Chapter 6

Love that dissembles is not love, But a subtle treachery,-- A siren with a charming voice That sounds o'er a mirror sea,-- A beacon light set to allure From a harbor safe and calm,-- A soothing drug whose deadly power Yields to no proffered balm,-- A smiling face with winsome glow But poisonous, blasting breath, That breathes upon its victim, draughts Of sorrow, tears, and death.

Love that would gain a mastery To wield for pelf or power, Is not a love born clean and pure O'er which no evils lower, But like a miasmatic clime That yields delicious fruit, It hides the venom it distills, And seeks its sole repute In outward show and pageantry, Wherein are deep concealed The poisoned arrows plumed for death, It would not have revealed.

Unselfish love is but a spark Of God's own spirit dropped from Heaven, The richest boon, the sweetest joy, That unto mortals God hath given; Within itself it hath a power To lift the soul on joyous wings, Attune the heart to harmonies, And softly touch the tensioned strings That vibrate in such unison With other strings so like its own, That not a discord may be heard In cadence, blend, or tone.

* * * * *

As a cricket sang his song to me On a late September eve, The tone had a sadness in it, That over my spirit did weave A spell of gloom, at the requiem He sang in his solitude, For the dying year, th' fading leaf, And flowers by frost subdued.

LIES.

If aught on earth my soul can fire, 'Tis the deception of a liar Who with soft smoothness of the tongue, Has promises and pledges strung To suit all needs that come to hand, To serve the purpose Satan planned.

Satan himself, I think, would shun The presence of that artful one, Who violates truth's sacred laws, Regardless of the end or cause, But deems it strategy to live For the sole purpose to deceive.

If hell has any corner where Vile culprits may be doomed to share The merits they richly deserve, It should be held in strict reserve For them whose flattery and art Are used to kill a trusting heart.

Let me abhor, loathe, and despise The author of those fiendish lies, Who would for pleasure, greed, or power, The confidence of youth devour, And blight the soul with foul distrust, Or trample honor in the dust.

No sting of pain can e'er atone, No purging fire was ever known For cleansing of a heart defiled By falsehood; though it may be styled In diction, affability, It poisons like the upas tree.

Beware the tongue that will deceive, At last 'twill cause your soul to grieve Though smooth its accents now may be, Its motive power is treachery, Its fruits are laden with disease, Although its tones may often please.

Dissimulation's oily tongue Will grace Simplicity, among Her unsuspecting, trustful throng, That he may do her greater wrong, And covertly defile the pure, Some envied purpose to secure.

HEARTSTRINGS.

The tiny trembling tendons That twine about the heart, Are chords that yield a music Unknown to vocal art.

Though soft the notes are sounded, Each vibration tells a tale Of the mellow, winsome sunshine, Or of fierce, destructive gale.

Though the strings be few in number, They have compass far beyond The myriad chords around them, That are less delicately tuned.

List we softly to the music As its volumes gently roll, Varied in their intonation By the tension of the soul.

Ecstatic measures fill us With a rapture so profound, That we fancy heaven's portals With such harmonies abound.

Each note is rich in meaning, Each tone is full and clear To the charming sweet delusion Of imagination's ear.

If you would hear this music And be charmed by its tone, Attune your heart to harmony, For the music is its own.

No lessons conned in schooldays, No studied forms of art, Can profit us so greatly As communion with our heart.

It will sing us songs of rapture, Though silent each may be; It will help to solve the questions Of life's great mystery.

If one would hear sweet harmony He carefully must live; For these songs will be an echo Of the keynote he shall give.

If heartstrings be but tuned aright Sweet melodies we hear; If strung with envy and deceit, The tone is doleful, drear.

Then let us tune our hearts with joy, And touch the strings with glee, For honor, truth, and purity, Will bring soul-ecstasy.

WHO KNOWS?

It matters not what be our lot Upon this mundane sphere, In spite of fears and burning tears While we shall linger here, We must depend on foe or friend For many things we need To give the soul that full control Which makes it strong indeed.

For noble end, make him a friend Who can reciprocate, A kindly act, not to it tacked The proof of reprobate. God only knows whom we may choose And safely trust as brother, The seeming saint may have a taint That proves him quite another.

In human dust we scarcely trust The egotistic pious, Who thinks that he from sin is free-- Not subject to its bias; A holy man does all he can For God and human kind; He meekly lives, but counsel gives In language pure, refined.

TWILIGHT HOUR.

[Set to Music by Com. T. C. Adams.]

I love to spend the twilight hour When stars their radiance o'er me cast, With that benign mysterious power Which calls up mem'ries of the past, And brings anew the scenes of yore, Like sacred perfume from some shrine Whose hallowed influence ever more Proves life and love of birth divine. Sweet twilight hour! sweet twilight hour! How blissful is thy magic power, At thy return new strength is given To lead me to the gates of heaven.

I love at such an hour as this To hold sweet converse with my soul, Anticipate a promised bliss, Or memory's charmed page unroll; To feel life's not alone for me, But has some aim, some end, some plan, Which to the soul gives dignity, And leads toward heaven a fellow man.

I love at twilight hour to see The lamps of heaven in glory shine With beacon-light effulgency, To guide me to that land divine, Where dwell the loved of former years, And where no sorrow e'er may come, Where God shall wipe away all tears, And I shall find abiding home.

Oh, twilight hour, how sweet thou art! Thy coming oft relieves my pain, Thy soft communings with my heart Prepare me for life's toils again; Drive thou away my sordid thought, And give my soul augmented power; Teach me to use thee as I ought, Thou holy, blessed twilight hour.

* * * * *

Let us not lose the heritage Our fathers did bequeath To sons whose grasp should hold secure The prize, till hour of death Shall still the heart, and loose the nerve Whose tension holds secure The magic love of Liberty And Justice, strong and pure.

THE HAIR.

Since the days of primal story Of Eden's happy pair, A woman's greatest glory Is her glossy flowing hair; It is a safe criterion By which to judge her life, To ascertain, if duly won, She'd prove a worthy wife.

Its color and arrangement, Its sunshine and its storm Prefigure an estrangement, Or friendship true and warm. We dearly love the sunshine Of locks with golden hue, That bear this blessed combine-- Kind, tender, warm, and true.

We read volumes of character In every lock of hair; The life, the mind, the heart's prefer Are plainly written there; No printed index could portray The soul's environment, So plainly and so perfectly As capillary bent.

Beware the frouzy, unkempt lock That speaks of negligence; Regard cosmetic's fancy stock Of little consequence; Trust only such as speak of taste Born of a cultured mind, Whose purposes are pure and chaste Whose structure, soft, refined.

* * * * *

A thoughtful mind may lessons draw From faded leaf or broken straw; May beauty see in some lone star That cheers the storm-tossed mariner; May note in solitude some sound Wherein soft harmonies abound; May hear no voice from human lip; Yet dwell in blest companionship.

LIBERTY.

Into the port where Liberty stands Inviting the nations to woo her, Malefactors swarm from foreign lands, Whose tenets would surely undo her.

Criminals, paupers, the ostracised From all countries beyond the great sea, Flock into the land our fathers prized, And baptized "The Sweet Land of the Free."

They come not to build a hearth and home, Or to clear and improve our rich soil, But prowl like wolves that in forest roam, And prey on fruits of our honest toil.

Long were our shores a refuge secure, For the honest, the brave, and the true; With valor and pride, men would endure The trials that for State might accrue.

Men there are yet, who come to our shore, In honor high, of great moral powers, Whose hands give strength to homes we adore, And whose hearts are as loyal as ours.

For these there is room and welcome, too, For there's land quite enough and to spare, But we pray that all the vicious crew To their homes o'er the sea may repair.

Shall we quarantine disease and death, Whose subtle infections float in the air, And grant free power to the pois'nous breath That would strangle our Liberty fair?

Sons of the Nation, arise in might! And then swear by the God we adore, This vicious crowd shall be put to flight, And forever debarred from our shore.

Freedom and Liberty need our care, If from wounds we would e'er keep them free, For a frenzied brain would even dare To destroy through base treachery.

Long live the land unto freedom given, And forever may Liberty stand, With beacon flame from the throne of heaven, And a symbol of Light in her hand.

When stars shall fade from the dome of heaven, And sun shall refuse his golden light; When noon of Time shall be changed to even, And earth shall be lost to human sight;

When crash of worlds and revolving spheres Shall lose in chaos, identity; And Time shall be measured not by years, But on shall roll through eternity;

Then Liberty's form may sink in dust; But loyal sons shall transported be From the mundane scenes of moth and rust, To the perfect home of Liberty.

I ween that when such an hour as this, Shall marshal friends who have fought and died For the sacred cause of earthly bliss, And Freedom's cause have so magnified,

There shall be a special crown for him Who has stood undaunted in the fight; But the brightest star in the diadem Is steadfast love for the Truth and Right.

"LO," THE DEPARTED.

The Bison strong and the Indian wild Have departed from our plains; The land where they lived has been defiled By man's greed for worldly gains.

The human tide that on them has rolled In merciless energy, In search of that dazzling monarch Gold, Swept on like a mighty sea,

Till their prostrate forms, mingled with clay, Enrich the soil once their own; And naught but waters shrink in dismay, And winds in wild sorrow moan.

O, beautiful lakes and silver streams, May your names their mem'ry keep; Dear mountains, wake from your silent dreams, When your sides so wild and steep,

Shall hear your names in the Indian tongue; And echoes, reverberate The mellow tones of the songs once sung, At the hunter's evening fete.

DRIFTING AWAY.

How softly, how still, are we drifting away, On the wide Sea of Life as it beckons us on, Though the sunshine allure us 'tis but for a day, Then darkness comes o'er us and hopes are all gone.

We are drifting away in a bark that is frail, On a sea sometimes rough and whose waves often moan, Yet when all is peaceful we think not of gale, But are drifting away in our bark all alone.

So softly we float on a smooth flowing sea, That our helm and our anchors are cast to the shore, We think them a burden and wish to be free, From every encumbrance that can serve us no more.

We are drifting away with our hopes and our fears, To an ocean of life unknown to us now; We see a bright vision--though veiled by our tears, It appears like refulgence to lighten the brow.

Too slowly our bark seems to drift toward the prize, We in ecstasy wish it to speed faster on; But while we are wishing, a mist dims our eyes, And lo! that bright vision has vanished and gone.

A gloom of thick darkness now spreads like a pall, The winds of the tempest arise in their force, And amid their wild shriekings for succor we call On Him who reigns o'er us, to mark out our course.

We plead for protection from ruin and pain, Repiningly think of our anchor and helm, And could we secure those lost prizes again, No tempest could shake us, no wave could o'erwhelm.

But swiftly we're drifting, we cannot tell where, The current moves onward regardless of gloom, We raise our weak voices and utter a prayer That God in His mercy is drifting us home.

* * * * *

The silver stream by the farmhouse door Flows on and on forever, But the feet that trod its oaken floor Have crossed the mystic river, And no wind kissed by a vernal sun Can return them e'er again; Their earthly pilgrimage is done, They dwell in a new domain.

KINDRED SPIRITS.

Oh, give me some heart of a kindred spirit That smiles when I smile, or that weeps when I weep, Whose solace is greater by far to inherit Than the wealth of the mines or the gems of the deep.

Some heart that will echo response to my feeling, That thrills with delight when I speak of my joy; That sorrows with sorrow too deep for concealing, When cankering griefs make my own heart's alloy.

Some heart that appreciates each little kindness, That knows all my feelings, tho' oft unexpressed, That sees not my faults with a passionate blindness, But clings to my soul when 'tis sorely distressed.

Some heart whose affection can never be blighted, That beats all in concert with that of my own, That revels in pleasures with which I'm delighted, And grieves at the sorrows which cause me to moan.

Some heart that can never be swerved from its mooring, Though tempests may thunder and billows may roar, That espouses my fate in spite of such roaring, And when trials are sorest will trust even more.

My heart would exult to find such a treasure, And return ev'ry throb in fidelity's pride, Would suffer if need be, and call it but pleasure To live or to die for a heart so allied.

No frown of the world could e'er cause me to tremble While trusting my all in a heart such as this, Too fond to deceive me; too true to dissemble-- 'Twere a foretaste of Heaven, the acme of bliss.

Can it be, can it be, the world is so varied, Human hearts never beat on chords that are even! Is versatile man so odd, or so seared That perfect accord is known but in Heaven!

My heart shall rejoice that some kindred vibrations Soothe the devious marge of the pathway of fate, And gathering strength through many privations Shall learn in contentment to patiently wait.

* * * * *

To sit an hour on lichened stone, Or mould'ring log by moss o'ergrown, And use our ears and eyes, Will teach us the effect and cause Of many of great Nature's laws That now are mysteries.

SCHOOL DAYS.

Can we e'er forget our boyhood, And the days we spent at school, With the jolly youths and maidens Who with pencil for a tool, Squared the area of a circle, And minutely did compute The interest and discount On a promissory note?

As we worked those "grazing" questions, We could see the cattle eat; See the grass grow up by inches Beneath their cloven feet; We could surely hear a lowing That distinctly called our names, Inviting us to pastures To enjoy our childish games.

If the day were warm and pleasant, The calling seemed more clear Than when chilly winds were sighing, And the clouds were dark and drear; It was no imagination, For a schoolboy's mind is real, Though we heard that calling often We answered it with zeal.

Then we worked like real bankers And claimed "three days of grace;" Then we figured "hare and greyhound" In their leaping, jaunty race; We desired an illustration Of the problems to be solved, As no concrete computation From the abstract e'er evolved.

We solved the size of fishes, When some fraction and a part Were all the given bases To test our "number" art, But we never were contented With the fishes in the book, So we strolled off to the lakeside, Or down the purling brook.

Then we had some given acres In the form of perfect square, And a fence around its border With a circle must compare, Which would cost the greater money To fence it in with rails, Or build with posts and stringers, Sawed lumber, and cut nails.

Then we worked upon that problem Which has never yet been solved, How to live and be contented In the scenes life has evolved, Though in every operation Much must be inferred, We will find this root's extraction Will often prove a surd.

As life's day of sunshine lingers, Ere the darkness draws apace, 'Tis a blessed satisfaction To look backward o'er the race, And feel that in the running, Our best was ever done, And know that at the ending, Some trophy must be won.

Though the eye may lose its clearness And the touch may lose its thrill, Though the senses fail to gather All the promptings of the will, May the mind retain its power To recall the days of yore, Till the spirit casts its anchor On that far-off unseen shore.

When on that shore safe landed, It seems to be quite plain That the greatest satisfaction Will be to think of youth again; There must be a great transition From this mundane sphere below, If the thoughts of early boyhood May not set all heaven aglow.

PERHAPS.

Perhaps had I chosen some other profession Than that of moulding the human mind, I might have secured a greater possession Of lucre and treasures and powers combined, Than all I may now of these truly own; But I have in my casket some jewels I treasure Far more than all stocks and houses and lands, In gold and silver their worth has no measure, For none may compute warm hearts and true hands, When the shadows of years are over us thrown.

* * * * *

There are two kinds of discontent-- Malignant, and progressive,-- The latter is the proper sort, Of it, be quite possessive. The former, born of parentage Whose motive powers are evil, Serves but one purpose here below-- To aid its father--Devil.

IMPORTANT MOMENTS.

There are times when the fate of nations May hang on a moment's call; When spheres in their mute rotations May swing on a hinge so small, That the breath of a spirit's pinion Might unpoise a balanced world, And lost to law's dominion Through endless space be hurled.

There are times when the herdsman's calling May vibrate thro' alpine ranch Till the pendent drop, by its falling, Sweeps down in an avalanche, Till the mountain trembles and totters 'Neath the mighty force of snow, And the lives and homes of the cotters Are lost in the vale below.

There are times when the mind's inaction Has robbed the soul of power, When moments of deep reflection Arrive at so late an hour That they lose the force of their mission In the laggard way they come, And like withered buds of fruition, Are lifeless, powerless, dumb.

There are words that have been spoken That have echoed on thro' years; Though the vessel has been broken That voiced them to our ears, Yet they come with increased ardor As the years are passing by, Since the soul stood on the border Of vast eternity.

There are scenes that ever mirror Their forms in thought divine, That with lapse of time grow dearer Till we hold them as some shrine, Wherein are kept the treasures Of Faith and Trust and Love-- A trio fraught with pleasures Drawn from the realms above.

There are hours upon whose decision The fate of a soul may be; Though clouds may obscure the vision And we pray for a light to see The way that shall lead to heaven, And keep our pathway bright, We can use but the knowledge given And walk in our purest light.

Let us scan each hour's requisition And answer every demand, Knowing that want of decision Is a foe we cannot withstand; If we shrink from performing our duty, Or tardily fashion our thought, Life loses its charm and its beauty And existence profits us naught.

* * * * *

We know that like all human Our work is imperfect at best, And will bristle with imperfections Till our hands shall be at rest; But to justify our blunders Or pass them lightly o'er, Is the fatal way of inviting A thousand errors more.

WHO SHALL JUDGE?

We know not all that we have done, Nor may we ever know; No field was ever lost or won, Until the final blow Has registered itself in Heaven, And every impulse known, That tells a reason why 'twas given, To Him upon the Throne.

Then let us boast not of our deeds, Nor let our true hearts fail, Because we think some plan succeeds While others ne'er prevail; For he who works as best he can With lofty, pure intent, Will not be judged by puny man, But God Omnipotent.

* * * * *

This earth is a place of probation, A school wherein man may secure A knowledge of his true relation, To the noble, the true, and the pure.

THE FUTURE.

I know not what the future May have in store for me, I only know that God is God And He may trusted be.

The past with all its pleasure And all its sorrow too, Has been but a probation To prove me false or true.

If in my earthly mission No progress has been made Toward a higher spirit-- No growth of soul displayed--

Then dark, sad, and foreboding The future must appear, The soul must shrink in terror When death's hour draweth near.

If in the past no brother Has felt my outstretched hand, To aid him on his pilgrimage Toward a better land,

No word of mine brought solace To a weary careworn soul; No hand of mine has pointed To the Christian's heavenly goal;