Poems Teachers Ask For, Book Two. Various. Читать онлайн. Newlib. NEWLIB.NET

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fortress is the good green wood,

      Our tent the cypress tree;

      We know the forest round us

      As seamen know the sea;

      We know its walls of thorny vines,

      Its glades of reedy grass,

      Its safe and silent islands

      Within the dark morass.

      Woe to the English soldiery

      That little dread us near!

      On them shall light at midnight

      A strange and sudden fear:

      When, waking to their tents on fire,

      They grasp their arms in vain,

      And they who stand to face us

      Are beat to earth again;

      And they who fly in terror deem

      A mighty host behind,

      And hear the tramp of thousands

      Upon the hollow wind.

      Then sweet the hour that brings release

      From danger and from toil;

      We talk the battle over

      And share the battle's spoil.

      The woodland rings with laugh and shout

      As if a hunt were up,

      And woodland flowers are gathered

      To crown the soldier's cup.

      With merry songs we mock the wind

      That in the pine-top grieves,

      And slumber long and sweetly

      On beds of oaken leaves.

      Well knows the fair and friendly moon

      The band that Marion leads—

      The glitter of their rifles,

      The scampering of their steeds.

      'Tis life our fiery barbs to guide

      Across the moonlight plains;

      'Tis life to feel the night wind

      That lifts their tossing manes.

      A moment in the British camp—

      A moment—and away—

      Back to the pathless forest

      Before the peep of day.

      Grave men there are by broad Santee,

      Grave men with hoary hairs;

      Their hearts are all with Marion,

      For Marion are their prayers.

      And lovely ladies greet our band

      With kindliest welcoming,

      With smiles like those of summer,

      And tears like those of spring.

      For them we wear these trusty arms,

      And lay them down no more

      Till we have driven the Briton

      Forever from our shore.

William Cullen Bryant.

      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.

      Our Homestead

      Our old brown homestead reared its walls,

      From the wayside dust aloof,

      Where the apple-boughs could almost cast

      Their fruitage on its roof:

      And the cherry-tree so near it grew,

      That when awake I've lain,

      In the lonesome nights, I've heard the limbs,

      As they creaked against the pane:

      And those orchard trees, O those orchard trees!

      I've seen my little brothers rocked

      In their tops by the summer breeze.

      The sweet-brier under the window-sill,

      Which the early birds made glad,

      And the damask rose by the garden fence

      Were all the flowers we had.

      I've looked at many a flower since then,

      Exotics rich and rare,

      That to other eyes were lovelier,

      But not to me so fair;

      O those roses bright, O those roses bright!

      I have twined them with my sister's locks,

      That are hid in the dust from sight!

      We had a well, a deep old well,

      Where the spring was never dry,

      And the cool drops down from the mossy stones

      Were falling constantly:

      And there never was water half so sweet

      As that in my little cup,

      Drawn up to the curb by the rude old sweep,

      Which my father's hand set up;

      And that deep old well, O that deep old well!

      I remember yet the splashing sound

      Of the bucket as it fell.

      Our homestead had an ample hearth,

      Where at night we loved to meet;

      There my mother's voice was always kind,

      And her smile was always sweet;

      And there I've sat on my father's knee,

      And watched his thoughtful brow,

      With my childish hand in his raven hair,—

      That hair is silver now!

      But that broad hearth's light, O that broad hearth's light!

      And my father's look, and my mother's smile,—

      They are in my heart to-night.

Phoebe Gary.

      The Ballad of the Tempest

      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