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

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jeweled haft of poniard bright

      Glittered a moment on the sight.

      "Ha! start ye back? Fool! coward! knave!

      Think ye my noble father's glaive

      Would drink the life-blood of a slave?

      The pearls that on the handle flame

      Would blush to rubies in their shame;

      The blade would quiver in thy breast

      Ashamed of such ignoble rest.

      No! thus I rend the tyrant's chain,

      And fling him back a boy's disdain!"

      A moment, and the funeral light

      Flashed on the jeweled weapon bright;

      Another, and his young heart's blood

      Leaped to the floor, a crimson flood.

      Quick to his mother's side he sprang,

      And on the air his clear voice rang:

      "Up, mother, up! I'm free! I'm free!

      The choice was death or slavery.

      Up, mother, up! Look on thy son!

      His freedom is forever won;

      And now he waits one holy kiss

      To bear his father home in bliss;

      One last embrace, one blessing,—one!

      To prove thou knowest, approvest thy son.

      What! silent yet? Canst thou not feel

      My warm blood o'er thy heart congeal?

      Speak, mother, speak! lift up thy head!

      What! silent still? Then art thou dead:

      —Great God, I thank thee! Mother, I

      Rejoice with thee,—and thus—to die."

      One long, deep breath, and his pale head

      Lay on his mother's bosom,—dead.

Ann S. Stephens.

      The Height of the Ridiculous

      I wrote some lines once on a time

      In wondrous merry mood,

      And thought, as usual, men would say

      They were exceeding good.

      They were so queer, so very queer,

      I laughed as I would die;

      Albeit, in the general way,

      A sober man am I.

      I called my servant, and he came;

      How kind it was of him

      To mind a slender man like me,

      He of the mighty limb!

      "These to the printer," I exclaimed,

      And, in my humorous way,

      I added (as a trifling jest),

      "There'll be the devil to pay."

      He took the paper, and I watched,

      And saw him peep within;

      At the first line he read, his face

      Was all upon the grin.

      He read the next; the grin grew broad,

      And shot from ear to ear;

      He read the third; a chuckling noise

      I now began to hear.

      The fourth; he broke into a roar;

      The fifth; his waistband split;

      The sixth; he burst five buttons off,

      And tumbled in a fit.

      Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye,

      I watched that wretched man,

      And since, I never dare to write

      As funny as I can.

Oliver Wendell Holmes.

      Excelsior

      The shades of night were falling fast,

      As through an Alpine village passed

      A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,

      A banner with the strange device,

      Excelsior!

      His brow was sad his eye beneath

      Flashed like a falchion from its sheath,

      And like a silver clarion rung

      The accents of that unknown tongue,

      Excelsior!

      In happy homes he saw the light

      Of household fires gleam warm and bright;

      Above, the spectral glaciers shone,

      And from his lips escaped a groan,

      Excelsior!

      "Try not the Pass!" the old man said;

      "Dark lowers the tempest overhead,

      The roaring torrent is deep and wide!"

      And loud the clarion voice replied,

      Excelsior!

      "O stay," the maiden said, "and rest

      Thy weary head upon this breast!"

      A tear stood in his bright blue eye,

      But still he answered, with a sigh,

      Excelsior!

      "Beware the pine-tree's withered branch!

      Beware the awful avalanche!"

      This was the peasant's last Good-night,

      A voice replied, far up the height,

      Excelsior!

      At break of day, as heavenward

      The pious monks of Saint Bernard

      Uttered the oft-repeated prayer,

      A voice cried through the startled air,

      Excelsior!

      A traveller, by the faithful hound,

      Half-buried in the snow was found,

      Still grasping in his hand of ice

      That banner with the strange device,

      Excelsior!

      There in the twilight cold and gray,

      Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay,

      And from the sky, serene and far,

      A voice fell, like a falling star,

      Excelsior!

Henry W. Longfellow.

      The Bivouac of the Dead

      The muffled drum's sad roll has beat

      The soldier's last tattoo;

      No more on life's parade shall meet

      That brave and fallen few.

      On fame's eternal camping ground

      Their silent tents are spread,

      And Glory guards with solemn round

      The bivouac of the dead.

      No rumor of the foe's advance

      Now swells upon the wind;

      No troubled thought at midnight haunts

      Of loved ones left behind;

      No vision of the morrow's strife

      The warrior's dream alarms;

      No