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Poems Every Child Should Know

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<h3>A Modest Wit.</h3> <div class="pre_poem">I learned "A Modest Wit" as a reading-lesson when I was a child. It has clung to me and so I cling to it. It is just as good as it ever was. It is a sharp thrust at power that depends on externalities. Selleck Osborne. (——.) </div> <table class="poem" summary="poem"><tr><td><div class="stanza"> A supercilious nabob of the East— Haughty, being great—purse-proud, being rich— A governor, or general, at the least, I have forgotten which— Had in his family a humble youth, Who went from England in his patron's suit, An unassuming boy, in truth A lad of decent parts, and good repute. </div> <div class="stanza"> This youth had sense and spirit; But yet with all his sense, Excessive diffidence Obscured his merit. </div> <div class="stanza"> One day, at table, flushed with pride and wine, His honour, proudly free, severely merry, Conceived it would be vastly fine To crack a joke upon his secretary. </div> <div class="stanza"> "Young man," he said, "by what art, craft, or trade, Did your good father gain a livelihood?"— "He was a saddler, sir," Modestus said, "And in his time was reckon'd good." </div> <div class="stanza"> "A saddler, eh! and taught you Greek, Instead of teaching you to sew! Pray, why did not your father make A saddler, sir, of you?" </div> <div class="stanza"> Each parasite, then, as in duty bound, The joke applauded, and the laugh went round. At length Modestus, bowing low, Said (craving pardon, if too free he made), "Sir, by your leave, I fain would know Your father's trade!" </div> <div class="stanza"> "My father's trade! by heaven, that's too bad! My father's trade? Why, blockhead, are you mad? My father, sir, did never stoop so low— He was a gentleman, I'd have you know." </div> <div class="stanza"> "Excuse the liberty I take," Modestus said, with archness on his brow, "Pray, why did not your father make A gentleman of you?" </div> </td></tr></table> Selleck Osborne. <h3>The Legend of Bishop Hatto.</h3> <div class="pre_poem">"The Legend of Bishop Hatto" is doubtless a myth (Robert Southey, 1774-1843). But "The Mouse-Tower on the Rhine" is an object of interest to travellers, and the story has a point </div> <table class="poem" summary="poem"><tr><td><div class="stanza"> The summer and autumn had been so wet, That in winter the corn was growing yet: 'Twas a piteous sight to see, all around, The grain lie rotting on the ground. </div> <div class="stanza"> Every day the starving poor Crowded around Bishop Hatto's door; For he had a plentiful last-year's store, And all the neighbourhood could tell His granaries were furnished well. </div> <div class="stanza"> At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day To quiet the poor without delay: He bade them to his great barn repair, And they should have food for winter there. </div> <div class="stanza"> Rejoiced such tidings good to hear, The poor folk flocked from far and near; The great barn was full as it could hold Of women and children, and young and old. </div> <div class="stanza"> Then, when he saw it could hold no more, Bishop Hatto, he made fast the door; And while for mercy on Christ they call, He set fire to the barn and burned them all. </div> <div class="stanza"> "I' faith, 'tis an excellent bonfire!" quoth he; "And the country is greatly obliged to me For ridding it in these times forlorn Of Rats that only consume the corn." </div> <div class="stanza"> So then to his palace returnèd he, And he sat down to supper merrily, And he slept that night like an innocent man; But Bishop Hatto never slept again. </div> <div class="stanza"> In the morning as he entered the hall, Where his picture hung against the wall, A sweat-like death all over him came; For the Rats had eaten it out of the frame. </div> <div class="stanza"> As he looked, there came a man from his farm; He had a countenance white with alarm: "My Lord, I opened your granaries this morn, And the Rats had eaten all your corn." </div> <div class="stanza"> Another came running presently, And he was pale as pale could be: "Fly, my Lord Bishop, fly!" quoth he, "Ten thousand Rats are coming this way; The Lord forgive you yesterday!" </div> <div class="stanza"> "I'll go to my town on the Rhine," replied he; "'Tis the safest place in Germany; The walls are high, and the shores are steep, And the stream is strong, and the water deep." </div> <div class="stanza"> Bishop Hatto fearfully hastened away, And he crossed the Rhine without delay, And reached his tower, and barred with care All windows, doors, and loop-holes there. </div> <div class="stanza"> He laid him down, and closed his eyes; But soon a scream made him arise: He started and saw two eyes of flame On his pillow, from whence the screaming came. </div> <div class="stanza"> He listened and looked; it was only the cat: But the Bishop he grew more fearful for that; For she sat screaming, mad with fear At the army of Rats that was drawing near. </div> <div class="stanza"> For they have swum over the river so deep, And they have climbed the shore so steep; And up the tower their way is bent, To do the work for which they were sent. </div> <div class="stanza"> They are not to be told by the dozen or score; By thousands they come, and by myriads and more; Such numbers had never been heard of before, Such a judgment had never been witnessed of yore. </div> <div class="stanza"> Down on his knees the Bishop fell, And faster and faster his beads did tell, As, louder and louder drawing near, The gnawing of their teeth he could hear. </div> <div class="stanza"> And in at the windows and in at the door, And through the walls, helter-skelter they pour, And down from the ceiling and up through the floor, From the right and the left, from behind and before, And all at once to the Bishop they go. </div> <div class="stanza"> They have whetted their teeth against the stones; And now they pick the Bishop's bones: They gnawed the flesh from every limb; For they were sent to do judgment on him! </div> </td></tr></table> Robert Southey. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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