Poems Teachers Ask For, Book Two. Various

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      Saint Augustine! well hast thou said,

      That of our vices we can frame

      A ladder, if we will but tread

      Beneath our feet each deed of shame!

      All common things, each day's events,

      That with the hour begin and end,

      Our pleasures and our discontents,

      Are rounds by which we may ascend.

      The low desire, the base design,

      That makes another's virtues less;

      The revel of the ruddy wine,

      And all occasions of excess;

      The longing for ignoble things;

      The strife for triumph more than truth;

      The hardening of the heart, that brings

      Irreverence for the dreams of youth;

      All thoughts of ill; all evil deeds,

      That have their root in thoughts of ill;

      Whatever hinders or impedes

      The action of the nobler will;—

      All these must first be trampled down

      Beneath our feet, if we would gain

      In the bright fields of fair renown

      The right of eminent domain.

      We have not wings, we cannot soar;

      But we have feet to scale and climb

      By slow degrees, by more and more,

      The cloudy summits of our time.

      The mighty pyramids of stone

      That wedge-like cleave the desert airs,

      When nearer seen, and better known,

      Are but gigantic flights of stairs,

      The distant mountains, that uprear

      Their solid bastions to the skies,

      Are crossed by pathways, that appear

      As we to higher levels rise.

      The heights by great men reached and kept

      Were not attained by sudden flight.

      But they, while their companions slept,

      Were toiling upward in the night.

      Standing on what too long we bore

      With shoulders bent and downcast eyes,

      We may discern—unseen before—

      A path to higher destinies.

      Nor deem the irrevocable Past

      As wholly wasted, wholly vain,

      If, rising on its wrecks, at last

      To something nobler we attain.

      When I compare

      What I have lost with what I have gained,

      What I have missed with what attained,

      Little room do I find for pride.

      I am aware

      How many days have been idly spent;

      How like an arrow the good intent

      Has fallen short or been turned aside.

      But who shall dare

      To measure loss and gain in this wise?

      Defeat may be victory in disguise;

      The lowest ebb in the turn of the tide.

      A fellow near Kentucky's clime

      Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry,

      And I'll give thee a silver dime

      To row us o'er the ferry."

      "Now, who would cross the Ohio,

      This dark and stormy water?"

      "Oh, I am this young lady's beau,

      And she John Thompson's daughter.

      "We've fled before her father's spite

      With great precipitation,

      And should he find us here to-night,

      I'd lose my reputation.

      "They've missed the girl and purse beside,

      His horsemen hard have pressed me.

      And who will cheer my bonny bride,

      If yet they shall arrest me?"

      Out spoke the boatman then in time,

      "You shall not fail, don't fear it;

      I'll go not for your silver dime,

      But—for your manly spirit.

      "And by my word, the bonny bird

      In danger shall not tarry;

      For though a storm is coming on,

      I'll row you o'er the ferry."

      By this the wind more fiercely rose,

      The boat was at the landing,

      And with the drenching rain their clothes

      Grew wet where they were standing.

      But still, as wilder rose the wind,

      And as the night grew drearer,

      Just back a piece came the police,

      Their tramping sounded nearer.

      "Oh, haste thee, haste!" the lady cries,

      "It's anything but funny;

      I'll leave the light of loving eyes,

      But not my father's money!"

      And still they hurried in the race

      Of wind and rain unsparing;

      John Thompson reached the landing-place,

      His wrath was turned to swearing.

      For by the lightning's angry flash,

      His child he did discover;

      One lovely hand held all the cash,

      And one was round her lover!

      "Come back, come back," he cried in woe,

      Across the stormy water;

      "But leave the purse, and you may go,

      My daughter, oh, my daughter!"

      'Twas vain; they reached the other shore,

      (Such dooms the Fates assign us),

      The gold he piled went with his child,

      And he was left there, minus.

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