Poems by Hattie Howard Part 7

Without a Minister.

The congregation was devout, The minister inspired, Their att.i.tude to those without By every one admired, And all things so harmonious seemed, Of no calamity we dreamed.

But, just in this quiescent state A little cloud arose Portentous of our certain fate-- As everybody knows; Our pastor took it in his head His "resignation" must be read.

In every eye a tear-drop stood, For we accepted it Reluctantly, but nothing could Make him recant one bit; And soon he left for distant parts, While we were left--with broken hearts.

And next the "patriarch" who led For nearly three-score years Our "Sabbath school"--its worthy head-- Rekindled all our fears By saying, with a smile benign, "Since it's the fashion, I'll resign!"

And so he did; but promptly came Forth one, of good report-- "Our Superintendent" is his name-- Who tries to "hold the fort"

With wisdom, tact, and rare good sense, In this, his first experience.

The world looks on and says, "How strange!

They hang together so, These Baptists do, and never change, But right straight onward go While other flocks are scattering all, And some have strayed beyond recall!"

Indian Summer.

Is it not our bounden duty Harsh and bitter thoughts to quell, Wild, ambitions schemes repel, And to revel in the beauty Of this Indian summer spell, Bathing forest, field, and dell As with radiance immortelle?

None can paint like nature dying; Whose dissolving struggle lent Wealth of hues so richly blent That, through weary years of trying, Artist skill pre-eminent May not copy or invent Such divine embellishment.

Knights of old from castles riding Scattered largesse as they went Which, like manna heaven-sent, Cheered the poverty-abiding; But, when 'neath "that low green tent"

Pa.s.sed the hand benevolent, Sad were they and indigent.

Monarchs, too, have thus delighted Giving unto courtiers free, Costly robes and tinselry; And, as royal guests, invited Them to sumptuous halls of glee, Banqueting and minstrelsy, Bacchus holding sovereignty.

Then, perchance, in mood capricious Stripped and scorned and turned away Those who tasted for a day Pleasure sweet and food delicious; Nor might any say them nay-- Lest his head the forfeit pay Who a king dared disobey.

But our own benignant Giver, Almoner impartial, true, Constantly doth gifts renew; Nor would fitfully deliver Aught unto the chosen few, But to all the wide world through, Who admire his wonders, too.

Never shall the heart be poorer, Never languish in despair, That such affluence may share; For than this is nothing surer-- He hath said, and will prepare In those realms of upper air Glories infinitely fair.

Autumn-Time.

Like music heard in mellow chime, The charm of her transforming time Upon my senses steals As softly as from sunny walls, In day's decline, their shadow falls Across the sleeping fields.

A fair, illumined book Is nature's page whereon I look While "autumn turns the leaves;"

And many a thought of her designs Between those rare, resplendent lines My fancy interweaves.

I dream of aborigines, Who must have copied from the trees The fashions of the day: Those gorgeous topknots for the head, Of yellow tufts and feathers red, With beads and sinews gay.

I wonder if the saints behold Such pageantry of colors bold Beyond the radiant sky; And if the tints of Paradise Are heightened by the strange device Of making all things die.

Yea, even so; for Nature glows Because of her expiring throes, As if around her tomb Unmeet it were,--the look severe That designates a common bier Enwreathed in deepest gloom.

And so I meditate if aught Can be so fair where death is not; If Heaven's loveliness Is born of struggle and decay; And, but for funeral array, Would it be beautiless?

Oh solemn, sad, sweet mystery That Earth's unrivaled brilliancy Is but her splendid pall!

That Heaven were not what it is But for that crown of tragedies, The sacrifice for all.

So not a charm would Zion lose Were it bereft of sparkling hues In gilded lanes and leas; It would be bright though not a flower Unclosed in its celestial bower, And void of jeweled trees.

Yet, lily-like, one bloom I see, Its name is his who died for me; Whose matchless beauty shows Perfection on its bleeding stem, The blossom-bud of Bethlehem, The Resurrection Rose.

The Beauty of Nature.

Oh bud and leaf and blossom, How beautiful they are!

Than last year's vernal season 'Tis lovelier by far; This earth was never so enchanting Nor half so bright before-- But so I've rhapsodized, in springtime, For forty years or more.

What luxury of color On shrub and plant and vine, From pansies' richest purple To pink of eglantine; From b.u.t.tercups to "johnny-jump-ups,"

With deep cerulean eyes, Responding to their modest surname In violet surprise.

Sometimes I think the sunlight That gilds the emerald hills, And makes Aladdin dwellings Of dingy domiciles, Is surplus beauty overflowing That Heaven cannot hold-- The topaz glitter, or the jacinth, The glare of streets of gold.

In "Cedar Hill," the city Of "low green tents" of sod, I read the solemn record Of those gone home to G.o.d; While from their hallowed dust arising The fragrant lilies grow As if their life was all the sweeter For those who sleep below.

And so 'tis not in sadness I dwell upon the thought, When I am dead and buried That I shall be forgot.

Because the germ of reproduction Doth this poor body hold, Perchance to add to nature's beauty A rose above the mold.

"All the Rage."

A common wayside flower it grew, Unhandsome and unnoticed too, Except in deprecation That such an herb unreared by toil, Prolific c.u.mberer of the soil, Defied extermination.

Its gorgeous blooms were never stirred By honey-bee nor humming-bird In their corollas dipping; But they from clover white and red Delicious nectar drew instead In dainty rounds of sipping.

No place its own euphonious name Within the catalogue might claim Of any flora-lover; For, in the scores of pa.s.sers-by, As yet no true artistic eye Its beauty could discover.

The reaper with his sickle keen Aimed at its crest of gold and green With spiteful stroke relentless, And would have rooted from the ground The "Solidago"--blossom-crowned, But gaudy, rank, and scentless.

But everything must have its day-- And since some fickle _devotee_ Or myrmidon of Fashion Declares that this obnoxious weed, From wild, uncultivated seed, Shall be the "ruling pa.s.sion,"