in across the sailing foam,

The cruel crawling foam,

The cruel hungry foam,

To her grave beside the sea:

But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home

Across the sands of Dee!

The next two poems, by Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892), are very well-known songs. "What Does Little Birdie Say" is the mother's song in "Sea Dreams." "Sweet and Low" is one of the best of the lyrics in "The Princess," and a favorite among the greatest lullabies.

346

«ЧТО ГОВОРИТ МАЛЕНЬКАЯ ПТИЧКА?»

ALFRED TENNYSON

What does little birdie say,

In her nest at peep of day?

"Let me fly," says little birdie,

"Mother, let me fly away."

"Birdie, rest a little longer,

Till the little wings are stronger."

So she rests a little longer,

Then she flies away.

What does little baby say,

In her bed at peep of day?

Baby says, like little birdie,

"Let me rise and fly away."

"Baby, sleep a little longer,

Till the little limbs are stronger."

If she sleeps a little longer,

Baby too shall fly away.

347

ТИХО И НЕЖНО

ALFRED TENNYSON

Sweet and low, sweet and low,

Wind of the western sea,

Low, low, breathe and blow,

Wind of the western sea!

Over the rolling waters go,

Come from the dying moon, and blow,

Blow him again to me;

While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,

Father will come to thee soon;

Rest, rest on mother's breast,

Father will come to thee soon;

Father will come to his babe in the nest,

Silver sails all out of the west

Under the silver moon:

Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

348

This poem is a great poet's expression of what a poet's ideal of his mission should be. It is summed up in the last two lines. An interesting comparison could be made of the purpose of poetry as reflected here with that suggested by Longfellow in No. 342.

ПЕСНЯ ПОЭТА

ALFRED TENNYSON

The rain had fallen, the Poet arose,

He pass'd by the town and out of the street,

A light wind blew from the gates of the sun,

And waves of shadow went over the wheat,

And he sat him down in a lonely place,

And chanted a melody loud and sweet,

That made the wild-swan pause in her cloud,

And the lark drop down at his feet.

The swallow stopt as he hunted the bee,

The snake slipt under a spray,

The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak,

And stared, with his foot on the prey,

And the nightingale thought, "I have sung many songs,

But never a one so gay,

For he sings of what the world will be

When the years have died away."

349

Those who live near the sea know that outside a harbor a bar is formed of earth washed down from the land. At low tide this may be so near the surface as to be dangerous to ships passing in and out, and the waves may beat against it with a moaning sound. In his eighty-first year Tennyson wrote "Crossing the Bar" to express his thought about death. He represents the soul as having come from the boundless deep of eternity into this world-harbor of Time and Place, and he represents death as the departure from the harbor. He would have no lingering illness to bar the departure. He would have the end of life's day to be peaceful and without sadness of farewell, for he trusts that his journey into the sea of eternity will be guided by "my Pilot." This poem may be somewhat beyond the comprehension of eighth-grade pupils, but they can perceive the beauty of the imagery and music, and later in life it will be a source of hope and comfort.

ПЕРЕСЕКАЯ БАР

ALFRED TENNYSON

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 though 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 crossed the bar.

350

Leigh Hunt (1784-1859) was an English essayist, journalist, and poet. His one universally known poem is "Abou Ben Adhem." The secret of its appeal is no doubt the emphasis placed on the idea that a person's attitude toward his fellows is more important than mere professions. The line "Write me as one that loves his fellow men" is on Hunt's tomb in Kensal Green Cemetery, London.

АБУ БЕН АДХЕМ

LEIGH HUNT

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)

Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,

And saw, within the moonlight in his room,

Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,

An angel writing in a book of gold:

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,

And to the presence in the room he said,

"What writest thou?"—the vision rais'd its head,

And with a look made all of sweet accord,

Answer'd, "The names of those that love the Lord."

"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"

Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,

But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then,

Write me as one that loves his fellow men."

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night

It came again with a great wakening light,

And show'd the names whom love of God had blest,

And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

351

Cincinnatus Heine Miller, generally known as Joaquin Miller (1841-1912), revealed in his verse much of the restless energy of Western America, where most of his life was passed. "Columbus" is probably his best known poem. "For Those Who Fail" suggests the important truth that he who wins popular applause is not usually the one who most deserves to be honored.

ДЛЯ ТЕХ, КТО ТЕРПИТ НЕУДАЧУ

JOAQUIN MILLER

"All honor to him who shall win the prize,"

The world has cried for a thousand years;

But to him who tries and who fails and dies,

I give great honor and glory and tears.

O great is the hero who wins a name,

But greater many and many a time,

Some pale-faced fellow who dies in shame,

And lets God finish the thought sublime.

And great is the man with a sword undrawn,

And good is the man who refrains from wine;

But the man who fails and yet fights on,

'Lo! he is the twin-born brother of mine!

352

Numerous poems have been written about the futility of searching on earth for a place of perfect happiness. The next poem, by Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849), seems to deal with this subject. Some lines from Longfellow are good to suggest its special message:

"No endeavor is in vain,

Its reward is in the doing,

And the rapture of pursuing

Is the prize the vanquished gain."

ЭЛЬДОРАДО

EDGAR ALLAN POE

Gaily bedight,

A gallant knight,

In sunshine and in shadow

Had journeyed long,

Singing a song,

In search of Eldorado.

But he grew old—

This knight so bold—

And o'er his heart a shadow

Fell as he found

No spot of ground

That looked like Eldorado.

And, as his strength

Failed him at length,

He met a pilgrim shadow—

"Shadow," said he,

"Where can it be—

This land of Eldorado?"

"Over the mountains

Of the Moon,

Down the Valley of the Shadow

Ride, boldly ride,"

The Shade replied,

"If you seek for Eldorado!"

353

Lord Byron (1788-1824) was the most popular of English poets in his day. His fame has since declined, although his fiery, impetuous nature, expressing itself in rapid verse of great rhetorical and satiric power, still reaches kindred spirits. His "Prisoner of Chillon" is often studied in the upper grades. It is full of the passion for freedom which was the dominating idea in Byron's work as it was in his life. He gave his life for this idea, striving to help the Greeks gain their independence. The poem which follows is from an early work called Hebrew Melodies. We learn from II Chronicles 32:21 that Sennacherib, King of Assyria, having invaded Judah, Hezekiah cried unto heaven, "And the Lord sent an angel, which cut off the mighty men of valor, and the leaders and captains in the camp of the King of Assyria. So he returned with shame of face to his own land." Byron's title seems to indicate that Sennacherib was himself destroyed. The fine swinging measure of the lines, and the vivid picture of the destroyed hosts in contrast to the brilliant glory of their triumphant invasion, are two of the chief elements in its appeal.

РАЗРУШЕНИЕ СЕННАХЕРИБА

LORD BYRON

The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold,

And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;

And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,

When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,

That host with their banners at sunset were seen:

Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,

The host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,

And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;

And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,

And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,

But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride:

And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,

And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,

With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;

And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,

The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,

And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;

And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,

Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord.

354

The next two poems may represent the youth and the maturity of America's first great nature poet, William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878), although neither is in the style that characterizes his nature verse. He wrote "To a Waterfowl" in 1815. When he had completed his study of law, he set out on foot to find a village where he might begin work as a lawyer. He was poor and without friends. At the end of a day's journey, when he began to feel discouraged, he saw a wild duck flying alone high in the sky. Then the thought came to him that he would be guided aright, just as the bird was, and he wrote "To a Waterfowl," the most artistic of all his poems. The poem is suitable for the seventh or eighth grade.

ВОДОПЛАВАЮЩЕЙ ПТИЦЕ

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

Whither, midst falling dew,

While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,

Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue

Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eye

Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,

As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,

Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink

Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,

Or where the rocking billows rise and sink

On the chafed ocean-side?

There is a Power whose care

Teaches thy way along that pathless coast—

The desert and illimitable air—

Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fanned

At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere,

Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land

Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end;

Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,

And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,

Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.

Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven

Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart

Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,

And shall not soon depart.

He who, from zone to zone,

Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,

In the long way that I must tread alone,

Will lead my steps aright.

355

Bryant wrote this poem in 1849 after he had been planting fruit trees on his country place on Long Island.

ПОСАДКА ЯБЛОНИ

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

Come, let us plant the apple-tree.

Cleave the tough greensward with the spade:

Wide let its hollow bed be made;

There gently lay the roots, and there

Sift the dark mould with kindly care,

And press it o'er them tenderly,

As, round the sleeping infant's feet,

We softly fold the cradle-sheet;

So plant we the apple-tree.

What plant we in this apple-tree?

Buds, which the breath of summer days

Shall lengthen into leafy sprays;

Boughs where the thrush, with crimson breast,

Shall haunt, and sing, and hide her nest;

We plant, upon the sunny lea,

A shadow for the noontide hour,

A shelter from the summer shower,

When we plant the apple-tree.

What plant we in this apple-tree?

Sweets for a hundred flowery springs

To load the May-wind's restless wings,

When, from the orchard row, he pours

Its fragrance through our open doors;

A world of blossoms for the bee,

Flowers for the sick girl's silent room,

For the glad infant sprigs of bloom,

We plant with the apple-tree.

What plant we in this apple-tree?

Fruits that shall swell in sunny June,

And redden in the August noon,

And drop, when gentle airs come by,

That fan the blue September sky,

While children come, with cries of glee,

And seek them where the fragrant grass

Betrays their bed to those who pass,

At the foot of the apple-tree.

And when, above this apple-tree,

The winter stars are quivering bright,

And winds go howling through the night,

Girls, whose young eyes o'erflow with mirth,

Shall peel its fruit by cottage-hearth,

And guests in prouder homes shall see,

Heaped with the grape of Cintra's vine

And golden orange of the line,

The fruit of the apple-tree.

The fruitage of this apple-tree

Winds and our flag of stripe and star

Shall bear to coasts that lie afar,

Where men shall wonder at the view,

And ask in what fair groves they grew;

And sojourners beyond the sea

Shall think of childhood's careless day,

And long, long hours of summer play,

In the shade of the apple-tree.

Each year shall give this apple-tree

A broader flush of roseate bloom,

A deeper maze of verdurous gloom,

And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower,

The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower.

The years shall come and pass, but we

Shall hear no longer, where we lie,

The summer's songs, the autumn's sigh,

In the boughs of the apple-tree.

And time shall waste this apple-tree.

Oh, when its agèd branches throw

Thin shadows on the ground below,

Shall fraud and force and iron will

Oppress the weak and helpless still?

What shall the tasks of mercy be,

Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears

Of those who live when length of years

Is wasting this apple-tree?

"Who planted this old apple-tree?"

The children of that distant day

Thus to some agèd man shall say;

And, gazing on its mossy stem,

The gray-haired man shall answer them:

"A poet of the land was he,

Born in the rude but good old times;

'T is said he made some quaint old rhymes,

On planting the apple-tree."

356

The next poem, by the English poet Thomas Edward Brown (1830-1897), deserves to be classed with the most beautiful and artistic verse in our language. Students will notice the allusion to the biblical tradition that God walked in the Garden of Eden in the cool of the evening.

МОЙ САД

THOMAS EDWARD BROWN

A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot!

Rose plot,

Fringed pool,

Ferned grot—

The veriest school

Of peace; and yet the fool

Contends that God is not—

Not God! in gardens! when the eve is cool?

Nay, but I have a sign;

'T is very sure God walks in mine.

357

William Wordsworth (1770-1850) ranks very high among English poets. He endeavored to bring poetry close to actual life and to get rid of the stilted language of conventional verse. The struggle was long and difficult, but Wordsworth lived long enough to know that the world had realized his greatness. Many of his poems are suitable for use with children. Their simplicity, their directness, and their utter sincerity made many of them, while not written especially for the young, seem as if directly addressed to the childlike mind. "We are Seven," "Lucy Gray," and "Michael" belong to this number, as do the two masterpieces among short poems which are quoted here. "How many people," exclaims Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes, "have been waked to a quicker consciousness of life by Wordsworth's simple lines about the daffodils, and what he says of the thoughts suggested to him by 'the meanest flower that blows'!" In both poems the imagery is of the utmost importance. Through it the reader is able to put himself with the poet and see things as the poet saw them. In "The Daffodils" the flowers, jocund in the breeze, drive away the melancholy mood with which the poet had approached them and enable him to carry away a picture in his memory that can be drawn upon for help on future occasions of gloom. In "The Solitary Reaper" the weird and haunting notes of the song coming to his ear in an unknown tongue suggest possible ideas back of the strong feeling which he recognizes in the singer. Here also, the poet's memory carries something away,

"The music in my heart I bore,

Long after it was heard no more."

One of the purposes in teaching poetry should be to store the mind, not with words only, but with impressions that may later be recalled to beautify and strengthen life.

НАРЦИССЫ

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

I wander'd lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the Milky Way,

They stretch'd in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they

Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed—and gazed—but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

358

ОДИНОКАЯ ЖНИЦА

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

Behold her, single in the field,

Yon solitary highland lass!

Reaping and singing by herself;

Stop here, or gently pass!

Alone she cuts and binds the grain,

And sings a melancholy strain;

Oh, listen! for the vale profound

Is overflowing with the sound.

No nightingale did ever chant

More welcome notes to weary bands

Of travelers in some shady haunt,

Among Arabian sands:

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard

In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird,

Breaking the silence of the seas

Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow

For old, unhappy, far-off things,

And battles long ago!

Or is it some more humble lay,

Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,

That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang

As if her song could have no ending:

I saw her singing at her work,

And o'er the sickle bending;—

I listen'd, motionless and still;

And, as I mounted up the hill,

The music in my heart I bore,

Long after it was heard no more.

359

Lady Norton (1808-1877) does not belong among the great poets, but she wrote several poems that were immense favorites with a generation now passing away. Among them are "Bingen on the Rhine," "The King of Denmark's Ride" and the one given below. It will no doubt show that her work still has power to stir readers of the present day, although we are likely to think of her poems as being too emotional or sentimental. She wrote the words of the very popular song "Juanita."

АРАБ СВОЕМУ ЛЮБИМОМУ КОНЮ

CAROLINE E. NORTON

My beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by,

With thy proudly arched and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye,

Fret not to roam the desert now, with all thy wingèd speed;

I may not mount on thee again,—thou'rt sold, my Arab steed!

Fret not with that impatient hoof,—snuff not the breezy wind,—

The farther that thou fliest now, so far am I behind;

The stranger hath thy bridle-rein,—thy master hath his gold,—

Fleet-limbed and beautiful, farewell; thou'rt sold, my steed, thou'rt sold.

Farewell! those free untired limbs full many a mile must roam,

To reach the chill and wintry sky which clouds the stranger's home;

Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bed prepare,

Thy silky mane, I braided once, must be another's care!

The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more with thee

Shall I gallop through the desert paths, where we were wont to be;

Evening shall darken on the earth, and o'er the sandy plain

Some other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home again.

Yes, thou must go! the wild, free breeze, the brilliant sun and sky,

Thy master's house,—from all of these my exiled one must fly;

Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become less fleet,

And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck, thy master's hand to meet.

Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye, glancing bright;—

Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light;

And when I raise my dreaming arm to check or cheer thy speed,

Then must I, starting, wake to feel,—thou'rt sold, my Arab steed.

Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide,

Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting side:

And the rich blood that's in thee swells, in thy indignant pain,

Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each starting vein.

Will they ill-use thee? If I thought—but no, it cannot be,—

Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed; so gentle, yet so free:

And yet, if haply, when thou'rt gone, my lonely heart should yearn,

Can the hand which casts thee from it now command thee to return?

Return! alas! my Arab steed! what shall thy master do,

When thou, who wast his all of joy, hast vanished from his view?

When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and through the gathering tears

Thy bright form, for a moment, like the false mirage appears;

Slow and unmounted shall I roam, with weary step alone,

Where, with fleet step and joyous bound, thou oft hast borne me on;

And sitting down by that green well, I'll pause and sadly think,

"It was here he bowed his glossy neck when last I saw him drink!"

When last I saw thee drink!—Away! the fevered dream is o'er,—

I could not live a day, and know that we should meet no more!

They tempted me, my beautiful! for hunger's power is strong,—

They tempted me, my beautiful! but I have loved too long.

Who said that I had given thee up? who said that thou wast sold?

'T is false!—'t is false, my Arab steed! I fling them back their gold!

Thus, thus, I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant plains;

Away! who overtakes us now shall claim thee for his pains!

360

Robert Southey (1774-1843) was poet laureate of England, and a most prolific writer of poetry and miscellaneous prose. His great prominence in his own day has been succeeded by an obscurity so complete that only a few items of his work are now remembered. Among these are "The Battle of Blenheim," a very brief and effective satire against war, "The Well of St. Keyne," a humorous poem based on an old superstition, and "The Inchcape Rock," a stirring narrative of how evil deeds return upon the evil doer. (See also No. 153.)

СКАЛА ИНЧКЕЙП

ROBERT SOUTHEY

No stir in the air, no stir in the sea,

The ship was as still as she could be;

Her sails from Heaven received no motion,

Her keel was steady in the ocean.

Without either sign or sound of their shock,

The waves flowed over the Inchcape Rock;

So little they rose, so little they fell,

They did not move the Inchcape Bell.

The holy Abbot of Aberbrothok

Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock;

On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung,

And over the waves its warning rung.

When the rock was hid by the surges' swell,

The mariners heard the warning bell;

And then they knew the perilous Rock,

And blessed the Abbot of Aberbrothok.

The Sun in heaven was shining gay,

All things were joyful on that day;

The sea-birds screamed as they wheeled around,

And there was joyance in their sound.

The buoy of the Inchcape Rock was seen,

A darker speck on the ocean green;

Sir Ralph, the Rover, walked his deck,

And he fixed his eye on the darker speck.

He felt the cheering power of spring,

It made him whistle, it made him sing;

His heart was mirthful to excess;

But the Rover's mirth was wickedness.

His eye was on the Inchcape float;

Quoth he, "My men, put out the boat;

And row me to the Inchcape Rock,

And I'll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok."

The boat is lowered, the boatmen row,

And to the Inchcape Rock they go;

Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,

And cut the Bell from the Inchcape float.

Down sank the Bell with a gurgling sound;

The bubbles rose, and burst around.

Quoth Sir Ralph, "The next who comes to the Rock

Will not bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok."

Sir Ralph, the Rover, sailed away,

He scoured the seas for many a day;

And now, grown rich with plundered store,

He steers his course for Scotland's shore.

So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky

They cannot see the Sun on high;

The wind hath blown a gale all day;

At evening it hath died away.

On the deck the Rover takes his stand;

So dark it is they see no land.

Quoth Sir Ralph, "It will be lighter soon,

For there is the dawn of the rising Moon."

"Canst hear," said one, "the breakers roar?

For yonder, methinks, should be the shore.

Now where we are I cannot tell,

But I wish we could hear the Inchcape Bell."

They hear no sound; the swell is strong;

Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along,

Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock,—

"O Christ! it is the Inchcape Rock."

Sir Ralph, the Rover, tore his hair;

He cursed himself in his despair.

The waves rush in on every side;

The ship is sinking beneath the tide.

But even in his dying fear,

One dreadful sound he seemed to hear,—

A sound as if, with the Inchcape Bell,

The Devil below was ringing his knell.

The Shakespeare passages which follow are from the fairy play "A Midsummer Night's Dream." A teacher well acquainted with that play would find it possible to delight children with it. The fairy and rustic scenes could be given almost in their entirety, the other scenes could be summarized.

361

ЧЕРЕЗ ХОЛМ, ЧЕРЕЗ ДОЛ

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

Over hill, over dale,

Thorough bush, thorough brier,

Over park, over pale,

Thorough flood, thorough fire,

I do wander everywhere,

Swifter than the moon's sphere;

And I serve the fairy queen,

To dew her orbs upon the green.

The cowslips tall her pensioners be:

In their gold coats spots you see;

Those be rubies, fairy favours,

In those freckles live their savours:

I must go seek some dewdrops here,

And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.

362

СЦЕНА С ФЕЯМИ В ЛЕСУ

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

Fairy Queen Titania (calls to her Fairies following her)

Come, now a roundel and a fairy song;

Then, for the third part of a minute, hence;

Some to kill cankers in the musk-rose buds,

Some war with rere-mice for their leathern wings,

To make my small elves coats, and some keep back

The clamorous owl that nightly hoots and wonders

At our quaint spirits. Sing me now asleep;