Oh, for a soft and gentle wind!

I heard a fair one cry;

But give to me the snoring breeze,
And white waves heaving high,-
And white waves heaving high, my boys,
The good ship tight and free;
The world of waters is our home,
And merry men are we.

There's tempest in yon horned moon,
And lightning in yon cloud;
And hark the music, mariners!
The wind is piping loud,
The wind is piping loud, my boys,
The lightning flashing free;
While the hollow oak our palace is,

Our heritage the sea. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM

THE STATE OF MAN

(From "Henry VIII”)

Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness!
This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hopes; to-morrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honors thick upon him;
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost,
And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root,
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
This many summers in a sea of glory,
But far beyond my depth. My high-blown pride
At length broke under me, and now has left me,
Weary and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me.

Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate you:
I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors!
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,
More pangs and fears than wars or women have:
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;

I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
In their noonday dreams.

From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
The sweet buds every one,

When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,
As she dances about the sun.

I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
And whiten the green plains under;
And then again I dissolve it in rain;
And laugh as I pass in thunder.

I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast;
And all the night, 't is my pillow white,
While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers
Lightning, my pilot, sits;

In a cavern under, is fettered the thunder;
It struggles and howls at fits.

Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
This pilot is guiding me,

Lured by the love of the genii that move
In the depths of the purple sea;

Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,
Over the lakes and the plains,

Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,
The spirit he loves remains;

And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile,
Whilst he is dissolving in rains.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

THE MINSTREL BOY

The minstrel boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you'll find him;
His father's sword he has girded on,

And his wild harp slung behind him.
"Land of song!" said the warrior bard,
"Though all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee!"

The minstrel fell!

but the foeman's chain

Could not bring his proud soul under;
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,

For he tore its chords asunder,
And said, "No chains shall sully thee,
Thou soul of love and bravery!

Thy songs were made for the pure and free,

They shall never sound in slavery!"

THOMAS MOORE

APRIL IN ENGLAND

Oh, to be in England

Now that April's there,

And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,

That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,

While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England

now.

And after April, when May follows,

And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark! where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover

Blossoms and dewdrops at the bent spray's edge-
That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture

The first fine careless rapture!

And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,

All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children's dower
-Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower.

ROBERT BROWNING

APPENDIX C

(Original and Adapted Dramatizations)

THE FLOWER QUEEN

A nature play written, without assistance, by Mary Grider Rodes, a pupil in the sixth grade of the Training School, Western Kentucky State Normal School.

CHARACTERS: ROSE, TULIP, VIOLET, NASTURTIUM, GOLDEnrod, other Flowers, and a CHILD.

SCENE: A flower garden.

Enter the CHILD where ROSE, VIOLET, etc. are disputing. She hesitates and looks at them.

TULIP. Look! Look!

NASTURTIUM. Why not let her decide?

ALL. Yes! Yes!

[They all look]

ROSE. Do you all agree? If you do, say "Aye."

ALL. Aye! Aye! Aye!

ROSE. [Addressing the CHILD] There has been a dispute among us about who should be queen. I have always been queen, but some of the flowers rebel and want the Goldenrod for queen.

CHILD. But why?

ROSE. Because of her color, I suppose.

GOLDENROD AND FOLLOWERS. No! No, there are other

reasons.

CHILD. I don't know what to do. Oh, I know! I will choose the flower I like best.

ALL. Who? Who?

CHILD. The tender little violet.

ALL. No! No!