Chapter 5

Though brown and dusty be his garb From wrestling with the soil, The farmer is God's nobleman, Made so, by honest toil.

THE OLD FARM.

The dear old farm has a sacred charm That extends to farthest bound, Every rock and tree is dear to me, And hallowed seems the ground.

Its beautiful stream whose waters gleam As they dance on to the sea, Sings sweeter song, as it moves along, Than other waters to me.

No leaves are so green, as those that screen The revered old farm-house doors, From the burning sun of torrid June When his fiercest rays he pours.

Each grove and field doth a mem'ry yield Of dear childhood's blissful hours, And in accents clear, voices I hear That have now augmented powers.

My father's care and my mother's prayer Are now ended here on earth, But as time rolls on, since they have gone, I shall understand their worth.

There's a sacred charm in the dear old farm, For loved ones have trod its soil, And much I now see, appears to me As fruit of their faithful toil.

MAPLE AT MY FATHER'S DOOR.

On velvet green of grassy floor, 'Neath maple at my father's door My couch at eve has been; There gazing on the tranquil sky, With all its astral brilliancy, My spirit sang within.

Then far away beyond the blue, On Fancy's wings my vision flew And scanned the realms of space; Then like a dove far from her nest, Returned to find a perfect rest Within its dwelling place.

OCEANUS' MIRROR, TRINITY LAKE, N. Y.

[See Note on "Fidelity."]

I've been charmed by many a picture, That has brought its master renown; I have looked on beautiful valleys From the mountain's lofty crown; I have gazed on the sky at evening, When the heavens were all aglow, But they fail to charm me so fully As this scene in the waters below.

Fair Trinity lay in her beauty, Not a ripple was on her breast, Her borders of hemlocks and mosses With beautiful flowers were dressed; Clear as the air on her bosom Were her waters so pure and deep, They seemed like the magical mirror That Flora and Nereus keep.

Where the rocks and trees bend over The marge of her western shore, The boat glided slowly onward Without the aid of the oar; When glancing the eye at the shadows Reflected from shore near at hand, There appeared a bright panorama, Most charming--exquisitely grand.

Down, down, far down in the waters, And touching the brink of the lake, Was a picture no master painter With pencil or brush could make; Gray rocks, green trees, and bright flowers, Inverted and magnified, too, Seemed perfect in all but proportion And their upturned chimerical view.

It seemed like a fairy enchantment Inviting to feasts down below, Where grottoes and caverns of beauty Illumine the flowers that grow To charm the nymphs of the water, And beguile all the sylvan elves To the table of old Oceanus, Where guests ever help themselves.

Some spirit seemed calling me sweetly, Inviting me then to partake Of the fanciful pleasures reflected Far down in the clear, placid lake. O, beautiful scene of reflection! So perfect, so grand, and so pure, In my mind that mirror enchantment To the end of my days must endure.

MORNING FLOWERS.

The flowers all wash their faces fair With the dews of the smiling morn, Then turn to greet the god of the air As his light in the east is born.

They call th' breeze from th' slumb'ring west And a censer place in his hand, Then mingle perfumes, choicest, best, To waft o'er the festive land.

The flower of th' heart may lave in deeds That refresh the worthy poor, And th' soul's perfume is that which feeds The hungry, weak, and sore.

* * * * *

That spring unfolds to pleasure's eye; There's wisdom in the falling drop That had its birth in yonder sky. The breeze that fans the fevered brow, Or gives new vigor to frail man, Is but the breath of the Divine Sent to fulfill benignant plan.

ARTIST NATURE.

When Aurora springs from her couch of clouds And opens the gate of a perfect day, And her brother Sol in his daily rounds Advances his steeds toward Polaris' ray, Then the vernal bloom and the warbling bird That follow his track as he speeds along, Send their fragrance pure on the morning air, And fill leafy groves with ecstatic song.

Oceanus lends invisible bowls, Well filled with vapors that rise from his breast, Eurus is summoned to waft them afar And scatter abroad in the distant west, Where Sol with his brush and an artist's touch, Paints on the sky all the glories of heaven, In colors more bright and blendings more true, Than ever on canvas by mortal was given.

One sunset scene in Hesperian sky, When the courts of heaven are all ablaze With the glorious tints and pageantry That to mortal mind so clearly portrays The mighty power of omnipotent hand, And the tender touch of a boundless love, Is an omen true--infallible proof Of a Deity who presides above.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

MUSIC.

When musical chords are tensioned To sentiments they should express, And touched by a master artist Whose deft hand gives the proper stress, The effect is so ecstatic When vibrations fall on the ear, The soul stands in silent rapture, And our being expands to hear.

At skillful touch of the master A creation of joy is given, That lends to the spirit pinions To waft it away toward heaven, While it sings to the same measure And becomes a part of the song, Enraptured by the magic power Which carries it gently along.

O the magic power of tension When a master hand has control! It wins the heart's approbation And augments the receptive soul; 'Tis a rapture born in heaven To entrance our expectant ears, 'Tis angelic diapason Such as harmonized once the spheres.

We each have an organ, tensioned With a thousand strings and their keys, All made by a Master builder Who permits us ourselves to please; Its wonderful combinations Far surpass all the works of art, 'Tis the master-piece of creation-- The versatile, strange, human heart.

We have sole choice of the music That shall sound on the tensioned strings; We may choose if sad or joyous Shall be the final note it sings; Though fate may fling fiercest chaos, Its Maker reserved to us powers That we need not ever surrender, For the strength to possess is ours.

Let my tongue sing songs of rapture And my heart-strings sweetly respond, Till the notes shall pass earth's border And reach the bright portals beyond; And when in the great hereafter The tension shall be much increased, My joys will be there augmented To know that earth's songs have not ceased.

* * * * *

I often long for some quiet nook Away from the noise and strife Which come from the steady daily round That absorbs my busy life; Away in some shadowy forest Whose silence is supreme, Save the song of feathered minstrel And the murmur of a stream; Far away among the dark shadows That form Fauna's trysting-bowers,-- But the time of this total seclusion Should ne'er exceed six hours.

REST.

When wearisome task is finished And flesh with fatigue is oppressed, When muscles are tired and languid And sinews are sorely distressed, No balm can renew their vigor Like that boon from heaven called rest.

We know not its composition, Nor can we expound all its laws, We grant the effect is pleasant Tho' we cannot explain the cause; We therefore accept the blessing And bid curiosity pause.

Foremost in its rank of agents Is a heavenly maid called Sleep, Who stands in unbroken silence, And ever her watch will keep O'er mortals whose labors and trials Seem heavy, oppressive, and deep.

Sometimes when sorrows are deepest This maiden refuses relief; She's no balm for the broken-hearted, No cure for a head bowed with grief, No soothing touch for the anguish That robs like a heartless thief.

She flies from deep woe and sorrow And recedes from the blinding tear; Yet hastes to fatigue and trials And offers to them smiles of cheer Such as turn to joy and gladness, Murky doubt and foreboding fear.

When death shall release the spirit From its prison-house of vile clay, It will speed to an elysian Of a cloudless, unending day, Where with others of its kindred, It will find a rest for aye.

* * * * *

Well filled with murky ink, When in my solitary den I sit for hours to think, And trace my thoughts in liquid flow Upon some virgin page, That in the future it may show What thoughts my mind engage.

SUCCESS.

Success knows no diminution, For failure hovers so near, That with trace of slight dilution, Success must cease to appear.

We look in vain for a substitute To take the place of success; A proxy saps its vital cords, It dies of paralysis.

Nothing can take the place of success, Its measure must be complete, If slightest imperfection is found It suffers a deadly defeat.

The marge that divides sturdy success From failure grim and gaunt, Is invisible space, but separates Abundance from woe and want.

Like pack of wolves on army's trail, Fell failure lives on distress, Devouring with greed th' foul refuse That falls from th' hands of success.

Success and failure closely abide-- Success has a palace fine, While failure dwells in a dreary hut, Like a herding place for swine.

Success may not always achieve The object it has in view, But lives while its motives and acts Are earnest, noble, and true.

True failure can only be found In a being devoid of heart, Whose efforts and deeds are all dead, Or act but a sluggard's part.

Success has a heart that can sing, A hand and a spirit to try, A word that is fraught with good cheer, A soul that illumines the eye.

Failure is cheerless, sullen, and glum, His hand hanging idly by, His voice is an echo of woe, His face distorted, awry.

FRAGMENTS.

This world was made of fragments Each separate from the other, Yet in such close relation As to indicate a brother.

Each atom of the universe Has in itself attraction, That finds response so much allied To voluntary action,

That one might quickly recognize A power, supreme, benign, That emanates from master hand With forces so divine,

That every touch which nature gives To matter or to mind, Must indicate creative power Superior to mankind.

What scientist can ever tell The mainspring of all action, If all his reasons fail so prove Molecular attraction?

It has its source from out the space, Beyond the astral heaven; It had a purpose to perform, Or it had not been given.

We may not know its secret laws Or understand its source, But faith has taught us to be wise And recognize its force.

Of all the teeming millions now Upon this mundane sphere, Not one can give a reason For his living presence here.

'Tis strange, and yet we know 'tis true, We constantly are dying, All things are old, nothing is new, And life with death is vying.

We know not when this all will cease, We cannot understand Why matter never may increase, Or seas become dry land.

Enough we know to serve the end For which we were designed, God never yet was known to send The blind to lead the blind.

If we but act an honest part, And use the powers given, When from this earth we shall depart, We may be wise in heaven.

A BEACON LIGHT.

Adown the vistas of the past I cast my memory's eye, And see bright scenes receding fast,-- Some hopes in ruins lie; Yet still there shines a beacon light Whose ray on me descends, And shows in its effulgency A circle of true friends.

The magic charm this circle yields Is richer far to me, Than cattle in a thousand fields Or gems from the deep sea; It whispers softly in my ears And cheers me on my way, Gives faith for doubt and murky fears, And comfort for dismay.

MEMORY.

Earthly scenes are worth preserving, Bitter though they sometimes be; Who would wish to sink in Lethe All the fruits of Memory? None could dare offend his Maker By a wish so rash and vain; For by this kind boon from Heaven Life is all lived o'er again.

In the silent hour of twilight, Thoughts of by-gone days will come, Stealing o'er our better feelings, Bringing back our early home; All the soothing words of friendship Spoken by a tongue now still, Touch the fountains near our heart-strings, And our eyes with moisture fill.

Tender, oh, how sweetly tender, Are the musings of an hour, When the mellowing scenes around us Give to Memory magic power; Thought recalls those scenes long parted, Life epitomized appears, Moments then reflect a lifetime Reaching back through many years.

Oh, how blessed are those moments! Present scenes can never fire Such a rapture in our bosom As fond Memory can inspire; Naught on earth can e'er be spoken To attract the living ear, Like the words of the departed Uttered when among us here.

Time and Death have made them sacred, Memory calls them oft to mind, And her choicest, dearest treasures, She for them has oft entwined; This is but a simple homage, Richly paying him who kneels; He who's prompted by such feelings, For his fellow being feels.

Dark must be that soul enshrouded, Which Oblivion would prefer To the soothing power of Memory And the influence shed by her: Life itself is not worth having If deprived of such a bliss, Earth has not another treasure That we may compare with this.

DISCONTENT.

Let quiet people talk of peace-- Contentment of the mind, But he who lives at perfect ease Can never bless mankind.

If each no higher end should seek Than that which now he fills, But be content, subdued, and meek, 'Twould bring a thousand ills.

Advancement then would have an end. Progression then would cease, Invention have no earnest friend, And science no increase.

But Discontent, though called a fiend, Is progress in disguise, 'Tis _this_ by which our end's attained, 'Tis _this_ by which we rise.

The pupil may surpass the sage If such his aim shall be, May fathom truths for many an age Were wrapped mystery.

The genius may invent some plan To ease the laborer's toil, Or add facility for man To cultivate the soil.

Contentment never did aspire To elevate mankind, It never raised the standard higher Of science or of mind.

'Tis Discontent that gains the prize In every useful art; Although it brings us tearful eyes And restlessness of heart;

But then it has a sweet reward-- Progression is the fruit, But some this sweetness have abhorred For others have the boot.

For he who blesses most mankind, Himself is seldom blessed, And he whose deeds should be enshrined Will seldom be caressed.

Yet, let our banner ne'er be furled, Our lives in quiet spent; For 'tis a truth that all the world Still thrives on Discontent.

OUR POLITICS.

"The purification of politics is an iridescent dream." U. S. Senator, John J. Ingalls, Kansas.

"Purification of politics Is an iridescent dream," Is the Ingalls way of saying that Corruption's power's supreme.

Have the people lost their honesty, Has the Nation sunk so low, That partisan strife can blind our eyes Till we know not friend from foe?

If such be true, this fair land of ours Must fail to mature the Hope That blossomed fair on Liberty's tree, But in impotence must grope.

Beautiful land! God's own favored land! Thy sons must united be, Statesmen should now hold the public helm, Throw factions into the sea,

Teach politicians with all their schemes, The people yet are supreme; That Augean stables--politics-- May be cleansed by ballot's streams.

SUNSET.

Softly the tints of expiring day Tinge th' vaults of Hesperian heaven, Leaving a trace of the sun's mellow ray To escort the shadows of even.

All of the gates of Phoebus are drawn, Yet his splendor has left to sight A trail of enchantment to linger till dawn, To charm the still hours of the night.

Scenes of such cloud-land often reveal A grandeur that augments the soul; Heaven has no beauties it seeks to conceal, No secrets inscribed on its scroll.

Through the earth for an age we may roam, And through space our vision may fly, Yet no pleasure is like that at home When we gaze on a God-painted sky.

When we think of the forces displayed To prepare for a cloud-scene at even, Of the elements deftly arrayed That a gorgeous effect may be given,

Of the mists and the winds and the light, Of the blendings that art cannot teach, Of the mysteries hidden from sight That our knowledge would gladly reach,

Of the order, the purpose, design, In the pictures that hang in the sky, We know that the hand is divine That arranged all their brilliancy,

Then our faith lifts the curtain that hides The Spirit that ordered the plan, And assures us He ever abides To encourage and elevate man.

At sunset my spirit shall sing Of the beauties the elements yield, Let my heart then its off'ring bring To the Artist of sky and of field.

When my soul from its dwelling of clay, Shall escape to that unknown sphere, May it be at the close of the day, When the glories of sunset appear.

Soothingly, sweetly comes unto me The thought that my soul may rest, In a land whose glory shall be Like cloud-scenes that glow in the west.

SELFISHNESS.

Who lives for self alone should be Placed in some lonely, hollow tree, And left to toad and bat and owl-- To creatures man considers foul-- Where he shall be perpetual prey For frightful ogres night and day.

A narrow soul that lives for self, Should stand on some old musty shelf, Where spiders, rats, and vermin throng, And listen only to the song Of filing saw and creaky mill, And owlet's hoot and whip-poor-will.

Who lives for self is not afraid Of meanest thing God ever made, For he himself is that same thing; Though peasant, plebian, or king, He thwarts the purpose of God's plan, He lacks the impulse of a man.

No soul enwrapped within itself, Or dwarfed by pride, or love of pelf, Can serve its Maker or mankind As nobly as was erst designed By the Great Architect above, Whose being is Unselfish Love.

RETROSPECTION.

I sit when the shadows are stealing The light of departing day, And think of the scenes and pleasures I enjoyed in my childhood's play.

I can picture them all so plainly, They seemed not a day gone by, I recall the fields and garden, The lake and the clear blue sky.

I can see the bright water flowing At the foot of the sloping hill, The dam that impeded its progress, The toy-wheel of water-mill.

I can trace every line and feature Of trees and the shadows they cast, The lanes, the rocks, and orchards, That on journey to school were past.

I can close my eyes for an instant And draw a scene to my mind, That seems like a photo-engraving, As true, as complete, as defined.

Time's flight has not dim'd or shaded One outline the scenes gave then, Though the years that have intervened, Are nearly two score and ten.

There's a central, attractive figure, With heart unselfish and warm, That always appears in the picture-- 'Tis my mother's benignant form.

I can see her in all the beauty And glow of a mother's pride, As she patiently watched and labored For her children at her side.

How sweet to my soul is the power To so clearly these scenes portray; I pray that to life's latest hour This bliss be not taken away.

ALONE.

"And the Lord God said, It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him a help meet for him."--Gen. 2, 18.

Alone! God saw His creature man, Deprived of great felicity, And changed the order of His plan That earth in harmony might be With all the products of the spheres, Which move in such perfect accord, That through aeons of passing years They but proclaim a perfect Lord.

The earth was fair and fresh and young, The stars hung in a cloudless sky, Sweet perfumes on the air were flung From every breeze went laughing by; The brook and bird in wanton glee, Attuned their notes in such refrain That earth was full of minstrelsy, And heaven re-echoed it again.

God's image, man, heard not the strain, No beauty charmed his listless eye, Earth spread her treasures but in vain, In vain shone the bejeweled sky; Earth gave no food for hungry _heart_, No solace-cup from which to sip, Defective seemed Nature and Art, To _soul_ robbed of _companionship_.

A "help meet" then to man was given, To _soothe_ and _cheer_ his lonely way; Eve was an afterthought of Heaven That crowned the last creation-day. Create anew, Almighty Power, A "help meet" for the desolate, Let no wild sophistry devour The solace Thou didst last create.

LOVE.

[Written after reading Shakespeare's sonnet commencing, "Love is not Love which alters when it alterations finds."]

Love is a sort of cannibal And lives upon its kind, It dares all dangers, fears no foes And to the world is blind, While faithful heart unswerving beats, Or pines in forced retreat; It deems all tortures fate may send Are perfumed with the sweet Aroma of implicit faith, Born of a kindred soul That to the outer things of life Spurns puny hate's control.

Love, undeceived, is perfect bliss When trust reciprocates The purest, sweetest touch that Heaven Within the soul creates; But fierce Vesuvius cannot burn With such destructive flame, As fires Love's victim of deceit Stung by the taunts that claim No truthful fountain as their source, No mild-voiced Justice to allay The cauldron of defenseless fraud Distilled through treachery.