A humble and a contrite heart.

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget-lest we forget!

Far-called our navies melt away-
On dune and headland sinks the fire-
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget-lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe—
Such boasting as the Gentiles use,
Or lesser breeds without the Law-
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget-lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard-
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And guarding, calls not Thee to guard.
For frantic boast and foolish word,
Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!

The World is Too Much with Us

William Wordsworth

For biographical note concerning the author, see "The Daffodils," page 182.

This poem embodies a fine revolt against present materialistic standards. Note the changing moods from line to line, and let the voice clearly reveal them. Do not neglect the rhyme.

THE World is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
The winds that will be howling at all hours
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn,-

So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,

Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

Waiting

John Burroughs

John Burroughs was born at Roxbury, N. Y., in 1837. His early life was spent in teaching, journalism, farming, and clerking in the treasury department at Washington. In 1867 he published "Notes on Walt Whitman As Poet and Person," and later resumed the subject with "Whitman, a Study." From 1871 he devoted himself to the writing of a series of books on birds, flowers, and rural scenes, both in prose and verse. Among his well-known works "Wake-Robin," "Birds and Poets," "Birds and Boughs," sketches of travel in England and France, "Winter Sunshine," and "Fresh Fields." He died in 1921.

are:

This poem has been loved by thousands, who keep it always near them. It has been interpreted in many ways, but holds a message of cheer and comfort for all. Deliver it slowly, with great calm and composure. Guard, however, against making it weak in any Keep the force deep and strong throughout.

way.

SERENE I fold my hands and wait,

Nor care for wind, nor tide, nor sea.
I rave no more 'gainst time or fate,
For lo! my own shall come to me.

I stay my haste, I make delays,
For what avails this eager pace?

I stand amid the eternal ways,
And what is mine shall know my face.

Asleep, awake, by night or day

The friends I seek are seeking me;
No wind can drive my bark astray,
Nor change the tide of destiny.

What matter if I stand alone?

I wait with joy the coming years;

My heart shall reap where it has sown,
And garner up its fruits of tears.

The stars come nightly to the sky;

The tidal wave comes to the sea;
Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high,
Can keep my own away from me.

The waters know their own and draw

The brook that springs in yonder heights; So flows the good with equal law

Unto the soul of pure delights.

Reprinted by permission of, and by special arrangement with, Houghton Mifflin Company, the authorized publishers.

Thanatopsis

William Cullen Bryant

William Cullen Bryant was born at Cummington, Mass., in 1794. In his early youth he received but a fragmentary education, but later entered Williams College as a sophomore and studied law. At the age of seventeen he wrote "Thanatopsis," considered by many critics his best work. This was soon followed by "To a Waterfowl." He determined to give up law and follow literature. In New York he became editor of the Evening Post, holding that position until his death in 1878. His wide travels in Europe and the Orient resulted in letters to his paper which were afterwards published in book form as "Letters of a Traveller," 1852, and "Letters from the East," 1869. He wrote several volumes of poetry and issued a translation of Homer's "Odyssey" and "Iliad." Dignity, and sweep of vision, should be preserved in this famous poem. It can be recited, and should be delivered much as a strong, sincere, heart-to-heart sermon would be. The whole poem is solemn, and care should be exercised not to shatter this solemnity.

To him who in the love of Nature holds

Communion with her visible forms, she speaks

A various language; for his gayer hours
She hath a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And healing sympathy, that steals away

Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images

Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder and grow sick at heart;-
Go forth, under the open sky, and list
To Nature's teachings, while from all around-
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air-
Comes a still voice:-
:-

Yet a few days, and thee

The all-beholding sun shall see no more

In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of the ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thy individual being, shalt thou go

To mix forever with the elements,
To be a brother to the insensible rock

And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.