Our Profession and Other Poems Part 23

We wonder if in the hereafter, When we range with the Seraphim, Happiness will be augmented By the kindly presence of Tim.

We trust an expanded mission Will fill us with joy to the brim, As we ramble the fields of glory, With genial and faithful friend Tim.

THE UNWRITTEN LETTER.

On receiving sprigs of Forget-me-not and Lilly-of-the-Valley in envelope, through mail, with no note or name inclosed.

In form it was a letter, Unique in its every part, The expression could not be better, For it touched my inmost heart.

No pen had marred its beauty, No ink had traced a line, It did its silent duty Like a messenger divine.

Upon its page was written No English, French, nor Greek; But a universal language That only flowers can speak.

The colors were pure whiteness And heavenly tints of blue, Excelling all the brightness That art can bring to view.

The Lily-of-the-Valley And sweet Forget-me-not, That grow where perfumes dally In sweet secluded spot,

When sent to tell some story That words cannot express, Are fraught with special glory And richest tenderness.

Their perfumes speak of gladness, Their colors of delight, They neutralize dull sadness, Turn darkness into light.

They link the heart of sender To heart to which they're sent, And unto both will render The sweetness of content.

I love them for their clearness, Their whiteness and their blue; But added to such dearness Is the thought they came from you.

ALL THINGS ARE SECOND-HANDED.

On being asked to write an original poem.

"There's no new thing under the sun,"

Said the ancient priest and preacher; What seems now new is only done To quicken some old feature That lies effete, or badly worn, And lacks its pristine rigor, That needs an energizing touch To give it life and vigor.

The sun that shines on us to-day, Shone on our ancient parents Who walked upon the primal clay; And science fully warrants That not one atom has been lost, And not one atom added To all the atom matter host, Although some forms have faded.

The gorgeous colors that are cast On cloud-land morn and even, Are but reflections of the past That erst had spangled heaven With glories from that mystic throne Whose blendings none can rival, But whose expiring tints, alone, Admit of a revival.

The rain that drops has dropped before; Our flowers were another's; The songs we sing were sung of yore By long departed brothers; The sounds we hear are but the tones Or echoes of the past; We live among the mouldering bones Of forms too frail to last.

Then ask me not for something new, All things are second-handed, The old may sometimes be more true Than that more lately branded; But taking things as best we can, We know 'tis only human To shun a second-handed man, Or a second-handed woman.

But let us not be too severe On second-handed matter, For nothing seems to be more clear Than that we should not flatter Our souls into a fatal state, Of scoffing at the common, For who can tell what cruel fate May make of man or woman?

FACES WE READ.

One may read from the face at leisure, From the leaf that reflects the soul, The thought, the desire, and the measure That imprint on the facial scroll The innermost mind and its actions, The heart with its strongest desires, The pa.s.sions, impulses, and factions Which animate clay oft inspires.

Ev'ry line of th' face has a father Whose hand has engraven it there, But shades of the spirit are rather Betrayed in the hue of the hair; The pencils of thought, true to nature, Have written their records so plain, That a skillful eye reads each feature That dwells in the heart and the brain.

One may peep into occult recesses Which only the face will reveal, May read what the tongue quite represses But the eye cannot fully conceal, May fathom the deepest depressions Where the soul has buried its woe, Where the heart would hold secret sessions With scenes and events long ago.

The writer applying for a room at Newpoint Inn, Amityville, Long Island, was informed that the house was full. Some friends, stopping near, kindly invited him to go with them. He accepted. After his departure he sent the following:

AMITYVILLE.

"I was a stranger and ye took me in, Hungry and ye fed me,"

No place for me at Newpoint Inn, So home you kindly led me.

Some say the world is cold and sour, Devoid of fellow-feeling, But day by day and hour by hour, To me comes a revealing

That warm hearts beat where'er we go, Kind hands are gladly serving The kindred hearts which ever show They truly are deserving.

The world, indeed, may frigid be When icebergs float around it, But warm, true hearts of constancy, Have uniformly found it

To be a place where fragrant flowers Deprive the thorns of stings, Where sunny souls spend happy hours, And Nature laughs and sings.

We make our paths, we dwell the lives Selected by ourselves; We shape the destiny that gives Our fate to G.o.ds or elves.

Then let us know this truth full well Wherever we may be, We have a power to help us dwell In the _ville of amity_.

Robin is a singer; sweet and pure and clear Are the notes he warbles from his covert near; Softly, oh! how softly, at the sunset's glow Does he chant his vespers, plaintive, sweet, and low.

Robin is an artist; he beautifies the stream, The vale, the hill, the meadow, until they truly seem To glow, because his presence gives to each a tongue To echo back the music his minstrel throat has sung.

TRUE WEALTH.