Poems by Hattie Howard Part 1

Poems.

by Hattie Howard.

"The Salt of the Earth."

The salt of the earth--what a meaningful phrase From the lips of the Saviour, and one that conveys A sense of the need of a substance saline This pestilent sphere to refresh and refine, And a healthful and happy condition secure By making it pure as the ocean is pure.

In all the nomenclature known to the race, In all appellations of people or place, Was ever a name so befitting, so true Of those who are seeking the wrong to undo, With naught of the Pharisee's arrogant air Their badge of discipleship humbly who wear?

Do beings, forsooth, fashioned out of the mold, So secretly, strangely, those elements hold That may be developed in goodness and grace To shine in demeanor, in form and in face Till they, by renewal of heavenly birth, Shall merit their t.i.tle--the salt of the earth?

To the landsman at home or the sailor at sea, With nausea, scurvy, or canker maybe, 'Tis never in language to overexalt The potent preservative virtue of salt-- A crystal commodity wholesome and good, A cure for disease, and a savor for food.

Ah, the beasts of the wood and the fowls of the air Know all of the need of this condiment rare, Know well where the springs and the "salt-licks" abound, Where streams salinaceous flow out of the ground; And their cravings appease by sipping the brine With more than the relish of topers at wine.

Our wants may be legion, our needs are but few, And every known ill hath its remedy true; 'Tis ours to discover and give to mankind Of hidden essentials the best that we find; 'Tis ours to eradicate error and sin, And help to make better the place we are in.

If ever this world from corruption is free, And righteousness reign in the kingdom to be, Like salt in its simple and soluble way Infusing malodor, preventing decay.

So human endeavor in action sublime Must never relax till the finale of time.

To thousands discouraged this comforting truth Appeals like the promise of infinite youth: To know, as they labor like bees in the hive, Yet do little more than keep goodness alive-- To know that the Master accredits their worth As blessed disciples--"the salt of the earth."

Not Gone.

They are not gone whose lives in beauty so unfolding Have left their own sweet impress everywhere; Like flowers, while we linger in beholding, Diffusing fragrance on the summer air.

They are not gone, for grace and goodness can not perish, But must develop in immortal bloom; The viewless soul, the real self we love and cherish, Shall live and flourish still beyond the tomb.

They are not gone though lost to observation, And dispossessed of those dear forms of clay, Though dust and ashes speak of desolation; The spirit-presence--this is ours alway.

Let Us Give Thanks.

If we have lived another year And, counting friends by regiments Who share our love and confidence, Find no more broken ranks, For this let us give thanks.

If, since the last Thanksgiving-time, Have we been blessed with strength and health, And added to our honest wealth, Nor lost by broken banks, For this would we give thanks.

If through adversity we trod, Yet with serene and smiling face, And trusted more to saving grace Than charlatans and cranks, For this let us give thanks.

If we have somehow worried through The ups and downs along life's track, And still undaunted can look back And smile at Fortune's pranks, For this would we give thanks.

If every page in our account With G.o.d and man is fairly writ, We care not who examines it, With no suspicious blanks, For this let us give thanks.

Sonnet.

Upon my smile let none pa.s.s compliment If it but gleam like an enchanting ray Of sunshine caught from some sweet summer day, In atmosphere of rose and jasmine scent And breath of honeysuckles redolent, When, with the birds that sing their lives away In harmony, the treetops bend and sway, And all the world with joy is eloquent.

But in that day of gloom when skies severe Portend the tempest gathering overhead, If by my face some token shall appear Inspiring hope, dispelling darksome dread, Oh, be the rapture mine that it be said, "Her smile is like the rainbow, full of cheer."

A Rainy Day.

Oh, what a blessed interval A rainy day may be!

No lightning flash nor tempest roar, But one incessant, steady pour Of dripping melody; When from their sheltering retreat Go not with voluntary feet The storm-beleaguered family, Nor bird nor animal.

When business takes a little lull, And gives the merchantman A chance to seek domestic scenes, To interview the magazines, Convoke his growing clan, The boys and girls almost unknown, And get acquainted with his own; As well the household budget scan, Or write a canticle.

When farmer John ransacks the barn, Hunts up the harness old-- Nigh twenty years since it was new-- Puts in an extra thong or two, And hopes the thing will hold Without that missing martingale That bothered Dobbin, head and tail, He, gentle equine, safe controlled But by a twist of yarn.

When busy fingers may provide A savory repast To whet the languid appet.i.te, And give to eating a delight Unknown since seasons past; Avaunt, ill-cookery! whose ranks Develop dull dyspeptic cranks Who, forced to diet or to fast, Ergo, have dined and died.

It is a day of rummaging, The closets to explore; To take down from the dusty shelves The books--that never read themselves-- And turning pages o'er Discover therein safely laid The bills forgot and never paid-- Somehow that of the corner store Such dunning memories bring.

It gives a chance to liquidate Epistolary debts; To write in humble penitence Acknowledging the negligence, The sin that so besets, And cheer the hearts that hold us dear, Who've known and loved us many a year-- Back to the days of pantalets And swinging on the gate.

It gives occasion to repair Unlucky circ.u.mstance; To intercept the ragged ends, And for arrears to make amends By mending hose and pants; The romping young ones to re-dress Without those signs of hole-y-ness That so bespeak the mendicants By every rip and tear.

It is a time to gather round The old piano grand, Its dulcet harmonies unstirred Since Lucy sang so like a bird, And played with graceful hand; Like Lucy's voice in pathos sweet Repeating softly "Shall we meet?"

Is only in the heavenly land Such clear soprano sound.

It is a time for happy chat _En cercle tete-a-tete_; Discuss the doings of the day, The club, the sermon, or the play, Affairs of church and state; Fond reminiscence to explore The pleasant episodes of yore, And so till raindrops all abate As erst on Ararat.

Ah, yes, a rainy day may be A blessed interval!

A little halt for introspect, A little moment to reflect On life's discrepancy-- Our puny stint so poorly done, The larger duties scarce begun-- And so may conscience culpable Suggest a remedy.

The Subway.

Oh, who in creation would fail to descend That wonderful hole in the ground?-- That, feeling its way like a hypocrite-friend In sinuous fashion, seems never to end; While thunder and lightning abound.