Poems by Hattie Howard Part 14

Why not, proud State, beneficence insure, Selling thy soil or giving to the poor?

For sad it is that dust of Illinois, With coal and compost its conjoint alloy, A morceau washed from Mississippi's mouth, Should build up acres for our neighbors south.

River! I grieve, but not for loss of dirt-- Once stainless, just because of what thou wert.

Thus on thy banks I linger and reflect That, surely as all waterways connect, Forever flowing onward to the sea, Shall the great billow thy redemption be.

And now, dear Sangamon, farewell! I wait On that Elysian scene to meditate When, separated from the dregs of earth, Life's stream shall sweeter be, of better worth; And, like the ocean with its restless tide, By its own action cleansed and purified.

Syringas.

The smallest flower beside my path, In loveliness of bloom, Some element of comfort hath To rid my heart of gloom; But these, of spotless purity, And fragrant as the rose, As sad a sight recall to me As time shall e'er disclose.

Oh, there are pictures on the brain Sometimes by shadows made, Till dust is blent with dust again, That never, never fade; And things supremely bright and fair As ever known in life Suggest the darkness of despair, And sanguinary strife.

I shut my eyes; 'tis all in vain-- The battle-field appears, And one among the thousands slain In manhood's brilliant years; An elbow pillowing his head, And on the crimson sand Syringa-blooms, distained and dead, Within his rigid hand.

Could she foresee, who from the stem Had plucked that little spray Of flowers, that he would cherish them Unto his dying day?

"Give these to M----;--'tis almost night-- And tell her--that--I love--"

Alas! the letter he would write Was finished up above.

And so, with each recurring spring, On Decoration day, When to our heroes' graves we bring The blossom-wealth of May, While martial strains are soft and low, And music seems a prayer, Unto a hallowed spot I go, And leave syringas there.

Storm-bound.

My careful plans all storm-subdued, In disappointing solitude The weary hours began; And scarce I deemed when time had sped, Marked only by the pa.s.sing tread Of some pedestrian.

But with the morrow's tranquil dawn, A fairy scene I looked upon That filled me with delight; Far-reaching from my own abode, The world in matchless splendor glowed, Arrayed in spotless white.

The surface of the hillside slope Gleamed in my farthest vision's scope Like opalescent stone; Rich jewels hung on every tree, Whose crystalline transparency Golconda's gems outshone.

Beyond the line where wayside posts Stood up, like fear-inspiring ghosts Of awful form and mien, A mansion tall, my neighbor's pride, A seeming castle fortified, Uprose in wondrous sheen.

The evergreens loomed up before My staunch and storm-defying door, Like snowy palaces That one dare only penetrate With reverence--as at Heaven's gate, Awed by its mysteries.

The apple trees' extended arms Upheld a thousand varied charms; The curious tracery Of trellised grapevine seemed to me A rare network of filigree In silver drapery.

And I no longer thought it hard From favorite pursuits debarred, Nor gazed with rueful face; For every object seemed to be Invested with the witchery Of magic art and grace.

And, though a mult.i.tude of cares, Perplexing, profitless affairs, Absorbed the hours, it seems That on the golden steps of thought I mounted heavenward, and wrought Out many hopeful schemes.

Thus every day, though it may span The gulf wherein some cherished plan Lies disarranged and crossed, If, ere its close, we shall have trod The path that leads us nearer G.o.d, Cannot be counted lost.

The Master of the Grange.

The type of enterprise is he, Of sense and thrift and toil; Who reckons less on pedigree Than rich, productive soil; And no "blue blood"--if such there be-- His veins can ever spoil.

And yet on blood his heart is set; He has his sacred cow, Some Alderney or Jersey pet, The mistress of the mow; His favorite pig is (by brevet) "Lord Suffolk"--of the slough.

To points of stock is he alive As keenest cattle king; A thoroughbred he deigns to drive, But not a mongrel thing; The very bees within his hive Are crossed--without a sting.

If apple-boughs drop pumpkins and Tomatoes grow on trees, It is because his grafting hand Has so diverted these That alien shoots with native stand Like twin-born Siamese.

No neater farm a nabob owns, Its care his chief employ, To find fertility in bones And briers to destroy, Where once he lightly skipped the stones A whistling, happy boy.

The ancient plough and awkward flail He banished long ago; The zigzag fence with ponderous rail He dares to overthrow; And wields, with sinews strong and hale, The latest style of hoe.

The household, founded as it were Upon the Decalogue, He cla.s.ses with the minister, The rural pedagogue, And as a sort of angel-cur Regards his spotted dog.

His wife reviews the magazines, His children lead the school, He tries a thousand new machines (And keeps his temper cool), But bristles at Kentucky jeans, And her impressive mule.

With Science letting down the bars, Enlightening ignorance, Enigmas deeper than the stars He solves as by a glance, And raises cinnamon cigars From poor tobacco plants!

By no decree of fas.h.i.+on dressed, And busier than Fate, The student-farmer keeps abreast With mighty men of state, And treasures, like his Sunday vest, The motto "Educate!"

Beyond encircling hills of blue, Where I may never range, This monarch in his realm I view, Of t.i.tle new and strange, And make profound obeisance to "The Master of the Grange."

A Friend Indeed.

If every friend who meditates In soft, unspoken thought With winning courtesy and tact The doing of a kindly act To cheer some lonely lot, Were like the friend of whom I dream, Then hards.h.i.+p but a myth would seem.

If sympathy were always thus Oblivious of s.p.a.ce, And, like the tendrils of the vine, Could just as lovingly incline To one in distant place, 'Twould draw the world together so Might none the name of stranger know.

If every throb responsive that My ardent spirit thrills Could, like the skylark's ecstasy, Be vocal in sweet melody, Beyond dividing hills In octaves of the atmosphere Were music wafted to his ear.

If every friends.h.i.+p were like one, So helpful and so true, To other hearts as sad as mine 'Twould bring the joy so near divine, And hope revive anew; So life's dull path would it illume, And radiate beyond the tomb.

The Needed One.

'Twas not rare versatility, Nor gift of poesy or art, Nor piquant, sparkling _jeux d'esprit_ Which at the call of fancy come, That touched the universal heart, And won the world's encomium.