Poems by Hattie Howard Part 13

Its shaded avenues were wide, And closely bordered either side With cottages or mansions, Or marked by blocks of masonry That might defy a century To loosen from their stanchions.

Its peaceful dwellers daily vied To make this spot, with anxious pride, A Paradise of beauty, Recounted its attractions o'er, And its adornment held no more A pleasure than a duty.

But, ere the daylight pa.s.sed away, That hamlet fair in ruins lay, Its hapless people scattered Like playthings, at the cyclone's will, And scarce remained one domicile Its fury had not shattered.

Few moments of the tempest's wrath Sufficed to mark one dreadful path With scenes of devastation; While over piles of wild debris Rose shrieks of dying agony Above the desolation.

Oh, mystery! who can understand Why, sudden, from G.o.d's mighty hand Destructive bolts of power Without discrimination strike The evil and the good alike-- As in that dreadful hour!

Alas for aching hearts that wait Today in homes made desolate By one sharp blow appalling-- For all who kneel by altars lone, And strive to say "Thy will be done,"

That awful day recalling!

We dare not question his decrees Who seeth not as mortal sees, Nor doubt his goodness even; Nor let our hearts be dispossessed Of faith that he disposeth best All things in earth and Heaven.

"Be not Anxious."

"Be careful for nothing," Phil. iv. 6. Revised version, "Be not anxious."

Of all the precepts in the Book By word of inspiration given, That bear the import, tone, and look Of messages direct from heaven, From Revelation back to Genesis Is nothing needed half so much as this.

Ah, well the great apostle spake In admonition wise and kind, Who bade humanity forsake The petty weaknesses that bind The spirit like a bird with pinioned wings, That to a broken bough despairing clings.

Were all undue anxiety Eliminated from desire, Could feverish fears and fancies be Consumed on some funeral pyre, Like holy hecatomb or sacrifice, 'Twould be accepted up in Paradise.

Could this machinery go on Without the friction caused by fret, What greater loads were lightly drawn, More easily were trials met; Then might existence be with blessings rife, And lengthened out like Hezekiah's life.

Oh, be not anxious; trouble grows When cherished like a secret grief; It is the worm within the rose That eats the heart out leaf by leaf; And though the outer covering be fair, The weevil of decay is busy there.

In deep despondency to pine, Or vain solicitude, Is to deny this truth divine That G.o.d is great and good; That he is Ruler over earth and Heaven, And so disposes and makes all things even.

Mount Vernon.

Subdued and sad, I trod the place Where he, the hero, lived and died; Where, long-entombed beneath the shade By willow bough and cypress made, The peaceful scene with verdure rife, He and the partner of his life, Beloved of every land and race, Are sleeping side by side.

The summer solstice at its height Reflected from Potomac's tide A glare of light, and through the trees Intensified the Southern breeze, That dallied, in the deep ravines, With graceful ferns and evergreens, While Northern cheeks so strangely white Grew dark as Nubia's pride.

What must this homestead once have been In boundless hospitality, When Greene or Putnam may have met The host who welcomed Lafayette, Or when Pulaski, honored guest, Accepted shelter, food and rest, While rank and talent gathered in Its banquet hall of luxury!

What comfort, cheer, and kind intent The weary stranger oft hath known When she, its mistress, fair and good, Reigned here in peerless womanhood, When soft, shy maiden fancy gave Encouragement to soldiers brave, And Washington his presence lent To grace its bright hearthstone!

O beautiful Mount Vernon home, The Mecca of our long desire; Of more than pa.s.sing interest To North and South, to East and West, To all Columbia's children free A precious, priceless legacy, Thine altar-shrine, as pilgrims come, Rekindles patriot fire!

A Prisoner.

Where I can see him all day long And hear his wild, spontaneous song, Before my window in his cage, A blithe canary sits and swings, And circles round on golden wings; And startles all the vicinage When from his china tankard He takes a dainty drink To clear his throat For as sweet a note As ever yet was caroled By lark or bobolink.

Sometimes he drops his pretty head And seems to be dispirited, And then his little mistress says: "Poor d.i.c.kie misses his chickweed, Or else I've fed him musty seed As stale as last year's oranges!"

But all the time I wonder If we half comprehend In sweet song-words The thought of birds, Or why so oft their raptures In sudden silence end.

They do not pine for forest wilds Within the "blue Canary isles,"

As exiles from their native home, For in a foreign domicile They first essayed their gamut-trill Beneath a cage's gilded dome; But maybe some sad throbbing Betimes their spirits stirs, Who love as we Dear liberty, That they, admired and petted, Are only--prisoners.

Cuba.

As one long struggling to be free, O suffering isle! we look to thee In sympathy and deep desire That thy fair borders yet shall hold A people happy, self-controlled, Saved and exalted--as by fire.

Burning like thine own tropic heat Thousands of lips afar repeat The story of thy wrongs and woes; While argosies to thee shall bear, Of men and money everywhere, Strength to withstand thy stubborn foes.

Hispaniola waves her plume Defiant over many a tomb Where sleep thy sons, the true and brave; But, lo! an army coming on The places fill of heroes gone, For liberty their lives who gave.

The nations wait to hear thy shout Of "Independence!" ringing out, Chief of the Antilles, what wilt thou?

Buffets and gyves from your effete Old monarchy dilapidate, Or freedom's laurels for thy brow?

In man's extremity it is That Heaven's opportunities Shine forth like jewels from the mine; Then, Cuba, in thy hour of need, With vision clear the tokens read And trust for aid that power divine.

The Sangamon River.

O sunny Sangamon! thy name to me, Soft-syllabled like some sweet melody, Familiar is since adolescent years As household phrases ringing in my ears; Its measured cadence sounding to and fro From the dim corridors of long ago.

There was a time in happy days gone by, That rosy interval of youth, when I The scholar ardent early learned to trace Great tributaries to their starting place; And thine some prairie hollow obsolete Whose name how few remember or repeat.

Like thee, meandering, yet wafted back From distant hearth and lonely bivouac, From strange vicissitudes in other lands, From half-wrought labors and unfinished plans I come, in thy cool depths my brow to lave, And rest a moment by thy silver wave.

But, ah! what means thy muddy, muggy hue?

I thought thee limpid as yon ether blue; I thought an angel's wing might dip below Thy sparkling surface and be white as snow; And of thy current I had dared to drink If not as one imbibing draughts of ink.

Has some rough element of horrid clay That spoils the earth like lava beds, they say, Come sliding down, as avalanches do, And thy fair bosom percolated through?

Or some apothecary's compound vile Polluted thee so many a murky mile?