THE BROOK

I come from haunts of coot and hern,
I make a sudden sally,
And sparkle out among the fern,
To bicker down a valley.

By thirty hills I hurry down,
Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorps, a little town,
And half a hundred bridges.

Till last by Philip's farm I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.

I chatter over stony ways,
In little sharps and trebles,
I bubble into eddying bays,
I babble on the pebbles.

With many a curve my banks I fret
By many a field and fallow,

And many a fairy foreland set

With willow-weed and mallow.

I chatter, chatter, as I flow

To join the brimming river,

For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever.

I wind about, and in and out,
With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a lusty trout,
And here and there a grayling,

And here and there a foamy flake
Upon me, as I travel

With many a silvery waterbreak
Above the golden gravel,

And draw them all along, and flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may gỡ,
But I go on forever.

I steal by lawns and grassy plots;
I slide by hazel covers;
I move the sweet forget-me-nots
That grow for happy lovers.

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,
Among my skimming swallows;
I make the netted sunbeam dance
Against my sandy shallows.

I murmur under moon and stars
In brambly wildernesses;

I linger by my shingly bars;
I loiter round my cresses;

And out again I curve and flow
To join the brimming river,

For men may come and men may go,

But I go on forever.

Alfred Tennyson.

OH, SAY, WHAT IS TRUTH?

Oh, say, what is truth? 'Tis the fairest gem
That the riches of worlds can produce;
And priceless the value of truth will be, when
The proud monarch's costliest diadem

Is counted but dross and refuse.

Yes, say, what is truth? 'Tis the brightest prize
To which mortals or gods can aspire;

Go search in the depths where it glittering lies,
Or ascend in pursuit to the loftiest skies;

'Tis an aim for the noblest desire.

The sceptre may fall from the despot's grasp,
When with winds of stern justice he copes,
But the pillar of truth will endure to the last,
And its firm-rooted bulwarks outstand the rude blast
And the wreck of the fell tyrant's hopes.

Then, say, what is truth? 'Tis the last and the first,
For the limits of time it steps o'er;

Though the heavens depart, and the earth's fountains

burst,

Truth, the sum of existence, will weather the worst,

Eternal, unchanged, evermore.

John Jaques.

CASEY AT THE BAT

It looked extremely rocky for the Mudville nine that day; The score stood two to four, with but an inning left to

play.

So, when Cooney died at second, and Burrows did the

same,

A pallor wreathed the features of the patrons of the

game.

A straggling few got up to go, leaving there the rest, With that hope which springs eternal within the human

breast,

For they thought, "if only Casey could get a whack at that,"

They'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat.

But Flynn preceded Casey, and likewise so did Blake, And the former was a puddin', and the latter was a fake, So on that stricken multitude a deathlike silence sat, For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a "single," to the wonderment of all, And the much-despised Blakey "tore the cover off the ball."

And when the dust had lifted, and they saw what had occurred,

There was Blakey safe at second, and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then, from the gladdened multitude went up a joyous

yell,

It rumbled in the mountain-tops, it rattled in the dell; It struck upon the hillside and rebounded on the flat; For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey's manner, as he stepped into his place;

There was pride in Casey's bearing, and a smile on Casey's face.

And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,

No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt,

Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt;

Then while the New York pitcher ground the ball into his hip,

Defiance gleamed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurling through the air,

And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.

Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said.