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Poems Teachers Ask For, Book Two
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When the blessed vision said:
"Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled."
Henry W. Longfellow.
Somebody's Darling
Into a ward of the whitewashed halls,
Where the dead and dying lay,
Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls,
Somebody's Darling was borne one day—
Somebody's Darling, so young and so brave,
Wearing yet on his pale, sweet face,
Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave,
The lingering light of his boyhood's grace.
Matted and damp are the curls of gold,
Kissing the snow of the fair young brow,
Pale are the lips of delicate mold—
Somebody's Darling is dying now.
Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow
Brush all the wandering waves of gold,
Cross his hands on his bosom now—
Somebody's Darling is still and cold.
Kiss him once for somebody's sake,
Murmur a prayer both soft and low;
One bright curl from its fair mates take—
They were somebody's pride, you know.
Somebody's hand hath rested there—
Was it a mother's, soft and white?
And have the lips of a sister fair
Been baptized in their waves of light?
God knows best! he was somebody's love;
Somebody's heart enshrined him there;
Somebody wafted his name above,
Night and morn on the wings of prayer.
Somebody wept when he marched away,
Looking so handsome, brave, and grand;
Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay,
Somebody clung to his parting hand.
Somebody's waiting and watching for him—
Yearning to hold him again to her heart;
And there he lies with his blue eyes dim,
And the smiling, child-like lips apart.
Tenderly bury the fair young dead,
Pausing to drop on his grave a tear;
Carve in the wooden slab at his head,
"Somebody's Darling slumbers here."
Maria La Coste.
The Pride of Battery B
South Mountain towered upon our right, far off the river lay,
And over on the wooded height we held their lines at bay.
At last the muttering guns were still; the day died slow and wan;
At last the gunners pipes did fill, the sergeant's yarns began.
When, as the wind a moment blew aside the fragrant flood
Our brierwoods raised, within our view a little maiden stood.
A tiny tot of six or seven, from fireside fresh she seemed,
(Of such a little one in heaven one soldier often dreamed.)
And as we stared, her little hand went to her curly head
In grave salute. "And who are you?" at length the sergeant said.
"And where's your home?" he growled again. She lisped out, "Who is me?
Why, don't you know? I'm little Jane, the Pride of Battery B.
My home? Why, that was burned away, and pa and ma are dead;
And so I ride the guns all day along with Sergeant Ned.
And I've a drum that's not a toy, a cap with feathers, too;
And I march beside the drummer boy on Sundays at review.
But now our 'bacca's all give out, the men can't have their smoke,
And so they're cross—why, even Ned won't play with me and joke.
And the big colonel said to-day—I hate to hear him swear—
He'd give a leg for a good pipe like the Yanks had over there.
And so I thought when beat the drum, and the big guns were still,
I'd creep beneath the tent and come out here across the hill
And beg, good Mister Yankee men, you'd give me some 'Lone Jack.'
Please do: when we get some again, I'll surely bring it back.
Indeed I will, for Ned—says he,—if I do what I say,
I'll be a general yet, maybe, and ride a prancing bay."
We brimmed her tiny apron o'er; you should have heard her laugh
As each man from his scanty store shook out a generous half.
To kiss the little mouth stooped down a score of grimy men,
Until the sergeant's husky voice said,"'Tention squad!" and then
We gave her escort, till good-night the pretty waif we bid,
And watched her toddle out of sight—or else 'twas tears that hid
Her tiny form—nor turned about a man, nor spoke a word,
Till after awhile a far, hoarse shout upon the wind we heard!
We sent it back, then cast sad eyes upon the scene around;
A baby's hand had touched the ties that brothers once had bound.
That's all—save when the dawn awoke again the work of hell,
"Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled."
Henry W. Longfellow.
Somebody's Darling
Into a ward of the whitewashed halls,
Where the dead and dying lay,
Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls,
Somebody's Darling was borne one day—
Somebody's Darling, so young and so brave,
Wearing yet on his pale, sweet face,
Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave,
The lingering light of his boyhood's grace.
Matted and damp are the curls of gold,
Kissing the snow of the fair young brow,
Pale are the lips of delicate mold—
Somebody's Darling is dying now.
Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow
Brush all the wandering waves of gold,
Cross his hands on his bosom now—
Somebody's Darling is still and cold.
Kiss him once for somebody's sake,
Murmur a prayer both soft and low;
One bright curl from its fair mates take—
They were somebody's pride, you know.
Somebody's hand hath rested there—
Was it a mother's, soft and white?
And have the lips of a sister fair
Been baptized in their waves of light?
God knows best! he was somebody's love;
Somebody's heart enshrined him there;
Somebody wafted his name above,
Night and morn on the wings of prayer.
Somebody wept when he marched away,
Looking so handsome, brave, and grand;
Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay,
Somebody clung to his parting hand.
Somebody's waiting and watching for him—
Yearning to hold him again to her heart;
And there he lies with his blue eyes dim,
And the smiling, child-like lips apart.
Tenderly bury the fair young dead,
Pausing to drop on his grave a tear;
Carve in the wooden slab at his head,
"Somebody's Darling slumbers here."
Maria La Coste.
The Pride of Battery B
South Mountain towered upon our right, far off the river lay,
And over on the wooded height we held their lines at bay.
At last the muttering guns were still; the day died slow and wan;
At last the gunners pipes did fill, the sergeant's yarns began.
When, as the wind a moment blew aside the fragrant flood
Our brierwoods raised, within our view a little maiden stood.
A tiny tot of six or seven, from fireside fresh she seemed,
(Of such a little one in heaven one soldier often dreamed.)
And as we stared, her little hand went to her curly head
In grave salute. "And who are you?" at length the sergeant said.
"And where's your home?" he growled again. She lisped out, "Who is me?
Why, don't you know? I'm little Jane, the Pride of Battery B.
My home? Why, that was burned away, and pa and ma are dead;
And so I ride the guns all day along with Sergeant Ned.
And I've a drum that's not a toy, a cap with feathers, too;
And I march beside the drummer boy on Sundays at review.
But now our 'bacca's all give out, the men can't have their smoke,
And so they're cross—why, even Ned won't play with me and joke.
And the big colonel said to-day—I hate to hear him swear—
He'd give a leg for a good pipe like the Yanks had over there.
And so I thought when beat the drum, and the big guns were still,
I'd creep beneath the tent and come out here across the hill
And beg, good Mister Yankee men, you'd give me some 'Lone Jack.'
Please do: when we get some again, I'll surely bring it back.
Indeed I will, for Ned—says he,—if I do what I say,
I'll be a general yet, maybe, and ride a prancing bay."
We brimmed her tiny apron o'er; you should have heard her laugh
As each man from his scanty store shook out a generous half.
To kiss the little mouth stooped down a score of grimy men,
Until the sergeant's husky voice said,"'Tention squad!" and then
We gave her escort, till good-night the pretty waif we bid,
And watched her toddle out of sight—or else 'twas tears that hid
Her tiny form—nor turned about a man, nor spoke a word,
Till after awhile a far, hoarse shout upon the wind we heard!
We sent it back, then cast sad eyes upon the scene around;
A baby's hand had touched the ties that brothers once had bound.
That's all—save when the dawn awoke again the work of hell,
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Последний отзыв
Так получилось, что книга ко мне попала в тяжелый эмоциональный кризис и многое мне дала. Написано актуально, тут многих полезных вещей, никакого злоу...
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