Our Profession and Other Poems Part 4

The tympanum with perfect drum Hears not the sound when armies come With clarion notes and song, Unless its stimulated nerve Has fully learned to humbly serve In stations which belong

To those which G.o.d designed should live For special duties, He might give To move mankind along Upon the road toward perfect man, That He might thus reveal His plan, And happiness prolong.

THE TONGUE.

The power that lies in perfect speech Dwells with the few who only reach That art through toil and care; A faulty tongue perverts the ear, Destroys the sense, augments the fear, And feeds on empty air.

A nation's destinies have hung Upon the influence of a tongue Whose magic eloquence Has swayed the thoughts of men, whose word Was mightier than the glittering sword Of armies most immense.

THE HAND.

The manual touch when guided by The magic power of sympathy That animates the soul, May lead to fields of cultured art And cast an influence on the heart May through all ages roll.

The canva.s.s and the stone may speak To more than Roman and to Greek Though in a foreign land; They show the might of cultured skill Directed by an iron will That guides a master's hand.

THE NOSE.

The perfumed fields of blooming May, The evening scent of new-mown hay Touch nerve olfactory, And carry to the thoughtful brain Loved memories of a long-past train That once was full of glee.

Though flowers to-day are choice and rare, In colors they may well compare With richest hues we meet; They lack the charm that gave them power Since past is youth's entrancing hour Their fragrance seems less sweet.

COMBINED INFLUENCE.

Five roads lead to the human brain And through these roads all must obtain The commerce of all lore; No thought can enter mental port Of any kind or any sort, Of modern days or yore,

Except such as a tariff pays To pa.s.s these honored, great highways Which lead to eminence, And follow closely every nerve Which G.o.d designed should truly serve Each mind of consequence.

Perhaps that star in yonder sky, May be my dwelling place on high, When life on earth is done; At eventide I love to gaze Upon its soft reflected rays, When silent and alone.

Its brightness charms and draws my soul, By some mysterious, strong control I cannot well explain, Unless it be within it dwell The friends of earth I loved so well, Who could not here remain.

SOUL SPEAKS TO SOUL.

Soul speaks to soul, eye speaks to eye, And mind by mind is read; The heart bounds in sweet ecstasy Whene'er a light is shed, That shines to illume a cherished thought That seemed to dwell alone, But on through years has n.o.bly sought To solve some truth unknown.

The living truth that seemeth dead, Needs but a kindred touch To resurrect thought's vital thread, And give it influence, such As breaks the bands of fettered mind, And sunders thraldom's chains, Spreads benefactions, pure, refined, Where ignorance now reigns.

Magnetic touch of spark divine, Speak to the inert soul, Let light from out the darkness shine, And truth her page unroll; Speak to the minds that waiting, starve, And give them power to see, That he who patiently will serve Shall win the victory.

OUR BATTLEFIELD.

[Written for an entertainment given by the Fife and Drum Corps (36 uniformed members) of the Third Ward Grammar School of Long Island City, of which the writer is Princ.i.p.al.]

There are fields of martial glory Where the slain are ne'er bemoaned; There are victories though silent, Where grim monarchs are dethroned; There are scenes of strife and foray Where gigantic forces strive For the mastery and triumph Of the ends for which they live.

There are forces more puissant Than ten million armed men, There are banners that are emblems Of the mighty tongue and pen, That reflect upon their blazon Honest purpose grand and true, Such as never graced the victors Of Sedan and Waterloo.

There are weapons in these contests Keener than the Damask blade, There are metals of such temper As no crucible e'er made; For the dross must be extracted In the furnace of the soul Till no refuse or pollution Shall defile the perfect whole.

Though this army counts its millions, Each must face alone the foe, Each must bring a special weapon, Each must strike himself the blow That shall free him from the shackles Of that despot and his train, Who with ignorance and vices Would destroy the heart and brain.

Our true sword is Education And grim Ignorance our foe; We are battling with our pa.s.sions, And our spirits are aglow With a full determination To accept the proven truth That the days of precious seed-time, Are the sunny days of youth.

Day by day the contest rages And each task that's daily done, Brings a soothing satisfaction That another victory's won.

Thus the strength we gain in action Aids in each succeeding strife, To make the struggles lighter In the battles of our life.

There are avenues and byways Which lead into the heart, Whose intricate environments Require the highest art To tell what inspiration Shall touch a dormant mind, And fire it with a living zeal For a station more refined.

It is only voice of music That speaks universal tongue; It matters not in what accent A sweet melody is sung, It will find responsive feelings Which will aptly understand Though it be of unknown measure And sung in a foreign land.

We come with our martial music, With our noisy fife and drum To inspire the weak and weary, To open the mouths of the dumb, To train our every emotion For a better sphere in life, To enjoy for the pa.s.sing moment The sound of the drum and fife.

We hope our notes may be peaceful And free from carnage of war; We would bind up the broken hearted And cover the wound and scar, But should foe our country menace And refuse to be just and calm, We would sound aloud the tocsin And march to defend Uncle Sam.

To plant an intellectual seed And guard its growth from noxious weed, That it may fruitage bear, Is solace more, a thousand fold, Than h.o.a.rding bonds and stocks and gold, Or sporting jewels rare.

GOOD HABITS.

A silent force marks out the course Of every man and woman, No matter what may be the lot Of creatures that are human,

The end attained is ever gained By means so strange and hidden, We call it luck, instead of pluck, Or fate by fairies bidden.

The human eye cannot descry All workings of the brain; At silent night, it gains a might Which bears a mental train

Whose lucid glow may thrones o'erthrow, Or bid new nations rise, May prove some plan whereby proud man May ransack earth and skies.

Think not such power a fairy's dower, Or influence from some star, It did not spring from anything Beyond what mortals are.

To man is given the keys of heaven If they be rightly used; No being born but must be shorn If blessings are abused.