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Lo, all our pomp of yesterday

Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, Lest we forget-lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not Thee in

awe

Such boasting as the Gentiles use

Or lesser breeds without the law-
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget-lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard-
All valiant dust that builds on dust,

And guarding calls not Thee to guard-
For frantic boast and foolish word,
Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!

371

William Ernest IIenley (1849-1903) was an English critic and journalist of great force and a poet whose verse is full of manliness and tenderness. His life was a constant and courageous struggle against disease. The spirit in which he faced conditions that would have conquered a weaker man breathes through the famous poem quoted below. Such a spirit is not confined to any particular stage of maturity as represented by years, and many young people will find themselves buoyed up in the face of difficulties by coming into touch with the unconquered and unconquerable voice in this poem. The last two lines in particular are often quoted.

INVICTUS

WILLIAM E. HENLEY

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced nor cried aloud:

Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

Looms but the horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years

Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul.

372

James Russell Lowell (1819-1891) is a poet of such high idealisms that many of his poems seem to form the natural heritage of youth. Among such are "The Vision of Sir Launfal," "The Present Crisis," "The Fatherland," and "Aladdin." "The Falcon" is not so well known as any of these, but its fine image for the seeker after truth should appeal to most children of upper grades. "The Shepherd of King Admetus" is a very attractive poetizing of an old myth (see No. 261) and lets us see something of how the public looks upon its poets and other artistic folk.

THE FALCON

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
I know a falcon swift and peerless
As e'er was cradled in the pine;
No bird had ever eye so fearless,

Or wing so strong as this of mine.

The winds not better love to pilot

A cloud with molten gold o'errun,
Than him, a little burning islet,
A star above the coming sun.

For with a lark's heart he doth tower,
By a glorious upward instinct drawn;
No bee nestles deeper in the flower

Than he in the bursting rose of dawn.

No harmless dove, no bird that singeth, Shudders to see him overhead;

He sat and watched the dead leaves fall,
Or mused upon a common flower.

The rush of his fierce swooping bringeth It seemed the loveliness of things

To innocent hearts no thrill of dread.

Let fraud and wrong and baseness shiver, For still between them and the sky The falcon Truth hangs poised forever And marks them with his vengeful eye.

373

THE SHEPHERD OF KING
ADMETUS

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
There came a youth upon the earth,
Some thousand years ago,
Whose slender hands were nothing worth,
Whether to plough, or reap, or sow.

Upon an empty tortoise-shell

He stretched some chords, and drew Music that made men's bosoms swell Fearless, or brimmed their eyes with dew.

Then King Admetus, one who had

Pure taste by right divine, Decreed his singing not too bad To hear between the cups of wine:

And so, well pleased with being soothed Into a sweet half-sleep,

Three times his kingly beard he smoothed, And made him viceroy o'er his sheep.

His words were simple words enough,

And yet he used them so,

That what in other mouths was rough
In his seemed musical and low.

Men called him but a shiftless youth,

In whom no good they saw;
And yet, unwittingly, in truth,
They made his careless words their law.

They knew not how he learned at all,
For idly, hour by hour,

Did teach him all their use,

For, in mere weeds, and stones, and springs,

He found a healing power profuse.
Men granted that his speech was wise,
But, when a glance they caught
Of his slim grace and woman's eyes,
They laughed, and called him good-for-
naught.

Yet after he was dead and gone,

And e'en his memory dim,

Earth seemed more sweet to live upon, More full of love, because of him.

And day by day more holy grew

Each spot where he had trod,
Till after-poets only knew
Their first-born brother as a god.

374

Sir William S. Gilbert (1837-1911), an English dramatist, is known to us as the librettist of the popular Gilbert and Sullivan operas, The Mikado, Pinafore, etc. In his earlier days he wrote a book of humorous poetry called The Bab Ballads. Many of these still please readers who like a little nonsense now and then of a supremely ridiculous type. "The Yarn of the Nancy Bell" is a splendid take-off on "travelers' tales," and is not likely to deceive anyone. However, Gilbert said that when he sent the poem to Punch, the editor made objection to its extremely cannibalistic nature!

THE YARN OF THE

NANCY BELL

WILLIAM S. GILBERT

'T was on the shores that round our

coast

From Deal to Ramsgate span,

That I found alone on a piece of stone An elderly naval man.

There was me and the cook and the

captain bold,

And the mate of the Nancy brig,

His hair was weedy, his beard was long, And the bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And weedy and long was he,

And I heard this wight on the shore recite,

In a singular minor key:

"Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,
And the mate of the Nancy brig,
And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig."

And he shook his fists and he tore his hair, Till I really felt afraid,

For I could n't help thinking the man had been drinking,

And so I simply said:

"Oh, elderly man, it's little I know

Of the duties of men of the sea, And I'll eat my hand if I understand

However you can be

"At once a cook, and a captain bold,

And the mate of the Nancy brig, And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig."

Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which

Is a trick all seamen larn, And having got rid of a thumping quid, He spun this painful yarn:

"'T was in the good ship Nancy Bell

That we sailed to the Indian Sea, And there on a reef we come to grief, Which has often occurred to me.

"And pretty nigh all the crew was drowned

(There was seventy-seven o' soul), And only ten of the Nancy's men Said 'Here!' to the muster-roll.

And the crew of the captain's gig.

"For a month we'd neither wittles nor drink,

Till a-hungry we did feel,

So we drawed a lot, and accordin' shot
The captain for our meal.

"The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate,
And a delicate dish he made;
Then our appetite with the midshipmite
We seven survivors stayed.

"And then we murdered the bo'sun tight,
And he much resembled pig;
Then we wittled free, did the cook and me,
On the crew of the captain's gig.

"Then only the cook and me was left,

And the delicate question, 'Which Of us two goes to the kettle?' arose,

And we argued it out as sich.

"For I loved that cook as a brother, I did, And the cook he worshipped me; But we'd both be blowed if we'd either be stowed

In the other chap's hold, you see.

"I'll be eat if you dines off me,' says Tom;

'Yes, that,' says I, 'you'll be,''I'm boiled if I die, my friend,' quoth I; And 'Exactly so,' quoth he.

"Says he, 'Dear James, to murder me
Were a foolish thing to do;
For don't you see that you can't cook me,
While I can and will-cook you!'

"So he boils the water, and takes the salt And the pepper in portions true

(Which he never forgot), and some

chopped shalot,

And some sage and parsley, too.

"Come here,' says he, with a proper pride,

Which his smiling features tell, "T will soothing be if I let you see

How extremely nice you'll smell.'

"And he stirred it round and round and round

And he sniffed at the foaming froth; When I ups with his heels and smothers his squeals

In the scum of the boiling broth.

"And I eat that cook in a week or less, And as I eating be

The last of his chops, why, I almost drops,

For a wessel in sight I see!

"And I never larf, and never smile,

And I never lark nor play,

But sit and croak, and a single joke
I have which is to say:

"Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,
And the mate of the Nancy brig,
And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig!""

375

John T. Trowbridge (1827-1916) is one of the important figures in modern literature for young folks. He wrote a popular series of books for them beginning with Cudjo's Cave, and many poems, the most famous of which are "The Vagabonds" and the one given below. Trowbridge's autobiography will interest children with its story of a literary life devoted to the problems of their entertainment. "Darius Green and His Flying Machine" first appeared in Our Young Folks in 1867. It is to be read for its fun-fun of dialect, fun of character,

and fun of incident. If it has any lesson, it must be that dreamers may come to grief unless they have some plain practical common sense to balance their enthusiasm!

DARIUS GREEN AND HIS

FLYING MACHINE

JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE
If ever there lived a Yankee lad,
Wise or otherwise, good or bad,
Who, seeing the birds fly, didn't jump
With flapping arms from stake or stump,
Or, spreading the tail of his coat for a sail,
Take a soaring leap from post or rail,
And wonder why he couldn't fly,
And flap and flutter and wish and try,—

If ever you knew a country dunce
Who didn't try that as often as once,
All I can say is, that's a sign

He never would do for a hero of mine.
An aspiring genius was D. Green;
The son of a farmer,— age fourteen;
His body was long and lank and lean,—
Just right for flying, as will be seen;
He had two eyes as bright as a bean,
And freckled nose that grew between,
A little awry;-for I must mention
That he had riveted his attention
Upon his wonderful invention,
Twisting his tongue as he twisted the
strings,

And working his face as he worked the wings,

And with every turn of gimlet and screw Turning and screwing his mouth round

too,

Till his nose seemed bent to catch the scent,

Around some corner, of new-baked pies, And his wrinkled cheek and his squinting eyes

Grew puckered into a queer grimace, That made him look very droll in the face, And also very wise.

And wise he must have been, to do more
Than ever a genius did before,
Excepting Daedalus of yore
And his son Icarus, who wore

Upon their backs those wings of wax
He had read of in the old almanacs.
Darius was clearly of the opinion,
That the air was also man's dominion,
And that with paddle or fin or pinion,
We soon or late should navigate
The azure as now we sail the sea.
The thing looks simple enough to me;
And, if you doubt it,

Hear how Darius reasoned about it:
"The birds can fly, an' why can't I?
Must we give in," says he with a grin,
"'T the bluebird an' phoebe are smarter'n
we be?

Jest fold our hands, an' see the swaller
An' blackbird an' catbird beat us holler?
Does the leetle chatterin', sassy wren,
No bigger'n my thumb, know more than
men?

Jest show me that! er prove 't bat

Hez got more brains than's in my hat,
An' I'll back down, an' not till then!"
He argued further: "Ner I can't see
What's th' use o' wings to a bumble-
bee,

Fer to git a livin' with, more'n to me;-
Ain't my business importanter'n his'n is?
That Icarus was a silly cuss,
Him an' his daddy Daedalus;
They might 'a' knowed wings made o'

wax

Wouldn't stan' sun-heat an' hard whacks: I'll make mine o' luther, er suthin' er other."

And he said to himself, as he tinkered and planned:

"But I ain't goin' to show my hand To nummies that never can understand The fust idee that's big an' grand.

They'd 'a' laft an' made fun

O' Creation itself afore it was done!"
So he kept his secret from all the rest,
Safely buttoned within his vest;
And in the loft above the shed

Himself he locks, with thimble and thread
And wax and hammer and buckles and

screws,

And all such things as geniuses use;—
Two bats for patterns, curious fellows!
A charcoal-pot and a pair of bellows;
An old hoop-skirt or two, as well as
Some wire, and several old umbrellas;
A carriage-cover, for tail and wings;
A piece of harness; and straps and strings;
And a big strong box, in which he locks
These and a hundred other things.

His grinning brothers, Reuben and Burke And Nathan and Jotham and Solomon, lurk

Around the corner to see him work,-
Sitting cross-leggèd, like a Turk,
Drawing the waxed-end through with a
jerk,

And boring the holes with a comical quirk

Of his wise old head, and a knowing smirk.

But vainly they mounted each other's backs,

And poked through knot-holes and pried through cracks;

With wood from the pile and straw from the stacks

He plugged the knot-holes and calked the cracks;

And a bucket of water, which one would think

He had brought up into the loft to drink When he chanced to be dry,

Stood always nigh, for Darius was sly! And, whenever at work he happened to

spy,

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