Mountain idylls, and Other Poems Part 9

Within the wind, my untaught ear The voice of Deity can hear, And in the fleeting cloud discern His movements, vast and taciturn; For in the universe I trace The wondrous grandeur of His face.

I see him in each blade of gra.s.s, Each towering peak and mountain pa.s.s; Each forest, river, lake and fen Reveals the G.o.d of worlds and men; His works of wisdom prove to me, A wise, creative Deity.

The Fragrant Perfume of the Flowers.

The fragrant perfume of the flowers, Exuding in the summer hours, E'en as the altar's incense rare Disseminated through the air, May never reach the azure skies, Yet can the earth aromatize.

And so the voice of secret prayer, Ascending on the wings of air, Though it should reach no listening ear, Of Deity inclined to hear, Still soothes the anguish of the mind, And leaves a tranquil peace behind.

An Answer.

When pa.s.sing years have streaked with frost These tresses now as jet, When life's meridian is crossed And beauty's sun has set, When youth's last fleeting charm is lost, Wilt thou be constant yet, Nor time thy sentiment exhaust And cause thee to forget?

If so-- My answer, I confess, Shall be a calm, decided "Yes"; But otherwise a "No"!

Fame.

There is a cliff, no matter where, Which softened by the agencies Of rain, exposure to the air, And alternating thaw and freeze, Most readily admits the edge Of chisel, or the sharpened wedge.

The travelers, while pa.s.sing by, Within its shade find welcome rest; And one of them mechanically, As is a custom in the west, Upon its surface stern and gray Carved out his name, and went his way.

Though inartistic and uncouth, That effort of a novice hand Exemplifies a striking truth, And may Time's ravages withstand, To be by future ages read, When years and centuries have fled.

So on life's mighty thoroughfare, The mult.i.tude of every cla.s.s Leave no inscriptions chiseled, where Their transient footsteps chanced to pa.s.s, And waft to each succeeding age No echoes from their pilgrimage.

Though many pa.s.s, yet few record Their names in characters sublime, By grand achievement, work or word Upon the monolith of Time; But few inscribe a lasting name On the eternal cliffs of Fame.

The First Storm.

The leafless branch and meadow sere, The dull and leaden skies, Join with the mournful wind and drear In dirges for the pa.s.sing year, Which unreturning flies.

The night in starless gloom descends, Nor can the pale moonshine Break through the clouds whose veil extends In boundless form, and darkly blends With the horizon's line.

Fond nature, in a playful mood, In cover of the night, Arrays the plain and forest rude, The city and the solitude, In robe of spotless white.

Thoughts.

I dug a grave, one smiling April day, A grave whose small proportions testified To empty arms, and playthings put away, To ears which heard, when only fancy cried; I wondered, as I shaped that little mound, If in my home such grief should e'er be found.

I dug a grave, 'twas in the month of June; A grave for one who at his zenith died; When, on that mound with floral tributes strewn, The tear-drops fell of one but late his bride, I wondered if upon my silent bier Should rest the moist impression of a tear.

I dug a grave by Autumn's sober light, A grave of full dimensions; 'twas for one Whose hair had changed its raven hue to white, Whose course had finished with the setting sun; I wondered, as I toiled with pick and spade, Where, and by whom, would my last home be made.

From A Saxon Legend.

Within a vale in distant Saxony, In time uncertain, though 'twas long ago.

There dwelt a woman, most unhappily, From borrowed trouble, and imagined woe.

Hers was a husband generous, and kind, Her children, three, were not of uncouth mold; Hers was a thatch which mocked at rain and wind; Within her secret purse were coins of gold.

The drouth had ne'er descended on her field, Nor had distemper sore distressed her kine; The vine had given its accustomed yield, So that her casks were filled with ruddy wine.

Her sheep and goats waxed fat, and ample fleece Rewarded every harvest of the shear; Her lambs all bleated in sequestered peace, Nor prowling wolf occasioned nightly fear.

With all she fretted, pined, and brooded sore, Harbored each slight vexation, courted grief, Shut out the smiling sunshine from her door, And magnified each care to bas relief.

Still waxed her grievous burden more and more, Till, with a resolution, rash and blind, At dead of night she fled her humble door, As if to leave her grievous load behind.

She journeyed as the night wore slowly on, Unmindful of the tuneful nightingale, Till in due time her footsteps fell upon A hill, the demarcation of the vale.

As Lot's wife, in her flight, could not refrain From viewing foul Gomorrah's funeral pyre, From one last glance across that ancient plain, At guilty Sodom wreathed in vengeful fire;

So when this woman reached the summit's crest, She turned her eyes in one last farewell look, The fruitful vale lay stretched in placid rest, And all was silent save the breeze and brook.

The moon in partial fullness, mild, serene, Flooding the landscape with her mellow light, Illumined every old familiar scene, Brought their a.s.sociations to her sight.

When, lo! as if by touch of magic wand, On every roof, of tile, of thatch or wood, As instantly as magic doth respond, A cross, of various size and form there stood.

O'er homes unknown to frown or grievous word, O'er homes where laughter hid the silent wail, O'er homes where discontent was never heard, Huge crosses glistened in the moonlight pale.

A cross o'er every habitation rose, O'er ducal palace, and the cottage small Where slept the husbandman in deep repose; And, lo, her cross was smallest of them all!