The Lost Chord Sleep, baby, sleep! Thy father's watching the sheep, Thy mother's shaking the dreamland tree, And down drops a little dream for thee. Sleep, baby, sleep! Sleep, baby, sleep! The large stars are the sheep, The little stars are the lambs, I guess, The bright moon is the shepherdess. Sleep, baby, sleep! Sleep, baby, sleep! Thy Savior loves His sheep; He is the Lamb of God on high Who for our sakes came down to die. Sleep, baby, sleep! Elizabeth Prentiss. The Lost Chord Seated one day at the organ, I was weary and ill at ease, And my fingers wandered idly Over the noisy keys. I do not know what I was playing, Or what I was dreaming then; But I struck one chord of music, Like the sound of a great Amen. It flooded the crimson twilight, Like the close of an angel's psalm; And it lay on my fevered spirit With a touch of infinite calm. It quieted pain and sorrow, Like love overcoming strife; It seemed the harmonious echo From our discordant life. It linked all perplexing meanings Into one perfect peace, And trembled away into silence As if it were loth to cease. I have sought, but I seek it vainly, That one lost chord divine, That came from the soul of the organ, And entered into mine. It may be that Death's bright angel Will speak in that chord again; It may be that only in Heaven I shall hear that grand Amen. Adelaide A. Procter. The Children's Hour Between the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations, That is known as the Children's Hour. I hear in the chamber above me The patter of little feet, The sound of a door that is opened, And voices soft and sweet. From my study I see in the lamplight, Descending the broad hall stair, Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, And Edith with golden hair. A whisper, and then a silence: Yet I know by their merry eyes They are plotting and planning together To take me by surprise. A sudden rush from the stairway, A sudden raid from the hall! By three doors left unguarded They enter my castle wall! They climb up into my turret O'er the arms and back of my chair; If I try to escape, they surround me; They seem to be everywhere. They almost devour me with kisses, Their arms about me entwine, Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen In his Mouse-tower on the Rhine! Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, Because you have scaled the wall, Such an old mustache as I am Is not a match for you all! I have you fast in my fortress, And will not let you depart, But put you down into the dungeon In the round-tower of my heart. And there will I keep you forever, Yes, forever and a day, Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, And moulder in dust away! Henry W. Longfellow. Woodman, Spare That Tree! Woodman, spare that tree! Touch not a single bough! In youth it sheltered me, And I'll protect it now. 'T was my forefather's hand That placed it near his cot; There, woodman, let it stand. Thy ax shall harm it not! That old familiar tree, Whose glory and renown Are spread o'er land and sea— And wouldst thou hew it down? Woodman, forbear thy stroke! Cut not its earth-bound ties; Oh, spare that aged oak, Now towering to the skies! When but an idle boy, I sought its grateful shade; In all their gushing joy Here, too, my sisters played. My mother kissed me here; My father pressed my hand— Forgive this foolish tear, But let that old oak stand! My heart-strings round thee cling, Close as thy bark, old friend! Here shall the wild-bird sing, And still thy branches bend. Old tree! the storm still brave! And, woodman, leave the spot; While I've a hand to save, Thy ax shall harm it not! George Pope Morris. Little Brown Hands They drive home the cows from the pasture, Up through the long shady lane, Where the quail whistles loud in the wheat-fields, That are yellow with ripening grain. They find, in the thick waving grasses, Where the scarlet-lipped strawberry grows. They gather the earliest snowdrops, And the first crimson buds of the rose. They toss the new hay in the meadow, They gather the elder-bloom white, They find where the dusky grapes purple In the soft-tinted October light. They know where the apples hang ripest, And are sweeter than Italy's wines; They know where the fruit hangs the thickest On the long, thorny blackberry vines. They gather the delicate sea-weeds, And build tiny castles of sand; They pick up the beautiful sea shells— Fairy barks that have drifted to land. They wave from the tall, rocking tree-tops, Where the oriole's hammock-nest swings, And at night time are folded in slumber By a song that a fond mother sings. Those who toil bravely are strongest; The humble and poor become great; And so from these brown-handed children Shall grow mighty rulers of state. The pen of the author and statesman,— The noble and wise of the land,— The sword, and the chisel, and palette, Shall be held in the little brown hand. Mary H. Krout. Barbara Frietchie Up from the meadows rich with corn Clear in the cool September morn, The clustered spires of Frederick stand Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. Round about them orchards sweep, Apple and peach tree fruited deep, Fair as the garden of the Lord To the eyes of the famished rebel horde, On that pleasant morn of the early fall When Lee marched over the mountain-wall,— Over the mountains winding down, Horse and foot, into Frederick town. Forty flags with their silver stars, Forty flags with their crimson bars, Flapped in the morning wind; the sun Of noon looked down, and saw not one. Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, Bowed with her fourscore years and ten; Bravest of all in Frederick town, She took up the flag the men hauled down; In her attic window the staff she set, To show that one heart was loyal yet. Up the street came the rebel tread, Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. Under his slouched hat left and right He glanced; the old flag met his sight. "Halt!"—the dust-brown ranks stood fast. "Fire!"—out blazed the rifle-blast. It shivered the window, pane and sash; It rent the banner with seam and gash. Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf; She leaned far out on the window-sill, And shook it forth with a royal will. "Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, But spare your country's flag," she said. A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, Over the face of the leader came; The nobler nature within him stirred To life at that woman's deed and word: "Who touches a hair of yon gray head Dies like a dog; march on!" he said. All day long through Frederick street Sounded the tread of marching feet; All day long that free flag tost Over the heads of the rebel host. Ever its torn folds rose and fell On the loyal winds that loved it well; And through the hill-gaps sunset light Shone over it a warm good night. Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er. And the Rebel rides on his raids no more. Honor to her! and let a tear Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. Over Barbara Frietchie's grave, Flag of freedom and Union wave! Peace and order and beauty draw Round thy symbol of light and law; And ever the stars above look down On thy stars below in Frederick town. John G. Whittier. I Want to Go to Morrow I started on a journey just about a week ago, For the little town of Morrow, in the State of Ohio. I never was a traveler, and really didn't know That Morrow had been ridiculed a century or so. I went down to the depot for my ticket and applied For the tips regarding Morrow, not expecting to be guyed. Said I, "My friend, I want to go to Morrow and return Not later than to-morrow, for I haven't time to burn." Said he to me, "Now let me see if I have heard you right, You want to go to Morrow and come back to-morrow night. You should have gone to Morrow yesterday and back to-day, For if you started yesterday to Morrow, don't you see, You could have got to Morrow and returned to-day at three. The train that started yesterday—now understand me right— To-day it gets to Morrow, and returns to-morrow night." Said I, "My boy, it seems to me you're talking through your hat, Is there a town named Morrow on your line? Now tell me that." "There is," said he, "and take from me a quiet little tip— To go from here to Morrow is a fourteen-hour trip. The train that goes to Morrow leaves to-day eight-thirty-five; Half after ten to-morrow is the time it should arrive. Now if from here to Morrow is a fourteen-hour jump, Can you go to-day to Morrow and come back to-day, you chump?" Said I, "I want to go to Morrow; can I go to-day And get to Morrow by to-night, if there is no delay?" "Well, well," said he, "explain to me and I've no more to say; Can you go anywhere to-morrow and come back from there to-day?" For if to-day you'd get to Morrow, surely you'll agree You should have started not to-day, but yesterday, you see. So if you start to Morrow, leaving here to-day, you're flat, You won't get to Morrow till the day that follows that. "Now if you start to-day to Morrow, it's a cinch you'll land To-morrow into Morrow, not to-day, you understand. For the train to-day to Morrow, if the schedule is right, Will get you into Morrow by about to-morrow night." Said I, "I guess you know it all, but kindly let me say, How can I go to Morrow, if I leave the town to-day?" Said he, "You cannot go to Morrow any more to-day, For the train that goes to Morrow is a mile upon its way." FINALE I was so disappointed I was mad enough to swear; The train had gone to Morrow and had left me standing there. The man was right in telling me I was a howling jay; I didn't go to Morrow, so I guess I'll go to-day. Out in the Fields The little cares that fretted me, I lost them yesterday Among the fields above the seas, Among the winds at play; Among the lowing of the herds, The rustling of the trees, Among the singing of the birds, The humming of the bees. The foolish fears of what might happen,— I cast them all away Among the clover-scented grass, Among the new-mown hay; Among the husking of the corn, Where drowsy poppies nod, Where ill thoughts die and good are born, Out in the fields with God. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. The Bluebird's Song I know the song that the bluebird is singing, Out in the apple tree where he is swinging. Brave little fellow! the skies may be dreary— Nothing cares he while his heart is so cheery. Hark! how the music leaps out from his throat! Hark! was there ever so merry a note? Listen a while, and you'll hear what he's saying, Up in the apple tree swinging and swaying. "Dear little blossoms down under the snow, You must be weary of winter I know. Listen, I'll sing you a message of cheer! Summer is coming! and springtime is here! "Little white snowdrop! I pray you arise; Bright yellow crocus! please open your eyes; Sweet little violets, hid from the cold, Put on your mantles of purple and gold; Daffodils! Daffodils! say, do you hear?— Summer is coming, and springtime is here!" Emily Huntington Miller. The Main Truck, or a Leap for Life Old Ironsides at anchor lay, In the harbor of Mahon; A dead calm rested on the bay,— The waves to sleep had gone; When little Hal, the Captain's son, A lad both brave and good, In sport, up shroud and rigging ran, And on the main truck stood! A shudder shot through every vein,— All eyes were turned on high! There stood the boy, with dizzy brain, Between the sea and sky; No hold had he above, below; Alone he stood in air: To that far height none dared to go,— No aid could reach him there. We gazed, but not a man could speak,— With horror all aghast,— In groups, with pallid brow and cheek,— We watched the quivering mast. The atmosphere grew thick and hot, And of a lurid hue;— As riveted unto the spot, Stood officers and crew. The father came on deck:—he gasped, "Oh, God; thy will be done!" Then suddenly a rifle grasped, And aimed it at his son. "Jump, far out, boy, into the wave! Jump, or I fire," he said; "That only chance your life can save; Jump, jump, boy!" He obeyed. He sunk,—he rose,—he lived,—he moved,— And for the ship struck out. On board we hailed the lad beloved, With many a manly shout. His father drew, in silent joy, Those wet arms round his neck, And folded to his heart his boy,— Then fainted on the deck. Morris. The Arrow and the Song I shot an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight. I breathed a song into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For who has sight so keen and strong, That it can follow the flight of song? Long, long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend. H.W. Longfellow. The Green Mountain Justice "The snow is deep," the Justice said; "There's mighty mischief overhead." "High talk, indeed!" his wife exclaimed; "What, sir! shall Providence be blamed?" The Justice, laughing, said, "Oh no! I only meant the loads of snow Upon the roofs. The barn is weak; I greatly fear the roof will break. So hand me up the spade, my dear, I'll mount the barn, the roof to clear." "No!" said the wife; "the barn is high, And if you slip, and fall, and die, How will my living be secured?— Stephen, your life is not insured. But tie a rope your waist around, And it will hold you safe and sound." "I will," said he. "Now for the roof— All snugly tied, and danger-proof! Excelsior! Excel—But no! The rope is not secured below!" Said Rachel, "Climb, the end to throw Across the top, and I will go And tie that end around my waist." "Well, every woman to her taste; You always would be tightly laced. Rachel, when you became my bride, I thought the knot securely tied; But lest the bond should break in twain, I'll have it fastened once again." Below the arm-pits tied around, She takes her station on the ground, While on the roof, beyond the ridge, He shovels clear the lower edge. But, sad mischance! the loosened snow Comes sliding down, to plunge below. And as he tumbles with the slide, Up Rachel goes on t'other side. Just half-way down the Justice hung; Just half-way up the woman swung. "Good land o' Goshen!" shouted she; "Why, do you see it?" answered he. The couple, dangling in the breeze, Like turkeys hung outside to freeze, At their rope's end and wits' end, too, Shout back and forth what best to do. Cried Stephen, "Take it coolly, wife; All have their ups and downs in life." Quoth Rachel, "What a pity 'tis To joke at such a thing as this! A man whose wife is being hung Should know enough to hold his tongue." "Now, Rachel, as I look below, I see a tempting heap of snow. Suppose, my dear, I take my knife, And cut the rope to save my life?" She shouted, "Don't! 'twould be my death— I see some pointed stones beneath. A better way would be to call, With all our might, for Phebe Hall." "Agreed!" he roared. First he, then she Gave tongue; "O Phebe! Phebe! Phe-e-be Hall!" in tones both fine and coarse. Enough to make a drover hoarse. Now Phebe, over at the farm, Was sitting, sewing, snug and warm; But hearing, as she thought, her name, Sprang up, and to the rescue came; Beheld the scene, and thus she thought: "If now a kitchen chair were brought, And I could reach the lady's foot, I'd draw her downward by the boot, Then cut the rope, and let him go; He cannot miss the pile of snow." He sees her moving toward his wife. Armed with a chair and carving-knife, And, ere he is aware, perceives His head ascending to the eaves; And, guessing what the two are at, Screams from beneath the roof, "Stop that! You make me fall too far, by half!" But Phebe answers, with a laugh, "Please tell a body by what right You've brought your wife to such a plight!" And then, with well-directed blows, She cuts the rope and down he goes. The wife untied, they walk around When lo! no Stephen can be found. They call in vain, run to and fro; They look around, above, below; No trace or token can they see, And deeper grows the mystery. Then Rachel's heart within her sank; But, glancing at the snowy bank, She caught a little gleam of hope,— A gentle movement of the rope. They scrape away a little snow; What's this? A hat! Ah! he's below; Then upward heaves the snowy pile, And forth he stalks in tragic style, Unhurt, and with a roguish smile; And Rachel sees, with glad surprise, The missing found, the fallen rise. Rev. Henry Reeves. Jane Conquest About the time of Christmas (Not many months ago), When the sky was black With wrath and rack, And the earth was white with snow, When loudly rang the tumult Of winds and waves of strife, In her home by the sea, With her babe on her knee, Sat Harry Conquest's wife. And he was on the ocean, Although she knew not where, For never a lip Could tell of the ship, To lighten her heart's despair. And her babe was fading and dying; The pulse in the tiny wrist Was all but still, And the brow was chill, And pale as the white sea mist. Jane Conquest's heart was hopeless; She could only weep and pray That the Shepherd mild Would take her child Without a pain away. The night was dark and darker, And the storm grew stronger still, And buried in deep And dreamless sleep Lay the hamlet under the hill. The fire was dead on the hearthstone Within Jane Conquest's room, And still sat she, With her babe on her knee, At prayer amid the gloom. When, borne above the tempest, A sound fell on her ear, Thrilling her through, For well she knew 'Twas the voice of mortal fear. And a light leaped in at the lattice, Sudden and swift and red; Crimsoning all, The whited wall, And the floor, and the roof o'erhead. For one brief moment, heedless Of the babe upon her knee, With the frenzied start Of a frightened heart, Upon her feet rose she. And through the quaint old casement She looks upon the sea; Thank God that the sight She saw that night So rare a sight should be! Hemmed in by many a billow With mad and foaming lip, A mile from shore, Or hardly more, She saw a gallant ship. And to her horror she beheld it Aflame from stem to stern; For there seemed no speck On all that wreck Where the fierce fire did not burn; Till the night was like a sunset, And the sea like a sea of blood, And the rocks and shore Were bathed all o'er And drenched with the gory flood. She looked and looked, till the terror Went creeping through every limb; And her breath came quick, And her heart grew sick, And her sight grew dizzy and dim; And her lips had lost their utterance, For she tried but could not speak; And her feelings found No channel of sound In prayer, or sob, or shriek. Once more that cry of anguish Thrilled through the tempest's strife, And it stirred again In heart and brain The active thinking life; And the light of an inspiration Leaped to her brightened eye, And on lip and brow Was written now A purpose pure and high. Swiftly she turns, and softly She crosses the chamber floor, And faltering not, In his tiny cot She laid the babe she bore. And then with a holy impulse, She sank to her knees, and made A lowly prayer, In the silence there, And this was the prayer she prayed: "O Christ, who didst bear the scourging, And who now dost wear the crown, I at Thy feet, O True and Sweet, Would lay my burden down. Thou bad'st me love and cherish The babe Thou gavest me, And I have kept Thy word, nor stept Aside from following Thee. "And lo! my boy is dying! And vain is all my care; And my burden's weight Is very great, Yea, greater than I can bear! O Lord, Thou know'st what peril Doth threat these poor men's lives, And I, a woman, Most weak and human, Do plead for their waiting wives. "Thou canst not let them perish; Up, Lord, in Thy strength, and save From the scorching breath Of this terrible death On this cruel winter wave. Take Thou my babe and watch it, No care is like to Thine; And let Thy power In this perilous hour Supply what lack is mine." And so her prayer she ended, And rising to her feet, Gave one long look At the cradle nook Where the child's faint pulses beat; And then with softest footsteps Retrod the chamber floor, And noiselessly groped For the latch, and oped, And crossed the cottage door. And through the tempest bravely Jane Conquest fought her way, By snowy deep And slippery steep To where her duty lay. And she journeyed onward, breathless, And weary and sore and faint, Yet forward pressed With the strength, and the zest, And the ardor of a saint. Solemn, and weird, and lonely Amid its countless graves, Stood the old gray church On its tall rock perch, Secure from the sea and its waves; And beneath its sacred shadow Lay the hamlet safe and still; For however the sea And the wind might be, There was quiet under the hill. Jane Conquest reached the churchyard, And stood by the old church door, But the oak was tough And had bolts enough, And her strength was frail and poor; So she crept through a narrow window, And climbed the belfry stair, And grasped the rope, Sole cord of hope, For the mariners in despair. And the wild wind helped her bravely, And she wrought with an earnest will, And the clamorous bell Spoke out right well To the hamlet under the hill. And it roused the slumbering fishers, Nor its warning task gave o'er Till a hundred fleet And eager feet Were hurrying to the shore. And then it ceased its ringing, For the woman's work was done, And many a boat That was now afloat Showed man's work had begun. But the ringer in the belfry Lay motionless and cold, With the cord of hope. The church-bell rope, Still in her frozen hold. How long she lay it boots not, But she woke from her swoon at last In her own bright room. To find the gloom, And the grief, and the peril past, With the sense of joy within her, And the Christ's sweet presence near; And friends around, And the cooing sound Of her babe's voice in her ear. And they told her all the story, How a brave and gallant few O'ercame each check, And reached the wreck, And saved the hopeless crew. And how the curious sexton Had climbed the belfry stair, And of his fright When, cold and white, He found her lying there; And how, when they had borne her Back to her home again, The child she left With a heart bereft Of hope, and weary with pain, Was found within his cradle In a quiet slumber laid; With a peaceful smile On his lips the while, And the wasting sickness stayed. And she said "Twas the Christ who watched it, And brought it safely through"; And she praised His truth And His tender ruth Who had saved her darling too. Nathan Hale