Graded Poetry: Seventh Year
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Graded Poetry: Seventh Year


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Published 08 December 2010
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Title: Graded Poetry: Seventh Year Author: Various  Edited by Katherine D. Blake and Georgia Alexander     Release Date: December, 2005 [EBook #9542] [Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on October 7, 2003] Edition: 10 Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRADED POETRY: SEVENTH YEAR ***
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Poetry is the chosen language of childhood and youth. The baby repeats words again and again for the mere joy of their sound: the melody of nursery rhymes gives a delight which is quite independent of the meaning of the words. Not until youth approaches maturity is there an equal pleasure in the rounded periods of elegant prose. It is in childhood therefore that the young mind should be stored with poems whose rhythm will be a present delight and whose beautiful thoughts will not lose their charm in later years. The selections for the lowest grades are addressed primarily to the feeling for verbal beauty, the recognition of which in the mind of the child is fundamental to the plan of this work. The editors have felt that the inclusion of critical notes in these little books intended for elementary school children would be not only superfluous, but, in the degree in which critical comment drew the child's attention from the text, subversive of the desired result. Nor are there any notes on methods. The best way to teach children to love a poem is to read it inspiringly to them. The French say: "The ear is the pathway to the heart." A poem should be so read that it will sing itself in the hearts of the listening children. In the brief biographies appended to the later books the human element has been brought out. An effort has been made to call attention to the education of the poet and his equipment for his life work rather than to the literary qualities of his style.
Good NameWilliam Shakespeare. From "Love's Labor's Lost"William Shakespeare. From "Richard II," Act II, Sc. IWilliam Shakespeare. Jog on, Jog onWilliam Shakespeare. The Downfall of WolseyWilliam Shakespeare. The Noble NatureBen Johnson. Song on a May MorningJohn Milton. O God, our Help in Ages PastIsaac Watts;. The Diverting History of John GilpinWilliam Cowper. BannockburnRobert Burns. My Heart's in the HighlandsRobert Burns. The Solitary ReaperWilliam Wordsworth. SonnetWilliam Wordsworth. Soldier, Rest!"Walter Scott. LochinvarWalter Scott. The Star-Spangled BannerFrancis Scott Key. HohenlindenThomas Cambell. The Harp that Once through Tara's HallsThomas Moore. Childe Harold's Farewell to EnglandGeorge Noel Gordon, Lord Byron. The Night before WaterlooGeorge Noel Gordon, Lord Byron. Abide with MeHenry Francis Lyte. dgeThomas B. Macauley. Horatius at the Bri SECOND HALF YEAR Early SpringAlfred, Lord Tennyson. Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Sir Galahad The Charge of the Light BrigadeAlfred, Lord Tennyson. Ring out, Wild Bells From "In Memoriam"Alfred, Lord Tennyson. A Christmas HymnAlfred Domett. Home Thoughts from AbroadRobert Browning. PheidippidesRobert Browning. A Song of CloverSaxe Holm. Song of LoveLewis Carroll. Scythe SongAndrewLang. White ButterfliesAlgernon Charles Swinburne. Recessional. A Victorian OdeRudyard Kipling. To a WaterfowlWilliam Cullen Bryant. The Death of the FlowersWilliam Cullen Bryant. ThanatopsisWilliam Cullen Bryant. From "Woodnotes"Ralph Waldo Emerson. DaybreakHenry Wadsworth Longfellow. The Fiftieth Birthday of AgassizHenry Wadsworth Longfellow. Hymn to the NightHenry Wadsworth Longfellow. LongingJames Russell Lowell. The Finding of the LyreJames Russell Lowell. WaitingJohn Burroughs. ColumbusJoaquin Miller. Evening SongsJohn Vance Cheney. A Vagabond SongBliss Carman.
Old Glory Kavanagh
Biographical Sketches of Authors             * * * * *
James Whitcomb Riley. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE ENGLAND, 1564-1616 Good name in man and woman, dear my lord, Is the immediate jewel of their souls: Who steals my purse steals trash; 'tis something, nothing; 'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands; But he that filches from me my good name Robs me of that which not enriches him And makes me poor indeed. —"OTHELLO," Act II, Sc. 3. * * * * *             When daisies pied and violets blue, And lady-smocks all silver-white, And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue Do paint the meadows with delight. —"LOVE'S LABOR'S LOST," Act V, Sc. 2. * * * * *             This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle, This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-paradise; This fortress built by Nature for herself Against infection and the hand of war; This happy breed of men, this little world, This precious stone set in the silver sea, Which serves it in the office of a wall, Or as a moat defensive to a house, Against the envy of less happier lands; This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England. —"RICHARD II," Act II, Sc. 1. * * * * *             Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way, And merrily hent the stile-a: A merry heart goes all the day, Your sad tires in a mile-a. —From "WINTER'S TALE. " * * * * *             The Downfall of Wolsey Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness! This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hopes; to-morrow blossoms And bears his blushing honors thick upon him; The third day comes a frost, a killing frost;
And, when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a ripening, nips his root, And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, This many summers in a sea of glory, But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride At length broke under me; and now has left me, Weary and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me. Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye: I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors! There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, More pangs and fears than wars or women have: And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again. —From "HENRY VIII." * * * * *             BEN JONSON ENGLAND, 1574-1637 The Noble Nature It is not growing like a tree In bulk doth make man better be; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere; A lily of a day Is fairer far in May, Although it fall and die that night,— It was the plant and flower of Light. In small proportions we just beauties see, And in short measures life may perfect be. * * * * *             JOHN MILTON ENGLAND, 1608-1674 Song on a May Morning Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger, Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her The flowery May, who from her green lap throws The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose. Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire Mirth and youth and warm desire! Woods and groves are of thy dressing, Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. Thus we salute thee with our early song, And welcome thee, and wish thee long.             * * * * * ISAAC WATTS ENGLAND, 1674-1748 O God, our help in ages past, Our hope for years to come, Our shelter from the stormy blast, And our eternal home: Before the hills in order stood, Or earth received her frame, From everlasting Thou art God, To endless years the same.
A thousand ages in Thy sight Are like an evening gone; Short as the watch that ends the night Before the rising sun.
Time, like an ever-rolling stream, Bears all its sons away; They fly forgotten, as a dream Dies at the opening day.
O God, our help in ages past, Our hope for years to come, Be Thou our guard while troubles last, And our eternal home.
            * * * * *
The Diverting History of John Gilpin 
John Gilpin was a citizen, Of credit and renown, A trainband captain eke was he Of famous London town.
John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear, 'Though wedded we have been These twice ten tedious years, yet we No holiday have seen.
"To morrow is our wedding day, -And we will then repair Unto the Bell at Edmonton All in a chaise and pair.
"My sister, and my sister's child, Myself, and children three, Will fill the chaise; so you must ride On horseback after we."
He soon replied, "I do admire Of womankind but one, And you are she, my dearest dear, Therefore it shall be done.
"I am a linendraper bold, As all the world doth know, And my good friend the calender Will lend his horse to go."
Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, "That's well said; And for that wine is dear, We will be furnished with our own, Which is both bright and clear."
John Gilpin kiss'd his loving wife; O'erjoyed was he to find, That, though on pleasure she was bent, She had a frugal mind.
The morning came, the chaise was brought, But yet was not allow'd To drive up to the door, lest all Should say that she was proud.
So three doors off the chaise was stay'd, Where they did all get in; Six precious souls, and all agog
To dash through thick and thin.
Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, Were never folks so glad, The stones did rattle underneath, As if Cheapside were mad.
John Gilpin at his horse's side Seized fast the flowing mane, And up he got, in haste to ride, But soon came down again;
For saddletree scarce reach'd had he His journey to begin, When, turning round his head, he saw Three customers come in.
So down he came; for loss of time, Although it grieved him sore, Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, Would trouble him much more.
'Twas long before the customers Were suited to their mind, When Betty screaming came downstairs, "The wine is left behind!"
"Good lack!" quoth he—"yet bring it me, My leathern belt likewise, In which I bear my trusty sword When I do exercise."
Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul!) Had two stone bottles found, To hold the liquor that she loved And keep it safe and sound.
Then over all, that he might be Equipp'd from top to toe, His long red cloak, well brush'd and neat, He manfully did throw.
Now see him mounted once again Upon his nimble steed, Full slowly pacing o'er the stones, With caution and good heed.
But finding soon a smoother road Beneath his well-shod feet, The snorting beast began to trot, Which gall'd him in his seat.
"So, fair and softly," John he cried, But John he cried in vain; That trot became a gallop soon, In spite of curb and rein.
So stooping down, as needs he must Who cannot sit upright, He grasp'd the mane with both his hands, And eke with all his might.
His horse, who never in that sort Had handled been before, What thing upon his back had got Did wonder more and more.
Away went Gilpin, neck or nought; Away went hat and wig; He little dreamt, when he set out, Of running such a rig.
The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, Like streamer long and gay, Till, loop and button failing both, At last it flew away.
Then might all people well discern The bottles he had slung; A bottle swinging at each side, As hath been said or sung.
The dogs did bark, the children scream'd, Up flew the windows all; And every soul cried out, "Well done!" As loud as he could bawl.
Away went Gilpin—who but he? His fame soon spread around, "He carries weight! he rides a race! 'Tis for a thousand pound!"
And still as fast as he drew near, 'Twas wonderful to view, How in a trice the turnpike men Their gates wide open threw.
And now, as he went bowing down His reeking head full low, The bottles twain behind his back Were shatter'd at a blow.
Down ran the wine into the road, Most piteous to be seen, Which made his horse's flanks to smoke As they had basted been.
But still he seem'd to carry weight, With leathern girdle braced; For all might see the bottle necks Still dangling at his waist.
Thus all through merry Islington These gambols did he play, Until he came unto the Wash Of Edmonton so gay;
And there he threw the wash about On both sides of the way, Just like unto a trundling mop, Or a wild goose at play.
At Edmonton his loving wife From the balcony spied Her tender husband, wondering much To see how he did ride.
Stop, stop, John Gilpin!—here's the house," " They all at once did cry; The dinner waits, and we are tired:" " Said Gilpin— So am I!" "
But yet his horse was not a whit Inclined to tarry there; For why?—his owner had a house Full ten miles off, at Ware.
So like an arrow swift he flew, Shot by an archer strong; So did he fly—which brings me to The middle of my song.
Away went Gilpin out of breath, And sore against his will, Till at his friend the calender's His horse at last stood still.
The calender, amazed to see His neighbor in such trim, Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, And thus accosted him:
"What news? what news? your tidings tell Tell me you must and shall— Say why bareheaded you are come, Or why you come at all?"
Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, And loved a timely joke; And thus unto the calender In merry guise he spoke:
"I came because your horse would come; And, if I well forbode, My hat and wig will soon be here, They are upon the road."
The calender, right glad to find His friend in merry pin, Return'd him not a single word, But to the house went in;
Whence straight he came with hat and wig, A wig that flow'd behind, A hat not much the worse for wear, Each comely in its kind.
He held them up, and in his turn Thus show'd his ready wit, "My head is twice as big as yours, They therefore needs must fit.
"But let me scrape the dirt away That hangs upon your face; And stop and eat, for well you may Be in a hungry case."  
Said John, "It is my wedding day, And all the world would stare, If wife should dine at Edmonton, And I should dine at Ware."
So turning to his horse, he said, "I am in haste to dine; 'Twas for your pleasure you came here, You shall go back for mine."
Ah luckless speech, and bootless boast! For which he paid full dear; For, while he spake, a braying ass Did sing most loud and clear;
Whereat his horse did snort, as he Had heard a lion roar, And gallop'd off with all his might, As he had done before.
Away went Gilpin, and away Went Gilpin's hat and wig: He lost them sooner than at first, For why?—they were too big.
Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw
Her husband posting down Into the country far away, She pull'd out half a crown;
And thus unto the youth she said, That drove them to the Bell, "This shall be yours, when you bring back My husband safe and well."
The youth did ride, and soon did meet John coming back amain; Whom in a trice he tried to stop, By catching at his rein;
But not performing what he meant, And gladly would have done, The frighted steed he frighted more, And made him faster run.
Away went Gilpin, and away Went postboy at his heels, The postboy's horse right glad to miss The lumbering of the wheels.
Six gentlemen upon the road, Thus seeing Gilpin fly, With postboy scampering in the rear, They raised the hue and cry:—
"Stop thief! stop thief!—a highwayman!" Not one of them was mute; And all and each that passed that way Did join in the pursuit.
And now the turnpike gates again Flew open in short space; The toll-men thinking as before, That Gilpin rode a race.
And so he did, and won it too, For he got first to town; Nor stopp'd till where he had got up He did again get down.
Now let us sing, "Long live the king, And Gilpin long live he;" And when he next doth ride abroad, May I be there to see!
* * * * *             
Robert Bruce's Address to his Army 
Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, Welcome to your gory bed Or to victorie!
Now's the day, and now's the hour; See the front o' battle lower; See approach proud Edward's power— Chains and slaverie!
Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha can fill a coward's grave? Wha sae base as be a slave?
Let him turn and flee! Wha for Scotland's king and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand, or freeman fa', Let him follow me! By oppression's woes and pains! By your sons in servile chains! We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free! Lay the proud usurpers low! Tyrants fall in every foe! Liberty's in every blow!— Let us do or die! * * * * *             My Heart's in the Highlands My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go. Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, The birthplace of valor, the country of worth: Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, The hills of the Highlands forever I love. Farewell to the mountains high covered with snow; Farewell to the straths and green valleys below; Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods; Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go. * * * * *             WILLIAM WORDSWORTH ENGLAND, 1770-1850
The Solitary Reaper Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland lass, Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain; Oh, listen! for the vale profound Is overflowing with the sound. No nightingale did ever chant So sweetly to reposing bands Of travelers in some shady haunt Among Arabian sands: A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard In springtime from the cuckoo-bird, Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides. Will no one tell me what she sings? Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago: Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day,