Poems by Hattie Howard Part 15

It was not beauty's potent charm; For admiration followed her Unmindful of the rounded arm, The fair complexion's brilliancy, If form and features shapely were Or lacked the grace of symmetry.

So not by marked, especial power She grew endeared to human thought, But just because, in trial's hour, Was loving service to be done Or sympathy and counsel sought, She made herself the needed one.

Oh, great the blessedness must be Of heart and hand and brain alert In projects wise and manifold, Impending sorrow to avert That duller natures fail to see, Or stand aloof severe and cold!

And who shall doubt that this is why In womanhood's florescent prime She pa.s.sed the portals of the sky?

As if a life thus truly given To purpose pure and act sublime Were needed also up in Heaven.

"Thy Will Be Done."

Sometimes the silver cord of life Is loosed at one brief stroke; As when the elements at strife, With Nature's wild contentions rife, Uproot the st.u.r.dy oak.

Or fell disease, in patience borne, Attenuates the frame Till the meek sufferer, wan and worn, Of energy and beauty shorn, Death's sweet release would claim.

By instant touch or long decay Is dissolution wrought; When, lost to earth, the grave and gay, The young and old who pa.s.s away, Abide in hallowed thought.

In dear regard together drawn, Affection's debt to pay, Fond greetings we exchange at dawn With one who, ere the day be gone, Is bruised and lifeless clay.

O thou in manhood's morning-time With health and hope elate, For whom in youth's enchanting prime The bells of promise seemed to chime, We mourn thy early fate!

To us how sudden--yet to thee Perchance G.o.d kindly gave Some warning, ere the fatal key Unlocked the door of mystery That lies beyond the grave.

Then let us hope that one who found Such favor, trust, and love, And cordial praise from all around, For rare fidelity renowned, Found favor, too, above.

So "all is well," though swift or slow G.o.d's will be done; and we Draw near to him, for close and low Beneath his chastening hand, the blow Will fall less heavily.

Snowflakes.

Of specious weight like tissue freight The snowflakes are--in sparkle pure As the rich _parure_ A lovely queen were proud to wear; As volatile, as fine and rare As thistle-down dispersed in air, Or bits of filmy lace; Like nature's tear-drops strewn around That beautify and warm the ground, But melt upon my face.

A ton or more against my door They lie, and look, in form and tint, Like piles of lint, When war's alarum roused the land, Wrought out by woman's loyal hand From linen rag, and robe, and band-- From garments cast aside-- In hospital, on battle-field The shattered limb that bound and healed, Or stanched life's ebbing tide.

I see the gleam of lake and stream, The silver glint in frost portrayed Of the bright cascade; They bear the moisture of marshes dank, The dew of the lawn, or river bank, The river itself by sunlight drank; All these in frigid air, That strange alembic, crystallize In odd, fantastic shape and size Like gems of dazzling glare.

Oh, of the snow such fancies grow, 'Till thought is lost in wandering, And wondering If portions of their drapery The angel beings, sad to see So much of earth's impurity, Have dropped from clearer skies As snowflakes, hiding stain and blot To make this world a fairer spot, And more like Paradise.

Monadnock.

One summer time, with love imbued, To climb the mount, explore the wood, Or rove from pole to pole, Upon Monadnock's brow I stood-- A lone, adventurous soul.

Beyond the Bay State border-line A sweeping vista, grand and fine, Embraced the Berkshire hills; Embosomed hamlets, clumps of pine, And country domiciles.

Afar, Mount Tom, in verdantique, And Holyoke, twin companion peak, Appeared gigantic cones; The burning sunlight scorched my cheek, And seemed to melt the stones.

Beneath a gnarled and twisted root I loosed a pebble with my foot That leaped the precipice, And like an arrow seemed to shoot Adown the deep abyss.

Beside the base that solstice day A city chap who chanced to stray Was shooting somewhat, too; Who, when the nugget sped that way, His firelock quickly drew.

While right and left he sought the quail, Or the timid hare that crossed his trail, Rang out a wild "Ha! ha!"

That might have turned the visage pale Of a red-skinned Chippewa.

The game was his--for it made him quail; He flung his gun and fled the vale, The mountain-dwellers say, As though pursued by a comet's tail-- And disappeared for aye.

Never Had a Chance

Fresh from piano, school, and books, A happy girl with rosy looks Young Plowman wooed and won; despite Her pretty, pouting prejudice, Her deep distaste for rural bliss Or countryfied delight.

Romance through all her nature ran-- Indeed, to wed a husband-man Suffused her ardent maiden thought; But lofty fancy dwelt upon A new "Queen Anne," a terraced lawn, A city's corner lot.

Her lily fingers that so well Could paint a scene--in aquarelle-- Or broider plush with leaves and vines, No more of real labor knew Than waxen petals of the dew On native eglantines.

Anon, with lapse of tender ways That emphasized the courting days, The housewife in her ap.r.o.n blue, As mistress of her new abode, By frequent lachrymations showed Her grief and blunders too.

The b.u.t.ter-making, bread and cheese, The old folks difficult to please, The harvest hands--voracious bears!-- The infantry, a parent's pride, By duos proudly cla.s.sified: So multiplied her cares.

The treadmill round of duties that Makes any life inane and flat, Without diversion sandwiched in, The drudgery, the overplus Of toil and trouble arduous, Were rugged discipline.

What time for books and music, when The lambs were bleating in their pen, The chickens peeping at the door; The rodent gnawing at the churn, The buckwheat wafers crisped to burn, The kettle boiling o'er?

To _hers_, so far between and few, What resting-spells the farmer knew!

What intervals for culture! and When intellect a.s.sumed the race, He peerless held the foremost place-- No n.o.bler in the land.

By virtue of exalted rank "The brilliant senator from----"

Adorns society's expanse; While by his side with folded hands, Her beauty gone, the woman stands Who "never had a chance."

Sorrow and Joy.

In sad procession borne away To sound of funeral knell, Affection's tribute thus we pay, And in earth's shelt'ring bosom lay The friend to whom but yesterday We gave the sad farewell.