O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart! 
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—­for you the flag is flung—­for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths—­for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father! 
This arm beneath your head! 
It is some dream that on the deck
You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will. 
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells! 
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

WALT WHITMAN.

INGRATITUDE.

“Ingratitude,” by William Shakespeare (1564-1616), is an incisive thrust at a refined vice.  It is a part of education to learn to be grateful.

    Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
    Thou are not so unkind
      As man’s ingratitude;
    Thy tooth is not so keen
    Because thou are not seen,
      Although thy breath be rude.

    Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
    Thou dost not bite so nigh
      As benefits forgot;
    Though thou the waters warp,
    Thy sting is not so sharp
      As friend remembered not.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

 THE IVY GREEN.

“The Ivy Green,” by Charles Dickens (1812-70), is a hardy poem in honour of a hardy plant.  There is a wonderful ivy growing at Rhudlan, in northern Wales.  Its roots are so large and strong that they form a comfortable seat for many persons, and no one can remember when they were smaller.  This ivy envelops a great castle in ruins.  Every child in that locality loves the old ivy.  It is typical of the ivy as seen all through Wales and England.

O, a dainty plant is the ivy green,
That creepeth o’er ruins old! 
Of right choice food are his meals, I ween,
In his cell so lone and cold. 
The walls must be crumbled, the stones decayed. 
To pleasure his dainty whim;
And the mouldering dust that years have made
Is a merry meal for him. 
Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the ivy green.

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,
And a staunch old heart has he! 
How closely he twineth, how tight he clings
To his friend, the huge oak tree! 
And slyly he traileth along the ground,
And his leaves he gently waves,
And he joyously twines and hugs around
The rich mould of dead men’s graves. 
Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the ivy green.