Part 22 (1/2)

”Now where we are I cannot tell, But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell.”

They hear no sound; the swell is strong; Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along Till the vessel strikes with a s.h.i.+vering shock: ”O Christ! it is the Inchcape Rock!”

Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair, He curst himself in his despair: The waves rush in on every side, The s.h.i.+p is sinking beneath the tide.

But, even in his dying fear, One dreadful sound could the Rover hear,-- A sound as if with the Inchcape Bell The Devil below was ringing his knell.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

THE FINDING OF THE LYRE.

Once a year my pupils teach me ”The Finding of the Lyre.” By the time I have learned it they know the meaning of every line and have caught the spirit of the verse. There is an ancient ”lyre,” or violin, made in northern Africa, in the possession of a Boston lady, and I have found the mud-turtle rattle among the Indians on the Indian reservation at Syracuse, New York. They use it as a musical instrument in their Thanksgiving dances. The poem helps to build an interest in history and mythology while it develops a child's reverence and insight. (1819-91.)

There lay upon the ocean's sh.o.r.e What once a tortoise served to cover; A year and more, with rush and roar, The surf had rolled it over, Had played with it, and flung it by, As wind and weather might decide it, Then tossed it high where sand-drifts dry Cheap burial might provide it.

It rested there to bleach or tan, The rains had soaked, the sun had burned it; With many a ban the fisherman Had stumbled o'er and spurned it; And there the fisher-girl would stay, Conjecturing with her brother How in their play the poor estray Might serve some use or other.

So there it lay, through wet and dry, As empty as the last new sonnet, Till by and by came Mercury, And, having mused upon it, ”Why, here,” cried he, ”the thing of things In shape, material, and dimension!

Give it but strings, and, lo, it sings, A wonderful invention!”

So said, so done; the chords he strained, And, as his fingers o'er them hovered, The sh.e.l.l disdained a soul had gained, The lyre had been discovered.

O empty world that round us lies, Dead sh.e.l.l, of soul and thought forsaken, Brought we but eyes like Mercury's, In thee what songs should waken!

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

A CHRYSALIS.

”A Chrysalis” is a favourite poem with John Burroughs, and is found, too, in Stedman's collection. We all come to a point in life where we need to burst the sh.e.l.l and fly away into the new realm. (1835-98.)

My little Madchen found one day A curious something in her play, That was not fruit, nor flower, nor seed; It was not anything that grew, Or crept, or climbed, or swam, or flew; Had neither legs nor wings, indeed; And yet she was not sure, she said, Whether it was alive or dead.

She brought it in her tiny hand To see if I would understand, And wondered when I made reply, ”You've found a baby b.u.t.terfly.”

”A b.u.t.terfly is not like this,”

With doubtful look she answered me.

So then I told her what would be Some day within the chrysalis: How, slowly, in the dull brown thing Now still as death, a spotted wing, And then another, would unfold, Till from the empty sh.e.l.l would fly A pretty creature, by and by, All radiant in blue and gold.

”And will it, truly?” questioned she-- Her laughing lips and eager eyes All in a sparkle of surprise-- ”And shall your little Madchen see?”

”She shall!” I said. How could I tell That ere the worm within its sh.e.l.l Its gauzy, splendid wings had spread, My little Madchen would be dead?

To-day the b.u.t.terfly has flown,-- She was not here to see it fly,-- And sorrowing I wonder why The empty sh.e.l.l is mine alone.

Perhaps the secret lies in this: I too had found a chrysalis, And Death that robbed me of delight Was but the radiant creature's flight!

MARY EMILY BRADLEY.

FOR A' THAT.

Robert Burns, the plowman and poet, ”dinnered wi' a lord.” The story goes that he was put at the second table. That lord is dead, but Robert Burns still lives. He is immortal. It is ”the survival of the fittest”

”For a' That and a' That” is a poem that wipes out the superficial value put on money and other externalities. This poem is more valuable in education than good penmans.h.i.+p or good spelling. (1759-96.)

Is there, for honest poverty, That hangs his head, and a' that?