Our Profession and Other Poems Part 22

It is not an idle fancy For me now to paint the scene, Since my mother's form has faded From the place where she has been.

I know it affords me comfort To recall from day to day, That scene from the farm-house window, Since my mother pa.s.sed away.

MY ROOM IN BOYHOOD'S DAYS.

After forty years.

Sacred these walls wherein I find Myself inclosed once more; Here in youth's pride my ardent mind On nightly tasks would pore.

Sweet were these tasks, for mental power Comes with each duty done; And ray of light charmed midnight's hour When thought its victory won.

Oft did the battle seem severe, Sometimes defeat seemed nigh, But pride and love must persevere When all our powers we try.

Struggles bring a development That will not brook defeat; Within us dwells an element That makes just contest sweet.

If barriers in our mental path Stand like a sullen foe, Summon the soul, in righteous wrath Strike a decisive blow,

And spare not till the victory Puts ignorance to flight; And let the battle-cry e'er be Science and Truth and Right!

Such victories, when fairly won, Put slaughter's field to shame, And Honor's self shall place upon Such victors, wreaths of fame.

O happy hours within these walls, But happier far to me Is the expanded mind which calls Deep thought, best liberty.

That mental power which sees the world As beauty, grace, and art, Wherein G.o.d's loveliness unfurled, Speaks to a living heart,

And leads it tenderly to see The harmony of laws Which unifies immensity, And tells of the First Cause,

Yields greater solace, richer lore, Than books alone can give; For mind and soul form the great power By which we act and live.

The wealth that dignifies mankind Is not in bonds and stocks, But in rich thoughts, n.o.ble, refined, Needing no bars nor locks.

When man for manhood more shall strive, And less for greed and gain, The humble poor may n.o.bly live, And feel not hunger's pain.

These walls are sacred unto me, For thought here learned to soar And build the ark of liberty I love, exalt, adore.

NATURE'S VOICE.

Every tree and plant, every tiny flower That grows in wood or field, Hath a voice that calls aloud to me, And a beauty half concealed, That draw my ears to hear a strain Of music sweet and low, And paint for me far richer hues Than the sunset's evening glow; They speak to me as no tongue can speak; Their voices are sweeter far Than the tones that fall from human lips, Or strains of sweet music are.

POUNDRIDGE, N. Y.

Perhaps no spot upon this sphere, Has charms for me more sacred, dear, Than those of old Poundridge; I love her hills, her lakes, her streams, Her rural haunts, where Nature teems With joys naught can abridge.

Her dew-bespangled meadows shine With gems of radiance so divine, When touched by matin sun, That myriad pendant drops of dew, Lend to the mead a brilliant hue Like earth with diamonds strown.

The woods that sleep on distant hills, Or watch o'er gently murmuring rills, Seem restful to the soul; Their silence brings sweetest repose, A panacea for the woes That spurn M. D.'s control.

The healthful, healing, peaceful rest, To frame fatigued, to mind distressed, Seems but a foretaste here, Of that serene and blest abode, Which to the faithful child of G.o.d Hereafter shall appear.

I love the rustic's rough demesne, Which yields to toil a wealth unseen To those of civic life; For here I drank, in youth's bright dawn, The draughts of vigor which were drawn From labor's busy strife.

I love the house wherein I played, The yard o'erspread by maple's shade, The nearby babbling brook; The fields o'er which my youthful feet Sped onward toward the trout's retreat, With dangling line and hook.

I love the path across the wood Which once I trod in search of food For hungering, thirsting mind, The room where pupils used to meet And strive to make their work complete And manners more refined.

All these I love for what is past, And still must love while life shall last; But I do love still more The souls who fired my mental lamp, And on my character did stamp Truths fraught with richest lore.

I see my aged mother there, My father in his old arm-chair, And fancy hears their voice; My brother yet so full of joy, Has pa.s.sed the limits of a boy, But still can much rejoice.

Upon the hill, the lakes between, Are sacred mounds of living green, Where sleep my precious dead; A vacant spot reserved for me, To which my heart looks longingly, Invites my weary head.

No greater boon could I e'er ask When I have finished earthly task, Than quietly to rest, Surrounded by her vales and hills, Her laughing lakes and singing rills, And friends that I love best.

Tho' many years now intervene, My mind recalls each boyhood scene Of field and wood and bridge; These cherished memories only prove Abiding faith and filial love Toward restful, old Poundridge.

TIM.

We remember well when a schoolboy, When pliant in mind and limb, We had for a boon companion, A bright youth whose name was Tim.

He was st.u.r.dy, strong, and honest, In body and mind he had vim, So we learned by intuition, To place much reliance on Tim.

We fished and hunted together, In summer, the lakes we would swim, Skated their surface in winter, With mercurial, wonderful Tim.

Our tasks at school were a union, And when thoughts were distant or dim, A light illumined the pages, That seemed a reflection from Tim.

Reciprocal visits were often, He slept with me, I slept with him, Talked till near dawn of daylight, With fluent and scholarly Tim.

Decades have pa.s.sed since that season, My hair is reduced to a rim, But my heart beats as warm as ever, For that friend of my youth, named Tim.

As years fleet away, we treasure The power of our mind to skim O'er the scenes of early doings, With valiant and trustworthy Tim.

A third of a century over, Still a friend have we now like him, Exact in his every bearing, And his name is--unchanged--Tim.