Our Profession and Other Poems Part 12

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 sh.o.r.e, The boat glided slowly onward Without the aid of the oar; When glancing the eye at the shadows Reflected from sh.o.r.e 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 Ocea.n.u.s, 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 G.o.d 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.

Ocea.n.u.s 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 surpa.s.s 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 pa.s.s 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.