Part 8 (2/2)
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths--for you the sh.o.r.es a-crowding, For you they call, the swaying ma.s.s, their eager faces turning; Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck You've fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will.
The s.h.i.+p is anch.o.r.ed safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, From fearful trip the victor s.h.i.+p comes in with object won; Exult O sh.o.r.es, and ring O bells!
But I, with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.
WALT WHITMAN.
INGRAt.i.tUDE.
”Ingrat.i.tude,” by William Shakespeare (1564-1616), is an incisive thrust at a refined vice. It is a part of education to learn to be grateful.
Blow, blow, thou winter wind, Thou are not so unkind As man's ingrat.i.tude; Thy tooth is not so keen Because thou are not seen, Although thy breath be rude.
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, Thou dost not bite so nigh As benefits forgot; Though thou the waters warp, Thy sting is not so sharp As friend remembered not.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.
THE IVY GREEN.
”The Ivy Green,” by Charles d.i.c.kens (1812-70), is a hardy poem in honour of a hardy plant. There is a wonderful ivy growing at Rhudlan, in northern Wales. Its roots are so large and strong that they form a comfortable seat for many persons, and no one can remember when they were smaller. This ivy envelops a great castle in ruins. Every child in that locality loves the old ivy. It is typical of the ivy as seen all through Wales and England.
O, a dainty plant is the ivy green, That creepeth o'er ruins old!
Of right choice food are his meals, I ween, In his cell so lone and cold.
The walls must be crumbled, the stones decayed.
To pleasure his dainty whim; And the mouldering dust that years have made Is a merry meal for him.
Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green.
Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, And a staunch old heart has he!
How closely he twineth, how tight he clings To his friend, the huge oak tree!
And slyly he traileth along the ground, And his leaves he gently waves, And he joyously twines and hugs around The rich mould of dead men's graves.
Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green.
Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed, And nations have scattered been; But the stout old ivy shall never fade From its hale and hearty green.
The brave old plant in its lonely days Shall fatten upon the past; For the stateliest building man can raise Is the ivy's food at last.
Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green.
CHARLES d.i.c.kENS.
THE n.o.bLE NATURE.
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