Act,--act in the living Present!
Heart within, and G.o.d o"erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o"er life"s solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait.
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Historians usually mention Charles Kingsley (1819-1875) only as an English novelist, but it seems probable that eventually he will be remembered chiefly for his work in juvenile literature. His _Water Babies_ is popular with children of the fourth and fifth grade, while his book of Greek myths ent.i.tled _The Heroes_ is a cla.s.sic for older children. The next two poems are popular with both adults and children. Kingsley was a minister and his church was located in Devon so that the tragedies of the sea among the fisher folk were often brought to his attention. Both these poems deal with such tragedies.
THE THREE FISHERS
CHARLES KINGSLEY
Three fishers went sailing out into the west,-- Out into the west as the sun went down; Each thought of the woman who loved him the best, And the children stood watching them out of the town; For men must work, and women must weep; And there"s little to earn, and many to keep, Though the harbor bar be moaning.
Three wives sat up in the light-house tower, And trimmed the lamps as the sun went down; And they looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, And the rack it came rolling up, ragged and brown; But men must work, and women must weep, Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, And the harbor bar be moaning.
Three corpses lay out on the shining sands In the morning gleam as the tide went down, And the women are watching and wringing their hands, For those who will never come back to the town; For men must work, and women must weep,-- And the sooner it"s over, the sooner to sleep,-- And good-by to the bar and its moaning.
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THE SANDS OF DEE
CHARLES KINGSLEY
"O Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee!"
The western wind was wild and dank with foam, And all alone went she.
The western tide crept up along the sand, And o"er and o"er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see.
The rolling mist came down and hid the land: And never home came she.
"Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair-- A tress of golden hair, A drowned maiden"s hair Above the nets at sea?
Was never salmon yet that shone so fair Among the stakes on Dee."
They rowed her in across the sailing foam, The cruel crawling foam, The cruel hungry foam, To her grave beside the sea: But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee!
The next two poems, by Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892), are very well-known songs. "What Does Little Birdie Say" is the mother"s song in "Sea Dreams." "Sweet and Low" is one of the best of the lyrics in "The Princess," and a favorite among the greatest lullabies.
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"WHAT DOES LITTLE BIRDIE SAY?"
ALFRED TENNYSON
What does little birdie say, In her nest at peep of day?
"Let me fly," says little birdie, "Mother, let me fly away."
"Birdie, rest a little longer, Till the little wings are stronger."
So she rests a little longer, Then she flies away.
What does little baby say, In her bed at peep of day?
Baby says, like little birdie, "Let me rise and fly away."
"Baby, sleep a little longer, Till the little limbs are stronger."
If she sleeps a little longer, Baby too shall fly away.
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SWEET AND LOW
ALFRED TENNYSON
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 dying 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.
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This poem is a great poet"s expression of what a poet"s ideal of his mission should be. It is summed up in the last two lines. An interesting comparison could be made of the purpose of poetry as reflected here with that suggested by Longfellow in No. 342.
THE POET"S SONG
ALFRED TENNYSON
The rain had fallen, the Poet arose, He pa.s.s"d by the town and out of the street, A light wind blew from the gates of the sun, And waves of shadow went over the wheat, And he sat him down in a lonely place, And chanted a melody loud and sweet, That made the wild-swan pause in her cloud, And the lark drop down at his feet.
The swallow stopt as he hunted the bee, The snake slipt under a spray, The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak, And stared, with his foot on the prey, And the nightingale thought, "I have sung many songs, But never a one so gay, For he sings of what the world will be When the years have died away."
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