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# Poems That Every Child Should Know/Woodman, Spare That Tree!

Woodman, Spare That Tree!
"Woodman, Spare That Tree" (by George Pope Morris, 1802-64) is included in this collection because I have loved it all my life, and I never knew any one who could or would offer a criticism upon it. Its value lies in its recognition of childhood's pleasures.
Woodman, spare that tree! Touch not a single bough! In youth it sheltered me, And I'll protect it now. 'Twas my forefather's hand That placed it near his cot; There, woodman, let it stand, Thy ax shall harm it not.
​That old familiar tree, Whose glory and renown Are spread o'er land and sea— And wouldst thou hew it down? Woodman, forbear thy stroke! Cut not its earth-bound ties; Oh, spare that agèd oak Now towering to the skies!
When but an idle boy, I sought its grateful shade; In all their gushing joy Here, too, my sisters played. My mother kissed me here; My father pressed my hand— Forgive this foolish tear, But let that old oak stand.
My heart-strings round thee cling, Close as thy bark, old friend! Here shall the wild-bird sing, And still thy branches bend. Old tree! the storm still brave! And, woodman, leave the spot; While I've a hand to save, Thy ax shall harm it not.
George Pope Morris.
# Poems Written During the Progress of the Abolition Question In the United States

POEMS
WRITTEN DURING THE PROGRESS
OF THE
ABOLITION QUESTION
IN THE
UNITED STATES
BETWEEN THE YEARS
1830 AND 1838.
BY
John G. Whittier.
BOSTON: PUBLISHED BY ISAAC KNAPP, No. 25, Cornhill.
1837.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1837, by ISAAC KNAPP, In the Clerk's office of the District Court of Massachusetts.
POEMS BY WHITTIER.
CONTENTS.
* Note
* Lines
* Apology
Layout 2
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star

Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star! How I wonder what you are, Up above the world so high, Like a diamond in the sky.
When the glorious sun is set, When the grass with dew is wet, Then you show your little light, Twinkle, twinkle all the night.
In the dark-blue sky you keep, And often through my curtains peep, For you never shut your eye, Till the sun is in the sky.
As your bright and tiny spark Guides the traveller in the dark, Though I know not what you are, Twinkle, twinkle, little star!
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/Warren's Address

Warren's Address to the American Soldiers.
There is never a boy who objects to learning "Warren's Address," by John Pierpont (1785-1866). To stand by one's own rights is inherent in every true American. This poem is doubtless developed from Robert Burns's "Bannockburn." (1785-1866.)
Stand! the ground's your own, my braves! Will ye give it up to slaves? Will ye look for greener graves? Hope ye mercy still? What's the mercy despots feel? Hear it in that battle-peal! Read it on yon bristling steel! Ask it,—ye who will.
Fear ye foes who kill for hire? Will ye to your homes retire? Look behind you! they're afire! And, before you, see Who have done it!—From the vale On they come!—And will ye quail?— Leaden rain and iron hail Let their welcome be!
In the God of battles trust! Die we may,—and die we must; But, O, where can dust to dust Be consigned so well, As where Heaven its dews shall shed On the martyred patriot's bed, And the rocks shall raise their head, Of his deeds to tell!
John Pierpont.
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/To a Mountain Daisy

To a Mountain Daisy,
ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOW IN APRIL, 1786
Wee, modest, crimson-tippèd flower, Thou 's met me in an evil hour; For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem: To spare thee now is past my power, Thou bonny gem.
Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, The bonny lark, companion meet, Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, Wi' speckled breast, When upward-springing, blithe, to greet The purpling east!
​Cauld blew the bitter biting north Upon thy early, humble birth; Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm, Scarce reared above the parent earth Thy tender form.
The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield, But thou, beneath the random bield O' clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field, Unseen, alane.
There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies!
Such is the fate of artless maid, Sweet floweret of the rural shade! By love's simplicity betrayed, And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid Low i' the dust.
Such is the fate of simple bard, On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd Unskilful he to note the card Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o'er!
​Such fate to suffering worth is given, Who long with wants and woes has striven, By human pride or cunning driven To misery's brink, Till wrenched of every stay but Heaven, He, ruined, sink!
Even thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, That fate is thine—no distant date; Stern Ruin's plowshare drives, elate, Full on thy bloom, Till crashed beneath the furrow's weight Shall be thy doom.
Robert Burns.
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/To a Mouse

To a Mouse,
ON TURNING UP HER NEST WITH THE PLOW, NOVEMBER, 1785
"To a Mouse" and "To a Mountain Daisy," by Robert Burns (1759-96), are the ineffable touches of tenderness that illumine the sturdy plowman. The contrast between the strong man and the delicate flower or creature at his mercy makes tenderness in man a vital point in character.
[The lines "To a Mouse" seem by report to have been composed while Burns was actually plowing. One of the poet's first editors wrote: "John Blane, who had acted as gaudsman to Burns, and who lived sixty years afterward, had a distinct recollection of the turning up of the mouse. Like a thoughtless youth as he was, he ran after the creature to kill it, but was checked and recalled by his master, who he observed became thereafter thoughtful and abstracted. Burns, who treated his servants with the familiarity of fellow-labourers, soon afterward read the poem to Blane."
Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie! Thou needna start awa' sae hasty, Wi' bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin and chase thee, Wi' murd'ring pattle!
​I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union, And justifies that ill opinion, Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion And fellow-mortal!
I doubtna, whiles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request: I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave, And never miss 't!
Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! Its silly wa's the win's are strewin'! And naething now to big a new ane O' foggage green, And bleak December's winds ensuin', Baith snell and keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste, And weary winter comin' fast, And cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till, crash! the cruel coulter passed Out through thy cell.
That wee bit heap o' leaves and stibble Has cost thee monie a weary nibble! Now thou's turned out for a' thy trouble, But house or hald, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, And cranreuch cauld!
​But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, In proving foresight may be vain: The best-laid schemes o' mice and men Gang aft a-gley, And lea'e us naught but grief and pain, For promised joy.
Still thou art blest, compared wi' me! The present only toucheth thee: But, och! I backward cast my e'e On prospects drear! And forward, though I canna see, I guess and fear.
Robert Burns.
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/Wynken, Blynken, and Nod

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod.
"Wynken, Blynken, and Nod," by Eugene Field (1850-95), pleases children, who are all by nature sailors and adventurers.
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night Sailed off in a wooden shoe,— Sailed on a river of crystal light Into a sea of dew. "Where are you going, and what do you wish?" The old moon asked the three. "We have come to fish for the herring-fish That live in this beautiful sea; Nets of silver and gold have we," Said Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.
The old moon laughed and sang a song, As they rocked in the wooden shoe; And the wind that sped them all night long Ruffled the waves of dew; The little stars were the herring-fish That lived in the beautiful sea. ​"Now cast your nets wherever you wish,— Never afeard are we!" So cried the stars to the fishermen three, Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.
All night long their nets they threw To the stars in the twinkling foam,— Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe, Bringing the fishermen home: 'Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed As if it could not be; And some folk thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamed Of sailing that beautiful sea; But I shall name you the fishermen three: Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.
Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes, And Nod is a little head, And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies Is a wee one's trundle-bed; So shut your eyes while Mother sings Of wonderful sights that be, And you shall see the beautiful things As you rock on the misty sea Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three, Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.
Eugene Field
# Poems (Kimball)/"From feasts that perish turned aside"

LENT AND EASTER.
# Poems and Baudelaire Flowers/The Murderer’s Wine

THE MURDERER’S WINE
My wife is dead and I am free, Now I may drink to my content; When I came back without a cent Her piteous outcries tortured me.
Now I am happy as a king, The air is pure, the sky is clear; Just such a summer as that year, When first I went a-sweethearting.
A horrible thirst is tearing me, To quench it I should have to swill Just as much cool wine as would fill Her tomb–that’s no small quantity.
I threw her down and then began To pile upon her where she fell All the great stones around the well— I shall forget it if I can.
By all the soft vows of our prime, By those eternal oaths we swore, And that our love might be once more As ’twas in our old passionate time,
I begged her in a lonely spot To come and meet me at nightfall; She came, mad creature—we are all More or less crazy, are we not?
She was quite pretty still, my wife, Though she was very tired, and I, I loved her too much, that is why I said to her, “Come, quit this life.”
No one can grasp my thought aright; Did any of these sodden swine Ever conceive a shroud of wine On his most strangely morbid night?
Dull and insensible above Iron machines, that stupid crew, Summer or winter, never knew The agonies of real love.
So now I am without a care! Dead-drunk this evening I shall be, Then fearlessly, remorselessly Shall lie out in the open air.
And sleep there like a homeless cur; Some cart may rumble with a load Of stones or mud along the road And crush my head—I shall not stir.
Some heavy dray incontinent May come and cut me clean in two: I laugh at thought o’t as I do At Devil, God, and Sacrament.
PRINTED BY
NEILL AND COMPANY, LIMITED,
EDINBURGH.
# Poems and Baudelaire Flowers/The Invitation to the Voyage

THE INVITATION TO THE VOYAGE
How sweet, my own, Could we live alone Over beyond the sea! To love and to die Indolently In the land that’s akin to thee! Where the suns which rise In the watery skies Weave soft spells over my sight, As thy false eyes do When they flicker through Their tears with a dim, strange light.
There all is beauty and symmetry, Pleasure and calm and luxury.
Years that have gone Have polished and shone The things that would fill our room; The flowers most rare Which scent the air In the richly-ceiling’d gloom, And the mirrors profound, And the walls around With Orient splendour hung, To the soul would speak Of things she doth seek In her gentle native tongue.
There all is beauty and symmetry, Pleasure and calm and luxury.
The canals are deep Where the strange ships sleep Far from the land of their birth; To quench the fire Of thy least desire They have come from the ends of the earth. The sunsets drown Peaceful town And meadow, and stagnant stream In bistre and gold, And the world enfold In a warm and luminous dream.
There all is beauty and symmetry,
Pleasure and calm and luxury.
# Poems and Baudelaire Flowers/The Joyous Corse

THE JOYOUS CORSE
In a soil full of snails and free from stones I fain would dig myself a pit full deep, Where I might lay at ease my agèd bones And, like a wave-borne shark, forgetful sleep.
For testaments I hate, and tombs I hate; Rather than crave a tear from human eyes I would invite the crows their hunger sate Upon my corpse’s foul extremities.
O worms! O black, deaf, sightless company! There comes to you a dead man glad and free. O philosophic sons of rottenness, Across my ruin crawl without remorse, And tell if any pain may yet oppress This old and soulless death-surrounded corse.
# Poems and Baudelaire Flowers/The Offended Moon

THE OFFENDED MOON
O Moon, O lamp of hill and secret dale! Thou whom our fathers, ages out of mind, Worshipped in thy blue heaven, whilst behind Thy stars streamed after thee a glittering trail,
Dost see the poet, weary-eyed and pale, Or lovers on their happy beds reclined, Showing white teeth in sleep, or vipers twined, ’Neath the dry sward; or in a golden veil
Stealest thou with faint footfall o’er the grass As of old, to kiss from twilight unto dawn The faded charms of thine Endymion?. . . .
“O child of this sick century, I see Thy grey-haired mother leering in her glass And plastering the breast that suckled thee!”
# Poems and Baudelaire Flowers/The Giantess

THE GIANTESS
When Nature in her lavish lustiness Bred day by day new, strange monstrosities, Would I had lived with a young giantess Like a warm cat who at a queen’s feet lies.
’Twere sweet to watch her soul and body blossom While she disported her in terrible wise; To guess if a fierce flame burnt in her bosom By the wet mists that swam within her eyes.
Ah! freely o’er her mighty limbs to run, To crawl upon the bend of her vast knees, And when in summer, tired of the pestilent sun, Across the plain she stretches calm and still, Within her breasts’ cool shade to sleep at ease Like some small hamlet sheltered by a hill.
# Poems and Baudelaire Flowers/The Irreparable

THE IRREPARABLE I
How shall we kill this old, this long Remorse Which writhes continually And feeds on us as worms upon a corse, Maggots upon a tree? How stifle this implacable Remorse?
What wine, what drug, what philtre known of man Will drown this ancient foe, Ruthless and ravenous as a courtesan, Sure as an ant, and slow? What wine? What drug? What philtre known of man?
O tell, fair sorceress, tell if thou dost know This soul distraught with pain As a dying soldier crushed and bruised below Steel hooves and wounded men! O tell, fair sorceress, tell if thou dost know.
This poor racked wretch the wolf already flays O’er whom the vultures whirr, This broken warrior! if in vain he prays For cross and sepulchre. This anguished wretch the wolf already flays!
How should we rend dense gulfs which know not dawn Nor eve, nor any star? How pierce with light skies which abyss-like yawn When black as pitch they are? How should we rend dense gulfs which know not dawn?
Hope glimmered in the windows of the Inn, But Hope is dead for aye! Moonless and rayless, can poor travellers win To shelter from the way? The Devil made dark the windows of the Inn!
Dost love the damned, adorable sorceress? Dost know the smitten sore? Dost know Remorse that, grim and pitiless, Feeds at my heart’s red core? Dost love the damned, adorable sorceress?
My soul is prey to the Irreparable, It gnaws with tooth accurst, And, termite-like, the cunning spawn of hell Mines the foundations first! My soul is prey to the Irreparable!
II
Often within a theatre I have seen, ’Thwart the orchestral roar, A dazzling Fairy stand in sudden sheen Where all was gloom before! Often within a theatre I have seen
A being made of light and gold and gauze Fling Demons to their fate! But on my heart’s dark stage an endless pause Is all, and I await In vain, in vain the Spirit with wings of gauze!
# Poems and Baudelaire Flowers/The Owls

THE OWLS
’Neath their black yews in solemn state The owls are sitting in a row Like foreign gods; and even so Blink their red eyes; they meditate.
Quite motionless they hold them thus Until at last the day is done, And, driving down the slanting sun, The sad night is victorious.
They teach the wise who gives them ear That in this world he most should fear All things which loud or restless be.
Who, dazzled by a passing shade, Follows it, never will be free Till the dread penalty be paid.
# Poems and Baudelaire Flowers/The Pipe

THE PIPE
An author’s favourite pipe am I, My Kaffir woman’s countenance Tells the beholder at a glance My master smokes incessantly.
If he is mournful or in pain I smoke as does the ploughman’s cot When the good wife prepares the pot Before her spouse comes home again.
I bind his soul and rock her well In the blue twisting skein which slips And rises from my fiery lips,
And weave a very potent spell Which soothes his heart in its distress And heals his spirit’s weariness.
# Poems and Baudelaire Flowers/The Ransom

THE RANSOM
To pay his ransom man must toil
With Reason's implement alone
To plough and rake and free from stone Two plots of hard volcanic soil.
And if he would from out them wrench A few thorns or a meagre flower, Continually a heavy shower Of his salt sweat their roots must drench.
The one is Art, the other Love;
And on that last and terrible day The wrath of the stern judge to stay And 'scape the vengeance from above,
He must show barns whose uttermost Recesses swell with ripened grain, And blooms whose shapes and hues will gain The suffrage of the Heavenly Host.
# Poems and Baudelaire Flowers/The Roof

THE ROOF I
When the clouds hide the sun away The tall slate roof is dull and grey, And when the rain a-down it streams ’Tis polished lead with pale-blue gleams.
When the clouds vanish and the rain Stops, and the sun comes out again, It shimmers golden in the sun Almost too bright to look upon.
But soon beneath the steady rays The roof is dried and reft of blaze, ’Tis dusty yellow traversed through By long thin lines of deepest blue.
Then at the last, as night draws near, The lines grow faint and disappear, The roof becomes a purple mist, A great square darkening amethyst
Which sinks into the gathering shade Till separate form and colour fade, And it is but a patch which mars The beauty of a field of stars.
II
It stands so lonely in the sky The sparrows never come anigh, The glossy starlings seldom stop To preen and chatter on the top.
For a whole week sometimes up there No wing-wave stirs the quiet air, The roof lies silent and serene As though no life had ever been;
Till some bright afternoon, athwart The edge two sudden shadows dart, And two white pigeons with pink feet Flutter above and pitch on it.
Jerking their necks out as they walk They talk awhile their pigeon-talk, A low continuous murmur blent Of mock reproaches and content.
Then cease, and sit there warm and white An hour, till in the fading light They wake, and know the close of day, Flutter above, and fly away,
Leaving the roof whereon they sat As ’twas before, a peaceful flat Expanse, as silent and serene As though no life had ever been.
# Poems in The London Gazette during the year 1820 by Letitia Elizabeth Landon

This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
This work is available under the Creative Commons CC0 1.0 Universal Public Domain Dedication.
The person who associated a work with this deed has dedicated the work to the public domain by waiving all of their rights to the work worldwide under copyright law, including all related and neighboring rights, to the extent allowed by law. You can copy, modify, distribute and perform the work, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
Poems in The London Literary
Gazette
during the year 1820
by
Letitia Elizabeth Landon
(as L.)
compiled by
Peter J. Bolton
# Poems in The London Gazette during the year 1821 by Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) Supplement

This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
This work is available under the Creative Commons CC0 1.0 Universal Public Domain Dedication.
The person who associated a work with this deed has dedicated the work to the public domain by waiving all of their rights to the work worldwide under copyright law, including all related and neighboring rights, to the extent allowed by law. You can copy, modify, distribute and perform the work, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
Poems in The London Literary Gazette during the year 1821 by Letitia Elizabeth Landon Supplement compiled by Peter J. Bolton
# Poems in The London Gazette during the year 1821 by Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.)

Poems in The London Literary Gazette during the year 1821 by Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) compiled by Peter J. Bolton
# Poems in divers humors

First published 1598 in a volume containing The Economion of Lady Pecunia and two other works. It contains two poems that also appeared in William Shakespeare's The Passionate Pilgrim in 1599; whether they are Barnfield's or Shakespeares (or someone else's) appears to still be an open question.
* Poems: in divers humors, in The Complete Poems of Richard Barnfield, (ed.) by Alexander B. Grosart (1876).
* Poems: in diuers humours, in Barnfield's Poems, (ed.) by Edward Arber (1878).
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) from Flowers of Loveliness, 1838/The Canterbury Bell

* CANTERBURY BELL
* Artist Louisa SeyffarthEngraver H. Robinson
From Tait’s Edinburgh Magazine, December 1837, page 796
THE CANTERBURY BELL.
" 'I see it grow beneath my hand,
 I see it day by day,
I measure on its purple wand
 How long he is away.
" 'The seed was sleeping in the earth,
 The snow was on the ground,
And Christmas gathered in its mirth
 The friends now scattered round.
" 'It was the time of thy farewell,
 Cold, wintry, dead—and now
The violets are in the dell,
 The May upon the bough.
" 'We sowed its seed when winds were chill,
 The plant now grown so fair;
We placed it on the window-sill,
 To catch the sun and air!
" 'You said you would return again
 Before it was in bloom— Alas! it sheds its light in vain
 Around our altered room.
" 'My heart is sick with hope deferred,
 Days, weeks pass slowly o’er—
Alas! one voice is still unheard,
 One step returns no more!
" 'I'm weary of these watching hours,
 That fret my life away;
I do not love my favourite flowers;
 I loathe the sunny day.
" 'Is not the heart a sacred thing?
 Is it not Love that gives
The shadow of an angel's wing,
 Where'er its presence lives?
" 'I gave my heart, I thought, for thine—  Mine was the gift alone;
Why have the false no outward sign
 By which they may be known?
" 'Fair flower, that I have wept to see
 Day after day arise;
I little thought that thou wouldst be
 Welcomed with tearful eyes!
" 'Why should there be divided truth?
 Ah! why should one love on?
I'm weary—weary of my youth,
 Whose happiness is gone!'
" A light step makes her start the while,
 She sees her sister stand
Beside the gate, with eager smile,
 A letter in her hand.
" Poor girl! she might have spared the blush
 That with the letter came;
She took the scroll—pale grew the flush,—
 It did not bear his name!"