Our Profession and Other Poems Part 13

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 subst.i.tute 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 st.u.r.dy success From failure grim and gaunt, Is invisible s.p.a.ce, 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, n.o.ble, 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 s.p.a.ce, 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, G.o.d 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 surpa.s.s the sage If such his aim shall be, May fathom truths for many an age Were wrapped mystery.