Mountain idylls, and Other Poems Part 4

If I Have Lived Before.

If I have lived before, some evidence Should that existence to the present bind; Some innate inkling of experience Should still imbue and permeate the mind, If we, progressing, pa.s.s from state to state, Or retrograde, as turns the wheel of fate.

If I have lived before, and could my eyes But view the scenes wherein that life was spent, Or even for an instant recognize The climes, conditions and environment Beloved by them in that pre-natal span, Though past and future both be sealed to man;

Or, if perchance, kind memory should ope'

Her floodgates, with fond recollection fraught, 'Twould then renew the dormant fires of hope, Now smothered out by speculative thought; 'Twould then rekindle faith within a breast, Where doubt is now the sole remaining guest.

The Darker Side.

They say that all nature is smiling and gay, And the birds the most happy of all, But the sparrow, pursued by the sparrowhawk, Savors more of the wormwood and gall.

They say that all nature is smiling and gay, But the groan may dissemble the laugh; E'en now from the meadow is wafted the sound Of a bovine bewailing her calf.

They say that all nature is smiling and gay, But the moss often covers the rock; Every animal form is beset by a foe, For the wolf always follows the flock.

For the animal holds all inferior flesh As its just and legitimate prey; Every scream of the eagle a panic creates As the weaker things scamper away.

They say that all nature is smiling and gay, But the smiles are all needed to sweeten The struggle we see so incessantly waged To eat, and avoid being eaten.

And men, with their genial compet.i.tive ways Present no decided improvements, For their personal gain they will sacrifice all Who may stand in the way of their movements.

The Miner.

Clink! Clink! Clink!

The song of the hammer and drill!

At the sound of the whistle so shrill and clear, He must leave the wife and the children dear, In his cabin upon the hill.

Clink! Clink! Clink!

But the arms that deliver the st.u.r.dy stroke, Ere the shift is done, may be crushed or broke, Or the life may succ.u.mb to the gas and smoke, Which the underground caverns fill.

Clink! Clink! Clink!

The song of the hammer and drill!

As he toils in the shaft, in the stope or raise, 'Mid dangers which lurk, but elude the gaze, His nerves with no terrors thrill.

Clink! Clink! Clink!

For the heart of the miner is strong and brave; Though the rocks may fall, and the shaft may cave And become his dungeon, if not his grave, He braves every thought of ill.

Clink! Clink! Clink!

The song of the hammer and drill!

But the heart which is beating in unison With the steady stroke, e'er the shift is done, May be cold and forever still.

Clink! Clink! Clink!

He may reap the harvest of danger sowed, The hole which he drills he may never load, For the powder may e'en in his hand explode, To mangle, if not to kill.

Clink! Clink! Clink!

The song of the hammer and drill!

Facing dangers more grim than the cannon's mouth; Breathing poisons more foul than the swamps of the south In their tropical fens distill.

Clink! Clink! Clink!

Thus the battle he fights for his daily bread; Thus our gold and our silver, our iron and lead, Cost us lives, as true as our blood is red, And probably always will.

Life's Undercurrent.

Within the precincts of a hospital, I wandered in a sympathetic mood; Where face to face with wormwood and with gall, With wrecks of pain and stern vicissitude, The eye unused to human misery Might view life's undercurrent vividly.

My gaze soon rested on the stricken form Of one succ.u.mbing to the fever's drouth, With throbbing brow intolerably warm, With wasted lips and mute appealing mouth; And when I watched that prostrate figure there I thought that fate must be the worst to bear.

I next beheld a thin but patient face, Aged by the constant twinge of hopeless pain, Wheeled in an easy chair from place to place, A form which ne'er might stand erect again; I viewed that human shipwreck in his chair, And thought a fate like that was worst to bear.

Within her room a beauteous maiden lay, Moaning in agony no words express, A cancer eating rapidly away Her vital force,--so foul and pitiless; And when I saw that face, so young and fair, I thought such anguish was the worst to bear.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Have cut the deep gorge with its wonderful curves."

BOX CAnON, LOOKING INWARD, OURAY, COLORADO.]

A helpless paralytic met my eyes, Whose hands might never grasp a friendly hand, But hung distorted and of shrunken size, Insensible to muscular command; His face an abject picture of despair; I thought a fate like that was worst to bear.

With wasted form, emaciate and wan, A pale consumptive coughed with labored breath, His sunken eyes and hectic flush upon His cheek, foretold a sure but lingering death; I thought, whene'er I met his hollow stare, A wasting death like that was worst to bear.

That day with fetters obdurate and fast, With chain of summer, winter, spring and fall, Is bounden to the dim receding past; Time o'er my life has spread a somber pall, With sightless eyes I grope and clutch the air, My lot is now the hardest lot to bear.

They Cannot See the Wreaths We Place.

They cannot see the wreaths we place Upon the silent bier, They cannot see the tear-stained face, Nor feel the scalding tear, And now can flowers or graven stone, For wrongs done them in life atone?

Better the flower that smooths the thorns On earthly pathway found, Than that which uselessly adorns The bier or silent mound.

And neither tear nor floral token Retracts the hasty word, when spoken.

Then strew the flowers ere life has fled, While yet their eyes discern; Why waste their fragrance on the dead Who no fond smile return?

The heaving breast with sorrow aches, Comfort the throbbing heart which breaks.