Songs of the Seasons.
Meta E. B. Thorne.
[For Four Students.]
The king of the day is exerting his power,
And night and cold at his bidding depart;
All nature in this resurrection hour
Will welcome my advent with joyous heart.
Then hasten, my children! Ho, March winds wild,
O’er mountain and valley, blow, madly blow!
Proclaim the glad coming of springtime mild,
And speed the departure of frost and snow!
Ye clouds of April, drop down your showers,
And fill to the brim the rivers and rills
With liquid laughter; May’s delicate flowers
Await your dripping ’mong valleys and hills.
Spring scattered the seed with a lavish hand,
Her whispering breezes and magic showers
Awoke into life; see the serried ranks stand
Of fervid July’s lush grasses and flowers.
Then August comes with her sultry noons
Whose hot breath gildeth the ripening grain,
And the glorious light of her harvest moons;
Now the reaper sings as he sweeps the plain:
“My gleaming scythe I swing to and fro;
Before it is falling the golden wheat—
A precious store for the time of the snow;
All praise to the Giver of mercies so sweet!”
The plentiful harvest is garnered in;
But I bring September’s bounteous store
Of glowing fruitage, all hearts to win;
Now the summer’s brilliant reign is o’er.
Now, royal October the scepter wields,
In whose wealth of rosy and mellow light
Seem glorified even the bare brown fields,
With their delicate veil of haze bedight.
And e’en when November, dark and chill,
In her cloud-robe somber broods o’er the earth,
When the birds are hushed ’mid woodland and hill,
And the flowers are asleep till the spring’s glad birth,
There are blossoms still for the trustful heart,
Sweet hopes for what life may yet unfold,
And memories precious that will not depart
When fades from the hill-tops the autumn’s gold.
I bring to the waiting fields the snow,
December’s mantle so soft and pure,
That covers the sleeping seeds below,
To remain, till the spring’s return, secure.
Ye think my touch unkind and rude
When the bracing frost and cold I bring,
Ye chant in a pining, reproachful mood
The praises of summer and dewy spring;
Yet oft at my touch the baleful seeds
Of pestilence powerless fall in death;
New vigor to youth and prime proceeds
From my clear, keen, purifying breath.
But richer delights to you I bring;
For mine is the anniversary time,
When “Good-will to men!” the angels sing,
“Good-will!” the echoing joy-bells chime.
The Coming of Spring.
Wilhelm Müller.
Solo. Up with windows, up with hearts!
Concert. Swiftly, swiftly!
Solo. Graybeard Winter seeks to go,
He wanders troubled to and fro,
He beats his breast full fearfully
And packs his duds right hastily,
Concert. With speed, with speed.
Solo. Up with windows, up with hearts!
Concert. Swiftly, swiftly!
Solo. The Springtime knocks and stamps without—
And listen to his joyous shout!—
Before the door he takes his stand,
With beauteous flower-buds in his hand,
Concert. With speed, with speed.
Solo. Open windows, open hearts!
Concert. Swiftly, swiftly!
Solo. The brave young South-wind stands below,
With round red cheeks and eyes aglow,
And blows that doors and windows rattle,
Till Winter yields him in the battle—
Concert. With speed, with speed.
Concert. Open windows, open hearts!
With speed, with speed!
Wild birds sound the battle-song—
And hark, and hark! an echo long,
An echo from my inmost heart—
The joys of Spring bid Winter part
With speed, with speed.
The Good Time Coming.
Charles Mackay.
Concert. There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming.
Solo. We may not live to see the day,
But earth shall glisten in the ray
Of the good time coming.
Cannon-balls may aid the truth,
But thought’s a weapon stronger;
We’ll win our battle by its aid—
Wait a little longer.
Concert. There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming.
Solo. The pen shall supersede the sword,
And Right, not Might, shall be the lord
In the good time coming.
Worth, not Birth, shall rule mankind,
And be acknowledged stronger;
The proper impulse has been given—
Wait a little longer.
Concert. There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming.
Solo. War in all men’s eyes shall be
A monster of iniquity
In the good time coming;
Nations shall not quarrel then,
To prove which is the stronger;
Nor slaughter men for glory’s sake—
Wait a little longer.
Concert. There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming.
Solo. Hateful rivalries of creed
Shall not make their martyrs bleed
In the good time coming.
Religion shall be shorn of pride,
And flourish all the stronger;
And Charity shall trim her lamp—
Wait a little longer.
Concert. There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming.
Solo. Little children shall not toil,
Under or above the soil,
In the good time coming;
But shall play in healthful fields
Till limb and mind grow stronger;
And every one shall read and write—
Wait a little longer.
Concert. There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming.
Solo. The people shall be temperate,
And shall love instead of hate
In the good time coming.
They shall use, and not abuse,
And make all virtue stronger;
The reformation has begun—
Wait a little longer.
Concert. There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming.
Let us aid it all we can,
Every woman, every man,
The good time coming.
Smallest helps, if rightly given,
Make the impulse stronger;
’Twill be strong enough one day—
Wait a little longer.
The Charge at Waterloo.
Sir Walter Scott.
[For Boy’s Recitation.]
On came the whirlwind—like the last
But fiercest sweep of tempest blast;
On came the whirlwind—steel-gleams broke
Like lightning through the rolling smoke:
The war was waked anew.
Three hundred cannon-mouths roared loud,
And from their throats with flash and cloud
Their showers of iron threw.
In one dark torrent, broad and strong,
The advancing onset rolled along.
But on the British heart were lost
The terrors of the charging host;
For not an eye the storm that viewed
Changed its proud glance of fortitude;
Nor was one forward footstep stayed
As dropped the dying and the dead.
Down were the eagle-banners sent,
Down reeling steeds and riders went;
Corselets were pierced and pennons rent,
And, to augment the fray,
Wheeled full against their staggering flanks,
The English horsemen’s foaming ranks
Forced their resistless way.
Then to the musket-knell succeeds
The clash of swords, the neigh of steeds;
As plies the smith his clanging trade,
Against the cuirass rang the blade;
And while amid their scattered band
Raged the fierce rider’s bloody brand,
Recoiled in common rout and fear
Lancer and guard and cuirassier,
Horsemen and foot—a mingled host—
Their leaders fallen, their standards lost.
Summer Storm.
James Russell Lowell.
[Abbreviated for Concert Recitation.]
[The following selection is peculiarly effective for concert recitation on account
of the great number and variety of vocal changes. The italicized
words should be given with abrupt, explosive sounds; the italicized final consonants
with extreme distinctness of articulation; the pauses indicated by
dashes should be exaggerated, and the time most accurately marked.]
Suddenly—all the sky is hid
As with the shutting of a lid.
One—by—one—great—drops—are falling,
Doubtful—and—slow.
Down the pane they are crookedly crawling,
And the wind—breathes low.
Now—on the hills—I hear the thunder-mutter,
The wind—is gathering in the west.
The upturned leaves first whiten and flutter
Then droop—to a fitful rest.
Now leaps the wind on the sleepy marsh,
And tramples the grass with terrified feet.
The startled river turns leaden and harsh,
You can hear the quick heart of the tempest beat.
Look, look! that livid flash!
And instantly follows the rattling thunder
As if some cloud-crag—split asunder—
Fell—splintering with a ruinous crash.
Against the windows, the storm comes dashing;
Through tattered foliage, the hail—tears crashing;
The blue lightning—flashes,
The rapid hail clashes,
The white waves are tumbling,
And in one baffled roar,
The thunder—is rumbling—
And crashing and crumbling.
(Whisper) Hush! Still as death
The tempest—holds his breath—
As from a sudden will.
The rain—stops—short—but from the eaves
You see it drop and hear it—on the leaves,
(Half-whisper) All—is—so—still.
Gone—gone—so soon!
The pale and quiet moon
Makes her calm forehead bare.
No more my half-crazed fancy there.
Can shape—a giant—in the air,
And the last fragments of the storm,
Like shattered rigging from a fight at sea,
Silent and few—are drifting over me.
Song of the Steamer Engine.
C. B. LeRow.
[This selection is adapted for Solo and Concert recitation. The first two
and last two lines of each stanza, and the whole of the last stanza, are to be
given in concert. The other lines can be assigned to one or to six students—the
latter arrangement giving greater variety, as the stanzas differ widely in
style. As the refrain, or chorus, is to imitate the peculiar beat or rhythm of
the engine, the accent must fall upon the third syllable of each line, while
each syllable is given with staccato effect, and the whole line on a monotone.
The fifth stanza represents two equal beats on the two syllables—the rhythm
of the engine when moving in half time on account of danger.]
“We are ready for work—
We are ready for work—”
So says the great engine when we start
And the steam comes up from its pulsing heart.
With its hundred iron arms and hands
It is waiting to take us to foreign lands,
And it says in the cheeriest sort of way
While our friends are watching us down the bay,
“We are ready for work—
We are ready for work—”
“We will carry you over—
We will carry you over—”
It seems to say on the ocean wide
When no land can be seen on either side;
And we wonder how it can ever be
That we can go straight o’er the trackless sea.
And we watch the engine day by day,
Encouraged by what it seems to say,
“We will carry you over—
We will carry you over—”
“Our work is praying—
Our work is praying—”
It says on the sunny Sabbath day
When the passengers meet to sing and pray;
And through the sermon and chanted psalm
We listen with hearts subdued and calm
To the faithful strokes of the engine strong
As over the ocean we sail along;
“Our work is praying—
Our work is praying—”
“Sleep safe till morning—
Sleep safe till morning—”
Are the words we hear in the dead of night
When only the sailors can see a light;
And the great ship rushes along as free
As if the sunshine were on the sea;
And we rest secure near the beating heart
Of the engine doing its noble part;
“Sleep safe till morning—
Sleep safe till morning—”
“Don’t fear—
Don’t fear—”
It can say no more in the heavy fog
Which seems its very breath to clog;
While with hearts grown faint and lips that pray
We think of the friends who are far away,
And of hidden perils and sudden death
Although the engine pants under breath,
“Don’t fear—
Don’t fear—”
“It is all right now—
It is all right now—”
Are the words we hear when the sun peeps through
And the leaden clouds catch a tint of blue;
And the iron arms work hard and fast,
For we are in sight of the land at last.
And the engine seems as glad as we
That the ship is now from all danger free.
“It is all right now—
It is all right now—”
O brave engine, you little know
What to your faithful heart we owe.
You did your duty by day and night;
As well in the darkness as the light;
Never letting an hour go by,
Never stopping to question Why—
Showing what beauty and grace can be
In honest Toil and Fidelity.
The Child on the Judgment-Seat.
Mrs. E. Charles.
[Recitation for Two Students.]
Where hast thou been toiling all day, sweetheart,
That thy brow is burdened and sad?
The Master’s work may make weary feet,
But it leaves the spirit glad.
No pleasant garden-toils were mine;
I have sat on the judgment-seat
Where the Master sits above, and calls
The children around His feet.
How camest thou on the judgment-seat?
Sweetheart, who set thee there?
’Tis a lonely and lofty seat for thee,
And well might fill thee with care.
I climbed on the judgment-seat myself,
I have sat there alone all day,
For it grieved me to see the children around
Idling their life away.
And what didst thou on the judgment-seat,
Sweetheart, what didst thou there?
Would the idlers heed thy childish voice?
Did the garden mend for thy care?
Nay, that grieved me more; I called and I cried,
But they left me there forlorn;
My voice was weak, and they heeded not,
Or they laughed my words to scorn.
Ah, the judgment-seat was not for thee,
The servants were not thine,
And the eyes which fix the praise and the blame
See farther than thine or mine.
Should I see the Master’s treasures lost,
The gifts that should feed his poor,
And not lift my voice—be it weak as it may—
And not be grievèd sore?
But how fared thy garden-plot, sweetheart,
Whilst thou sat on the judgment-seat?
Who watered thy roses and trained thy vines,
And kept them from careless feet?
Nay, that is saddest of all to me,
That is the saddest of all.
My vines are trailing, my roses are parched.
My lilies droop and fall.
Go back to thy garden-plot, sweetheart,
Go back till the evening falls,
And bind thy lilies and train thy vines
Till for thee the Master calls.
Go make thy garden fair as thou canst,
Thou workest never alone;
Perchance he whose plot is next to thine
Will see it and mend his own.
And the next shall copy his, sweetheart,
Till all grows fair and sweet;
And when the Master comes at eve
Happy faces His coming shall greet.
Then shall thy joy be full, sweetheart,
In thy garden so fair to see,
In the Master’s voice of praise for all,
In a look of His own for thee.
The Two Glasses.
C. B. A.
[Recitation for Two Students.]
There sat two glasses filled to the brim
On a rich man’s table, rim to rim;
One was ruddy and red as blood,
And one was as clear as the crystal flood.
Said the glass of wine to the paler brother:
“Let us tell the tales of the past to each other;
I can tell of a banquet and revel and mirth,
Where the proudest and grandest souls on earth
Fell under my touch as though struck by blight;
For I was a king, and I ruled in might;
From the heads of kings I have torn the crown,
From the height of fame I have hurled men down,
I have blasted many an honored name;
I have taken virtue and given shame;
I have made the arm of the driver fail,
And sent the train from the iron rail;
I have made good ships go down at sea,
And the shrieks of the lost were sweet to me;
For they said, ‘Behold, how great you be!
Fame, strength, wealth, genius before you fall,
And your might and power are over all.’
Ho! ho! pale brother,” laughed the wine,
“Can you boast of deeds as great as mine?”
Said the water-glass: “I cannot boast
Of a king dethroned, or a murdered host;
But I can tell of a heart once sad,
By my crystal drops made light and glad;
Of thirsts I’ve quenched, and brows I’ve laved;
Of hands I have cooled, and souls I have saved;
I have slept in the sunshine and dropped from the sky,
And everywhere gladdened the landscape and eye;
I have eased the hot forehead of fever and pain,
I have made the parched meadows grow fertile with grain;
I can tell of the powerful wheel of the mill,
That ground out the flour and turned at my will;
I can tell of manhood debased by you,
That I have lifted and crowned anew.
I cheer, I help, I strengthen and aid;
I gladden the heart of man and maid;
I set the chained wine-captive free,
And all are better for knowing me.”
These are the tales they told each other,
The glass of wine and its paler brother,
As they sat together, filled to the brim,
On the rich man’s table, rim to rim.
The Sorrow of the Sea.
Concert. I stood on the shore of the beautiful sea,
And the billows were rolling wild and free;
Onward they came with unfailing force,
Then backward turned in their restless course.
Ever and ever they rose and fell,
With heaving and surging and mighty swell:
Ever and ever sounded their roar,
Foaming and dashing against the shore.
Solo. Oh, when shall the ocean’s troubled breast
Calmly and quietly sink to rest?
When shall the waves’ wild murmurs cease
And the mighty waters be hushed in peace?
Concert. It cannot be quiet; it cannot rest.
There must be heaving on ocean’s breast,
The tide must ebb and the tide must flow
While the changing seasons come and go.
Oh, strangely glorious, beautiful sea,
Sounding forever mysteriously,
Why are thy billows still rolling on
With that wild and sad and musical tone?
Why is there never repose for thee
O mighty, murmuring, sounding sea?
Solo. Then the ocean’s voice I seemed to hear,
Mournfully, solemnly sounding near,
Telling of loved ones buried there,
Of the dying shriek and the dying prayer;
Telling of hearts still watching in vain
For those who shall never come back again;
Oh, no! the ocean can never rest
With such secrets hidden within its breast.
But a day shall come, a blessed day,
When earthly sorrow shall pass away,
When the hour of anguish shall turn to peace,
And even the roar of the waves shall cease.
Concert. But, oh! thou glorious, beautiful sea,
There is health, and joy, and delight in thee.
Solemnly, sweetly, I hear thy voice
Bidding me weep and yet rejoice:
Weep for the loved ones buried beneath,
Rejoice in Him who has conquered death;
Weep for the sorrowing, tempest-tossed,
Rejoice in Him who has saved the lost;
Weep for the sin and sorrow of strife,
Rejoice in the hope of eternal life!
The Death of our Almanac.
Rev. Henry Ward Beecher.
[Selection for Twelve Students.]
January. Darkness and light reign alike. Snow is
on the ground, cold is in the air. The winter is blossoming
in frost-flowers. Old sounds are silent in the
forest and in the air. Insects are dead, birds are gone,
leaves have perished. So hath God wiped out the past;
so hath he spread the earth, like an unwritten page, for
a new year.
February. As the month wears on its silent work
begins, though storms rage. The earth is hidden yet,
but not dead. The sun is drawing near. He whispers
words of deliverance into the ears of every sleeping
seed and root that lies beneath the snow. The day
opens, but the night shuts the earth with its frost-lock;
but day steadily gains upon the night.
March. The conflict is more turbulent, but the victory
is gained. The world awakes. There come voices
from long-hidden birds. The smell of the soil is in the
air. The sullen ice, retreating from open field and all
sunny places, has slunk to the north of every fence and
rock. The knolls and banks that face the east or south
sigh for release, and begin to lift up a thousand tiny
palms.
April. The singing month. Many voices of many
birds call for resurrection over the graves of flowers,
and they come forth. Go, see what they have lost.
What have ice, and snow, and storm done unto them?
How did they fall into the earth, stripped and bare?
How did they come forth, opening and glorified? Is it,
then, so fearful a thing to lie in the grave? In its wild
career, shaking and scourged of storms through its orbit,
the earth has scattered away no treasures. The
Hand that governs in April governed in January. You
have not lost what God has only hidden. You lose
nothing in struggle, in trial, in bitter distress.
May. O Flower-month! perfect the harvests of flowers.
Be not niggardly. Search out the cold and resentful
nooks that refused the sun, casting back its
rays from disdainful ice, and plant flowers even there.
There is goodness in the worst. There is warmth in
the coldest. The silent, hopeful, unbreathing sun,
that will not fret or despond, but carries a placid brow
through the unwrinkled heavens, at length conquers the
very rocks, and lichens grow and inconspicuously blossom.
What shall not Time do, that carries in its bosom
Love?
June. Rest! This is the year’s bower. Sit down
within it. The winds bring perfume, the forests sing
to thee, the earth shows thee all her treasures. The
air is all sweetness. The storms are but as flocks of
mighty birds that spread their wings and sing in the
high heaven. The earth cries to the heavens, “God is
here!” The heavens cry to the earth, “God is here!”
The land claims him, and his footsteps are upon the
sea. O sunny joys of sunny June, how soon will you
be scorched by the eager months coming burning from
the equator!
July. Rouse up! The temperate heats that filled the
air are raging forward to glow and overfill the earth.
There are deep and unreached places for whose sake the
probing sun pierces down its glowing hands. The earth
shall drink of the heat before she knows her nature or
her strength. Then shall she bring forth to the uttermost
the treasures of her bosom. For there are things
hidden far down, and the deep things of life are not
known till the fire reveals them.
August. Reign, thou Fire-month! Neither shalt
thou destroy the earth which frosts and ice could not
destroy. The vines droop, the trees stagger, but every
night the dew pities them. This is the rejoicing month
for joyful insects, the most populous and the happiest
month. The air is resonant of insect orchestras, each
one carrying his part in nature’s grand harmony. August,
thou art the ripeness of the year, the glowing center
of the great circle.
September. There are thoughts in thy heart of death.
Thou art doing a secret work, and heaping up treasures
for another year. The unborn infant-buds which thou
art tending are more than all the living leaves. Thy
robes are luxuriant, but worn with softened pride. More
dear, less beautiful than June, thou art the heart’s
month. Not till the heats of summer are gone, while
all its growths remain, do we know the fullness of life.
Thy hands are stretched out, and clasp the glowing palm
of August, and the fruit-smelling hand of October.
Thou dividest them asunder, and art thyself molded of
them both.
October. Orchard of the year! Bend thy boughs to
the earth, redolent of glowing fruit! Ripened seeds
shake in their pods. Apples drop in the stillest hours.
Leaves begin to let go when no wind is out, and swing
in long waverings to the earth, which they touch without
sound, and lie looking up, till winds rake them and
heap them in fence-corners. When the gales come
through the trees, the yellow leaves trail, like sparks at
night behind the flying engine. The woods are thinner,
so that we can see the heavens plainer, as we lie dreaming
on the yet warm moss by the singing spring. The
days are calm. The nights are tranquil. The year’s
work is done. She walks in gorgeous apparel, looking
upon her long labor, and her serene eye saith, “It is
good.”
November. Patient watcher, thou art asking to lay
down thy tasks. Life to thee, now, is only a task accomplished.
In the night-time thou liest down, and the
messengers of winter deck thee with hoar-frosts for thy
burial. The morning looks upon thy jewels, and they
perish while it gazes. Wilt thou not come, O December?
December. Silently the month advances. There is
nothing to destroy, but much to bury. Bury, then, thou
snow, that slumberously fallest through the still air, the
hedgerows of leaves! Muffle thy cold wool about the
feet of shivering trees! Bury all that the year hath
known, and let thy brilliant stars, that never shine as
they do in thy frostiest nights, behold the work! But
know, O month of destruction, that in thy constellation
is set that Star whose rising is the sign, for evermore,
that there is life in death! Thou art the month of resurrection.
In thee the Christ came. Every star that
looks down upon thy labor and toil of burial knows that
all things shall come forth again. Storms shall sob themselves
to sleep. Silence shall find a voice. Death shall
live, Life shall rejoice, Winter shall break forth and blossom
into Spring, Spring shall put on her glorious apparel
and be called Summer. It is life! it is life!
through the whole year!
Two Epitaphs.
[The following can be read by a class in concert, or by two sections of a
class. It is a fine exercise in transition from soft to loud Force, slow to quick
Time, low to high Pitch, minor to major Inflection.]
