Poems for Boys

‘And we are put on earth a little space, That we may learn to bear the beams of love;And these black bodies and this sunburnt face Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove.

‘For when our souls have learn’d the heat to bear, The cloud will vanish, we shall hear His voice,Saying, “Come out from the grove, my love and care, And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.”’

Thus did my mother say, and kissèd me, And thus I say to little English boy.When I from black and he from white cloud free, And round the tent of God like lambs we joy,

I’ll shade him from the heat till he can bear To lean in joy upon our Father’s knee;And then I’ll stand and stroke his silver hair, And be like him, and he will then love me.

Let the million-dollared ride!Barefoot, trudging at his side,Thou hast more than he can buyIn the reach of ear and eye,--Outward sunshine, inward joy:Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!

Oh for boyhood's painless play,Sleep that wakes in laughing day,Health that mocks the doctor's rules,Knowledge never learned of schools,Of the wild bee's morning chase,Of the wild flower's time and place,Flight of fowl and habitudeOf the tenants of the wood;How the tortoise bears his shell,How the woodchuck digs his cell,And the ground-mole sinks his well;How the robin feeds her young,How the oriole's nest is hung;Where the whitest lilies blow,Where the freshest berries grow,Where the ground-nut trails its vine,Where the wood-grape's clusters shine;Of the black wasp's cunning way,Mason of his walls of clay,And the architectural plansOf gray hornet artisans!For, eschewing books and tasks,Nature answers all he asks;Hand in hand with her he walks,Face to face with her he talks,Part and parcel of her joy,--Blessings on the barefoot boy!

Oh for boyhood's time of June,Crowding years in one brief moon,When all things I heard or saw,Me, their master, waited for.I was rich in flowers and trees,Humming-birds and honey-bees;For my sport the squirrel played,Plied the snouted mole his spade;For my taste the blackberry conePurpled over hedge and stone;Laughed the brook for my delightThrough the day and through the night,Whispering at the garden wall,Talked with me from fall to fall;Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pondMine the walnut slopes beyond,Mine, on bending orchard trees,Apples of Hesperides!Still as my horizon grew,Larger grew my riches too;All the world I saw or knewSeemed a complex Chinese toy,Fashioned for a barefoot boy!

Oh for festal dainties spread,Like my bowl of milk and bread;Pewter spoon and bowl of wood,On the door-stone, gray and rude!O'er me, like a regal tent,Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent,Purple-curtained, fringed with gold,Looped in many a wind-swung fold;While for music came the playOf the pied frogs' orchestra;And, to light the noisy choir,Lit the fly his lamp of fire.I was monarch: pomp and joyWaited on the barefoot boy!

Cheerily, then, my little man,Live and laugh, as boyhood can!Though the flinty slopes be hard,Stubble-speared the new-mown sward,Every morn shall lead thee throughFresh baptisms of the dew;Every evening from thy feetShall the cool wind kiss the heat:All too soon these feet must hideIn the prison cells of pride,Lose the freedom of the sod,Like a colt's for work be shod,Made to tread the mills of toil,Up and down in ceaseless moil:Happy if their track be foundNever on forbidden ground;Happy if they sink not inQuick and treacherous sands of sin.Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy,Ere it passes, barefoot boy!

We've a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told,Of talking (in public) as if we were old:--That boy we call "Doctor," and this we call "Judge;"It's a neat little fiction,--of course it's all fudge.

That fellow's the "Speaker,"--the one on the right;"Mr. Mayor," my young one, how are you to-night?That's our "Member of Congress," we say when we chaff;There's the "Reverend" What's his name?--don't make me laugh.

That boy with the grave mathematical lookMade believe he had written a wonderful book,And the ROYAL SOCIETY thought it was true!So they chose him right in; a good joke it was, too!

There's a boy, we pretend, with a three-decker brain,That could harness a team with a logical chain;When he spoke for our manhood in syllabled fire,We called him "The Justice," but now he's "The Squire."

And there's a nice youngster of excellent pith,--Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith;But he shouted a song for the brave and the free,--Just read on his medal, "My country," "of thee!"

You hear that boy laughing?--You think he's all fun;But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done;The children laugh loud as they troop to his call,And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all!

Yes, we're boys,--always playing with tongue or with pen,--And I sometimes have asked,--Shall we ever be men?Shall we always be youthful, and laughing, and gay,Till the last dear companion drops smiling away?

Then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray!The stars of its winter, the dews of its May!And when we have done with our life-lasting toys,Dear Father, take care of thy children, The Boys!

Responsive to his call,--with quivering peals,And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loudRedoubled and redoubled; concourse wildOf jocund din! and, when there came a pauseOf silence such as baffled his best skill,Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hungListening, a gentle shock of mild surpriseHas carried far into his heart the voiceOf mountain-torrents; or the visible sceneWould enter unawares into his mindWith all its solemn imagery, its rocks,Its woods, and that uncertain heaven receivedInto the bosom of the steady lake.This boy was taken from his mates, and diedIn childhood, ere he was full twelve years old.Pre-eminent in beauty is the valeWhere he was born and bred: the church-yard hangsUpon a slope above the village-school;And through that church-yard when my way has ledOn Summer-evenings, I believe, that thereA long half-hour together I have stoodMute--looking at the grave in which he lies!

Through piping storms, till morning light,Thou to thy downy bed canst creep,And there in dreams of rapture sleep. A graceless, worthless wight, etc.

When, hoarse and shrill, the trumpet's blast.Like the thunder of God, makes our heart beat fast,Thou in the theatre lov'st to appear,Where trills and quavers tickle the ear. A graceless, worthless wight, etc.

When the glare of noonday scorches the brain,When our parched lips seek water in vain,Thou canst make champagne corks flyAt the groaning tables of luxury. A graceless, worthless wight, etc.

When we, as we rush to the strangling fight,Send home to our true-loves a long "Good-night,"Thou canst hie thee where love is sold,And buy thy pleasure with paltry gold. A graceless, worthless wight, etc.

When lance and bullet come whistling by,And death in a thousand shapes draws nigh,Thou canst sit at thy cards, and killKing, queen, and knave with thy spadille. A graceless, worthless wight, etc.

If on the red field our bell should toll,Then welcome be death to the patriot's soul!Thy pampered flesh shall quake at its doom,And crawl in silk to a hopeless tomb. A pitiful exit thine shall be; No German maid shall weep for thee, No German song shall they sing for thee, No German goblets shall ring for thee. Forth in the van, Man for man, Swing the battle-sword who can!

The dim funereal tapers throwA holy luster o'er his brow,And burnish with their rays of lightThe mass of curls that gather brightAbove the haughty brow and eyeOf a young boy that's kneeling by.

What hand is that, whose icy press Clings to the dead with death's own grasp,But meets no answering caress? No thrilling fingers seek its clasp.It is the hand of her whose cry Rang wildly, late, upon the air,When the dead warrior met her eye Outstretched upon the altar there.

With pallid lip and stony browShe murmurs forth her anguish now.But hark! the tramp of heavy feetIs heard along the bloody street;Nearer and nearer yet they come,With clanking arms and noiseless drum.Now whispered curses, low and deep,Around the holy temple creep;The gate is burst; a ruffian bandRush in, and savagely demand,With brutal voice and oath profane,The startled boy for exile's chain.

The mother sprang with gesture wild,And to her bosom clasped her child;Then, with pale cheek and flashing eye,Shouted with fearful energy,"Back, ruffians, back! nor dare to treadToo near the body of my dead;Nor touch the living boy; I standBetween him and your lawless band.Take me, and bind these arms--these hands,--With Russia's heaviest iron bands,And drag me to Siberia's wildTo perish, if 'twill save my child!"

"Peace, woman, peace!" the leader cried,Tearing the pale boy from her side,And in his ruffian grasp he boreHis victim to the temple door."One moment!" shrieked the mother; "one!Will land or gold redeem my son?Take heritage, take name, take all,But leave him free from Russian thrall!Take these!" and her white arms and handsShe stripped of rings and diamond bands,And tore from braids of long black hairThe gems that gleamed like starlight there;Her cross of blazing rubies, last,Down at the Russian's feet she cast.He stooped to seize the glittering store;--Up springing from the marble floor,The mother, with a cry of joy,Snatched to her leaping heart the boy.But no! the Russian's iron graspAgain undid the mother's clasp.Forward she fell, with one long cryOf more than mortal agony.

But the brave child is roused at length, And, breaking from the Russian's hold,He stands, a giant in the strength Of his young spirit, fierce and bold.Proudly he towers; his flashing eye, So blue, and yet so bright,Seems kindled from the eternal sky, So brilliant is its light.

His curling lips and crimson cheeksForetell the thought before he speaks;With a full voice of proud commandHe turned upon the wondering band.

"Ye hold me not! no! no, nor can;This hour has made the boy a man.I knelt before my slaughtered sire,Nor felt one throb of vengeful ire.I wept upon his marble brow,Yes, wept! I was a child; but nowMy noble mother, on her knee,Hath done the work of years for me!"

He drew aside his broidered vest,And there, like slumbering serpent's crest,The jeweled haft of poniard brightGlittered a moment on the sight."Ha! start ye back? Fool! coward! knave!Think ye my noble father's glaiveWould drink the life-blood of a slave?The pearls that on the handle flameWould blush to rubies in their shame;The blade would quiver in thy breastAshamed 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 lightFlashed on the jeweled weapon bright;Another, and his young heart's bloodLeaped 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 kissTo 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 feelMy 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, IRejoice with thee,--and thus--to die."One long, deep breath, and his pale headLay on his mother's bosom,--dead.

The Boy, delighted with his game,A few days after did the same,And once again the people came.The trick was many times repeated,At last they found that they were cheated.One day the Wolf appeared in sight,The Boy was in a real fright,He cried, "Wolf! wolf!"--the neighbors heard,But not a single creature stirred."We need not go from our employ,--'Tis nothing but that idle boy."The little Boy cried out again,"Help, help! the Wolf!" he cried in vain.At last his master came to beat him.He came too late, the Wolf had eat him.

This shows the bad effect of lying,And likewise of continual crying.If I had heard you scream and roar,For nothing, twenty times before,Although you might have broke your arm,Or met with any serious harm,Your cries could give me no alarm;They would not make me move the faster,Nor apprehend the least disaster;I should be sorry when I came,But you yourself would be to blame.

There's not an ass in all the parishBut he knows my John.

"How's my boy--my boy?And unless you let me know,I'll swear you are no sailor,Blue jacket or no,Brass button or no, sailor,Anchor and crown or no!Sure his ship was the Jolly Briton."--"Speak low, woman, speak low!"

"And why should I speak low, sailor,About my own boy John?If I was loud as I am proudI'd sing him o'er the town!Why should I speak low, sailor?""That good ship went down."

"How's my boy--my boy?What care I for the ship, sailor,I never was aboard her.Be she afloat, or be she aground,Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound,Her owners can afford her!I say, how's my John?""Every man on board went down,Every man aboard her."

"How's my boy--my boy?What care I for the men, sailor?I'm not their mother--How's my boy--my boy?Tell me of him and no other!How's my boy--my boy?"

Under the water, Cold and so pale! Could it be love made Beauty to fail?

Ah me for mortals! In a few moons, If I had left him, After some Junes He would have faded, Faded away, He, the young monarch, whom All would obey, Fairer than day; Alien to springtime, Joyless and gray, He would have faded, Faded away, Moving a mockery, Scorn’d of the day! Now I have taken him All in his prime, Saved from slow poisoning Pitiless Time, Fill’d with his happiness, One with the prime, Saved from the cruel Dishonour of Time. Laid him, my beautiful, Laid him to rest, Loving, adorable, Softly to rest, Here in my crystalline, Here in my breast!

An’ pillow’d his head on a wee rosebud,Syne laithfu’, lanely, Love ’gan scud Down Ury’s waefu’ stream.

The birds sang bonnie as Love drew near, But dowie when he gaed by;Till lull’d wi’ the sough o’ monie a sang,He sleepit fu’ soun’ and sail’d alang ’Neath Heaven’s gowden sky.

’Twas just whaur creeping Ury greets Its mountain cousin Don,There wander’d forth a weelfaur’d dame,Wha listless gazed on the bonnie stream,As it flirted an’ play’d with a sunny beam That flicker’d its bosom upon.

Love happit his head, I trow, that time The jessamine bark drew nigh,The lassie espied the wee rosebud,An’ aye her heart gae thud for thud, An’ quiet it wadna lie.

‘O gin I but had yon wearie wee flower That floats on the Ury sae fair!’--She lootit her hand for the silly rose-leaf,But little wist she o’ the pawkie thief That was lurkin’ an’ laughin’ there!

Love glower’d when he saw her bonnie dark e’e, An’ swore by Heaven’s graceHe ne’er had seen nor thought to see,Since e’er he left the Paphian lea, Sae lovely a dwallin’-place.

Syne first of a’ in her blythesome breast He built a bower, I ween;An’ what did the waefu’ devilick neist?But kindled a gleam like the rosy east, That sparkled frae baith her e’en.

An’ then beneath ilk high e’e-bree He placed a quiver there;His bow? What but her shinin’ brow?An’ O sic deadly strings he drew Frae out her silken hair!

Guid be our guard! Sic deeds waur deen Roun’ a’ our countrie then;An’ monie a hangin’ lug was seen’Mang farmers fat, an’ lawyers lean, An’ herds o’ common men!

Once again the night dropped round them,--night so holy and so calmThat the moonbeams hushed the spirit, like the sound of prayer or psalm.

On a couch of trampled grasses, just apart from all the rest,Lay a fair young boy, with small hands meekly folded on his breast.

Death had touched him very gently, and he lay as if in sleep;Even his mother scarce had shuddered at that slumber calm and deep.

For a smile of wondrous sweetness lent a radiance to the face,And the hand of cunning sculptor could have added naught of grace

To the marble limbs so perfect in their passionless repose,Robbed of all save matchless purity by hard, unpitying foes.

And the broken drum beside him all his life's short story told:How he did his duty bravely till the death-tide o'er him rolled.

Midnight came with ebon garments and a diadem of stars,While right upward in the zenith hung the fiery planet Mars.

Hark! a sound of stealthy footsteps and of voices whispering low,Was it nothing but the young leaves, or the brooklet's murmuring flow?

Clinging closely to each other, striving never to look roundAs they passed with silent shudder the pale corses on the ground,

Came two little maidens,--sisters, with a light and hasty tread,And a look upon their faces, half of sorrow, half of dread.

And they did not pause nor falter till, with throbbing hearts, they stoodWhere the drummer-boy was lying in that partial solitude.

They had brought some simple garments from their wardrobe's scanty store,And two heavy iron shovels in their slender hands they bore.

Then they quickly knelt beside him, crushing back the pitying tears,For they had no time for weeping, nor for any girlish fears.

And they robed the icy body, while no glow of maiden shameChanged the pallor of their foreheads to a flush of lambent flame.

For their saintly hearts yearned o'er it in that hour of sorest need,And they felt that Death was holy, and it sanctified the deed.

But they smiled and kissed each other when their new strange task was o'er,And the form that lay before them its unwonted garments wore.

Then with slow and weary labor a small grave they hollowed out,And they lined it with the withered grass and leaves that lay about.

But the day was slowly breaking ere their holy work was done,And in crimson pomp the morning heralded again the sun.

Gently then those little maidens--they were children of our foes--Laid the body of our drummer-boy to undisturbed repose.

Marriage, birth or buryin', News across the seas,All you're sad or merry in, You must tell the Bees. Tell 'em coming in an' out, Where the Fanners fan, 'Cause the Bees are just about As curious as a man!

Don't you wait where trees are, When the lightnings play,Nor don't you hate where Bees are, Or else they'll pine away. Pine away--dwine away-- Anything to leave you! But if you never grieve your Bees, Your Bees'll never grieve you.

In an awful pirate fight,But we captured them all right.Sea and sky, sea and sky,Quietly on the deck I lie

Far away, far awayFrom my home and from my play,On a journey without endOnly with the sea for friendAnd the fishes in the sea.But they swim away from meFar away, far awayFrom my home and from my play.

Then he cried “O Mother dear.”And he woke and sat upright,They were in the rocking chair,Mother’s arms around him--tight.

And to meet in the way that nice folks do.Though you knew his name, and your name he knew—You never would say ‘Hello, hello, American boy!’But here it’s just a joy,As we pass along in the stranger throng,To call out, ‘Boys, hello!’

For each is a brother away from home;And this we are sure is so,There’s a lonesome spot in his heart somewhere,And we want him to feel there are friends right thereIn this foreign land, and so we dareTo call out ‘Boys, hello!’‘Hello, American boys,Luck to you, and life’s best joys!American boys, hello!’

Attend, attend, And let each girl and boy Join in a loud "Ahoy!"For, lo, he comes, your tricksy little friend,From the clear caverns of his crystal homeBeyond the tossing ridges of the foam:Planner of sandy romps and wet delights,Robin the Sea-boy, prince of ocean-sprites,Is come, is come to lead you in your playAnd fill your hearts with mirth and jocund sport to-day!

What! Can't you see him? There he standsOn a sheer rock and lifts his hands,A little lad not three feet high,With dancing mischief in his eye.His body gleams against the light,A clear-cut shape of dazzling whiteSet off and topped by golden hairThat streams and tosses in the air.A moment poised, he dares the leapAnd cuts the wind and cleaves the deep.Down through the emerald vaults self-hurledThat roof the sea-god's awful world.Another moment sees him riseAnd beat the salt spray from his eyes.He breasts the waves, he spurns their blows;Then, like a rocket, up he goes,Up, up to where the gusty windWith all its wrath is left behind;Still up he soars and high and highA speck of light that dots the sky.Then watch him as he slowly droopsWhere the great sea-birds wheel their troops.Three broad-winged gulls, himself their lord,He hitches to a silken cord,Bits them and bridles them with skillAnd bids them draw him where he will.Above the tumult of the shoresHe floats, he stoops, he darts, he soars;From near and far he calls the restAnd waves them forward for a quest;Then straight, without a check, he speedsAcross the azure tracts and leadsWith apt reproof and cheering wordsAs on a chase his cry of birds.

And when he has finished his airy funAnd all his flights and his swoops are doneHe will drop to the shore and lend a handIn building a castle of weed and sand.He will cover with flints its frowning faceTo keep the tide in its proper place,And the waves shall employ their utmost damp artIn vain to abolish your moated rampart.And nobody's nurse shall make a fuss,As is far too often the case with us;Instead of the usual how-de-doShe will give us praise when we get wet through;In fact she will smile and think it betterWhen we get as wet as we like and wetter.As for eating too much, you can safely risk itWith chocolate, lollipop, cake, and biscuit,And your mother will revel with high delightIn the state of her own one's appetite.Great shells there shall be of a rainbow hueTo be found and gathered by me and you;Wonderful nets for the joy of making 'em.And scores of shrimps for the trouble of taking 'em;In fact it isn't half bad--now is it?--When Robin the Sea-boy pays his visit.And perhaps he will tire of his shape and habitAnd change and turn to a frisky rabbit,A plump young gadabout cheerful fellowWith a twitching nose and a coat of yellow,And never the smallest trace of fearFrom his flashing scut to his flattened ear.

But, lo, there's a hint of coming rain,So, presto, Robin is back again.He lifts his head and he cocks his eyeAnd waves his hand and prepares to fly--"Good-bye, Robin, good-bye, good-bye!"

Young Edward saw the rod upraised, His "whipping-boy" to smite;And suddenly his princely soul Revolted at the sight.

The shame, the shame, the tingling shame No blood of kings could brook!Forward he sprung, the falling rod In his own hand he took:

"Mine is the blame--be mine the shame For what I only wrought;Let none but me endure the pain My deed alone has brought!"

Thus on a day of days, it chanced, A royal schoolboy learnedThat noble hearts in every age A coward's shield have spurned.