Our Profession and Other Poems Part 21

Itself and I had but one birth, It came from heaven to gladden earth-- And brighten man's abode; To feel the magic of its power Is richer boon than any dower The earth has yet bestowed.

Favored in this has been my lot; Relentless Death has robbed me not-- Though fifty years have flown, Of all the ecstasy and joy That came to me when but a boy, Or since to manhood grown,

Of that benign maternal smile, Whose magic influence can beguile My heart from worldly care, And lead me toward that beacon-light Of motive pure and act aright, No matter when or where.

O blessed influence of the past!

May all my mother's counsels last Until my heart shall cease To send its crimson current round The tenement wherein 'tis bound, And Death shall bring release.

Still let these visions come to me Of her I would so gladly see Though far from her I roam; They bring sweet memory of the past, Which but a few more years may last, Of happiness and home.

THE EVENING BEFORE MY BROTHER'S FIFTY-THIRD BIRTHDAY.

Dear Brother, how the time speeds on And leaves its trace upon our forms; The days of sunny youth are gone And age unfits us for the storms That gather oft for you and me-- To-morrow you'll be fifty-three.

It seems but yesterday since youth Was all aglow within our hearts, But still we recognized the truth, Old age has pierced us with his darts Until from pains we are not free-- To-morrow you'll be fifty-three.

Long years of toil and anxious care Have left their records all too plain; The failing eye, the snowy hair, The limbs and body racked with pain, Tell tales that all the world can see-- To-morrow you'll be fifty-three.

Still on life's battlefield we'll fight And win such victories as we may, Believing still that right is might And faithful hearts shall win the day; Then let us shout and sing with glee-- To-morrow you'll be fifty-three.

And when a few more days are past And we are bowed with years and care, The cheerful sunshine still may last To make declining years more fair; Ah! much I hope that this may be-- To-morrow you'll be fifty-three.

'Tis sweet to think of boyhood's days And all the happiness they gave, To summon back life's earliest plays And call lost childhood from its grave; Thus memory gives us victory-- To-morrow you'll be fifty-three.

Since manhood's form was given me Until this hour, our ways have been In different lines of industry, And scarce have we each other seen; Your birthday's held in memory-- To-morrow you'll be fifty-three.

MY BROTHER'S BIRTHDAY.

Fifty-eight to-day, fifty-eight to-day!

How years of your life have sped away, And left in the brown of the dying year A quiet content, devoid of fear At the onward march of Time's noiseless feet, Which ever advance, but ne'er retreat, As they bear you on to that silent sh.o.r.e, From which earth's mortals return no more.

With the night of time come the sunset cares, The faltering step, the snowy hairs, The tottering frame, and the stifled breath, Sure harbingers of approaching death, That bring with their train a tranquil repose Unknown to the tears and sighs and woes That belong to scenes of an active life, Whose atmosphere breathes of toil and strife.

As glorious day dies out in the west And sinks in crimson splendor to rest, While the stars of heaven come one by one With reflected light from th' sinking sun, So may life with you in its late decline, Leave a trail of light that yet may shine To illumine the path that others tread, And cheer the way of the vanquished.

TO MY DAUGHTER BLANCHE IN HEAVEN.

Died Jan. 4th, 1893, aged 11 years.

Darling of my bosom, Pride of my loving heart, Hopes were sorely shattered When I saw your life depart; In you I saw my future, Cheered by your smile and voice, Sorrow ceased its frowning, My spirit would rejoice.

Life was made much brighter By your presence sweet; At your cheery coming Heart-shadows would retreat; Soulful songs with meanings Beyond your years were sung; To chords of sweetest rapture Your heart-strings e'er were strung.

From out the realms of heav'n Still you speak to me, And fancy draws the curtain That I your face may see; Perhaps in the hereafter I yet may fully know The purpose of your going, Your mission here below.

THE VOICE.

To me comes a voice that none other Hath power to hear or to know, Its cadence so sweet and consoling Is a whisper so gentle and low, That the flight of an angel might covet The silence it bears in its tone; It speaks to me often, to comfort My heart when I sit all alone.

I oft close my eyes at the twilight And that voice comes floating to me Like the song of some fairy creature That dwells in a pearl-lighted sea; When the shades of midnight infold me That voice lulls me gently to rest, And tells me the time is not distant When my spirit shall dwell as its guest.

When shadows of night are departing And smiling Aurora appears, That voice of sweet invitation Falls soothingly into my ears; A form that I fondly cherish Like a vision of beauty I see, That comes on an angelic mission With counsel and solace for me.

How sweet is the voice that is calling-- Is calling in rapture to me And leading me close to the border Where into its home I can see!

It tells me the land is not distant, That soon when my boat I must launch, I shall know the voice that is calling, Is the voice my lost darling Blanche.

When Liberty lies wounded, And shrieks in wild despair, Then patriots will cast aside The party garb they wear, And honest hands and hearts unite, To wash away the stain That narrow-minded partisans Would selfishly maintain.

Dear G.o.ddess of our fathers!

Our hands shall e'er maintain The sacred trust of keeping free The realm where thou dost reign; And counting not our lives too dear To offer unto thee, We dedicate all that we are To our sweet Liberty.

A PICTURE.

I sat by the farm-house window When the winter's sun was low, And looked on the clear horizon O'er fields white-crested with snow.

A tree with its arms outstretching, Was limned on the distant sky, And my fancy saw a picture Such as gold can never buy.

Perhaps to no other vision Could the scene be just the same, For blendings in the picture Had on me a special claim.

My mother oft had looked upon That fair picture in the west, While sitting in that self-same chair, Ere she laid her down to rest.

This gave a charm to the picture Of especial power to me, And my vision saw a painting That none else on earth could see.

I can close my eyes at twilight Though now many miles away, And see that lovely horizon At close of expiring day.

I can see the true formation Of each rock and tree and field, In a perfect panorama That time has not yet concealed.