Kingsley.
Casabianca.
"Casabianca," by Felicia Hemans (1793–1835), is the portrait of a faithful heart, an example of unreasoning obedience. It is right that a child should obey even to the death the commands of a loving parent.
| The boy stood on the burning deck, Whence all but him had fled; The flame that lit the battle's wreck Shone round him o'er the dead.Yet beautiful and bright he stood, As born to rule the storm; A creature of heroic blood, A proud though childlike form.The flames rolled on—he would not go Without his father's word; That father, faint in death below, His voice no longer heard.He called aloud, "Say, father, say If yet my task is done?" He knew not that the chieftain lay Unconscious of his son."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 splendour wild, They caught the flag on high, And streamed above the gallant child Like banners in the sky.Then came a burst of thunder sound— The boy—oh! where was he? —Ask of the winds that far around With fragments strew 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. |
Felicia Hemans.
The Captain's Daughter.
"The Captain's Daughter," by James T. Fields (1816–81), carries weight with every young audience. It is pointed to an end that children love—viz., trust in a higher power.
| We were crowded in the cabin, Not a soul would dare to sleep— It was midnight on the waters, And a storm was on the deep.'Tis a fearful thing in winter To be shattered by the blast, And to hear the rattling trumpet Thunder, "Cut away the mast!"So we shuddered there in silence— For the stoutest held his breath, While the hungry sea was roaring And the breakers talked with Death.As thus we sat in darkness, Each one busy with his prayers, "We are lost!" the captain shouted As he staggered down the stairs.But his little daughter whispered, As she took his icy hand, "Isn't God upon the ocean, Just the same as on the land?"Then we kissed the little maiden. And we spoke in better cheer, And we anchored safe in harbour When the morn was shining clear. |
James T. Fields.
["The 'village smithy' stood in Brattle Street, Cambridge. There came a time when the chestnut-tree that shaded it was cut down, and then the children of the place put their pence together and had a chair made for the poet from its wood."]
The Village Blacksmith.
Longfellow (1807–82) is truly the children's poet. His poems are as simple, pathetic, artistic, and philosophical as if they were intended to tell the plain everyday story of life to older people. "The Village Blacksmith" has been learned by thousands of children, and there is no criticism to be put upon it. The age of the child has nothing whatever to do with his learning it. Age does not grade children nor is poetry wholly to be so graded. "Time is the false reply."
| Under a spreading chestnut-tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands, And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands.His hair is crisp, and black, and long; His face is like the tan; His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man.Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, With measured beat and slow, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, When the evening sun is low.And children coming home from school Look in at the open door; They love to see the flaming forge, And hear the bellows roar, And catch the burning sparks that fly Like chaff from a threshing-floor.He goes on Sunday to the church, And sits among his boys; He hears the parson pray and preach, He hears his daughter's voice Singing in the village choir, And it makes his heart rejoice.It sounds to him like her mother's voice, Singing in Paradise! He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies; And with his hard, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes.Toiling—rejoicing—sorrowing, Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close; Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night's repose.Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou hast taught! Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought. |
Henry W. Longfellow.
Sweet and Low.
| 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 dropping 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. |
Alfred Tennyson.
The Violet.
"The Violet," by Jane Taylor (1783–1824), is another of those dear old-fashioned poems, pure poetry and pure violet. It is included in this volume out of respect to my own love for it when I was a child.
| Down in a green and shady bed A modest violet grew; Its stalk was bent, it hung its head, As if to hide from view.And yet it was a lovely flower, No colours bright and fair; It might have graced a rosy bower, Instead of hiding there.Yet there it was content to bloom, In modest tints arrayed; And there diffused its sweet perfume, Within the silent shade.Then let me to the valley go, This pretty flower to see; That I may also learn to grow In sweet humility. |
Jane Taylor.
The Rainbow.
(A FRAGMENT.)
"The Rainbow," by William Wordsworth (1770–1850), accords with every child's feelings. It voices the spirit of all ages that would love to imagine it "a bridge to heaven."
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My heart leaps up when
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