Our Profession and Other Poems Part 11

When on mountain road I travel, Stained with dust and dirt and gravel, In cool shade I sit me down; Oft I see among the bushes Feathered friends--shy brown thrushes, Sweetest singers of renown.

Smooth his coat though brown and dusty, His mellow voice is ever trusty And clear and soft and sweet; On the tree-top oft he's singing, In the woods his voice is ringing While hills his notes repeat.

I have heard him in the morning When the sun was just adorning Tops of tallest forest trees, Pour his soul of song so tender, That to G.o.d he seemed to render Thanksgiving harmonies.

Every feather he did quiver, As his song he would deliver In bursts so wild and grand, That creation's face would gladden As the air with music laden Seemed fraught with choral band.

Some notes that swelled his speckled breast Were like soft zephyrs from the west That fall on June-blown flowers; So full, so sweet, they lull the soul, And like a spirit voice control My reveries for hours.

Soulful song, enwrapped in feather, Harbinger of pleasant weather, Sing softly unto me.

Your tuneful notes at morn and even Are antepasts of joys in heaven That bring felicity.

Attune your joyous song for me, And lift my soul that it may see The world in beauty bright; Sing on, sing on, until the wood Shall laugh aloud in merry mood, And sadness take her flight!

Sweet warbling bird in brown attire, Your notes of praise do me inspire With love for Nature wild; Your songs of joy so sweetly sung, By heart and throat divinely strung, Proclaim you Nature's child.

ROBIN REDBREAST.

Low and soft and plaintive, Now distant and now near, Is the voice of Robin Redbreast, That in the tree I hear.

Sometimes 'tis but a murmur, So gentle and so sweet, It sounds like a dying zephyr That echo doth repeat.

And then in bursts of music That make the forests ring, Comes the swelling, happy ditty His birds.h.i.+p loves to sing.

And the voice is so enchanting, So perfect and so clear, All earth stands still to listen, And the clouds bend low to hear.

Again he tunes his liquid note To winds in tree-tops sighing, Or to the sound of waters That o'er the rocks are playing.

The sprightly, sweet ventriloquist Deceives you as to distance, You sometimes think him far away Beyond alarm's resistance,

And then again, you think him near The place you are abiding; He's in the same place all the time, In covert he is hiding,

And telling you in measured notes His mate is yonder nesting, While in the shade of leafy tree Near by in song he's resting.

Had I so sweet a voice as his I'd carol all day long, Charm with my presence all mankind, And cheer them with my song.

The woods and fields should echo far My choicest minstrelsy, While earth and sky would both unite To join the revelry.

THE FARMER.

Of war and love some poets sing, And some of fame and glory, But few there are a tribute bring To him whose only story Is written on the sterile soil With hand of honest labor, Whose plow and hoe bespeak a toil More grand than gory sabre.

My muse will sing of such as these, And claim a wreath of laurel, To crown each st.u.r.dy Hercules Whose only wish to quarrel, Is with the forest and the field To make them rich and fairer, To make old mother earth to yield Her fruits and flowers e'en rarer.

Let merchants in the busy marts Think farmers are mere cattle, But they who know the farmers' hearts And of his earnest battle With thorns and thistles scattered wide, Like earth's destructive Neros, Well know they are our country's pride-- Our Nation's greatest heroes.

The lily-fingered, pale-faced men Who live by "A Profession,"

Need not despise the farmer, when He makes some slight digression Upon what they call etiquette; For in his heart he's civil; Though rough his hand, his brow asweat, His heart is free from evil.

He toils from early morn till night, Yet he is "Independent;"

For Nature's G.o.d defends the right, And holds a crown resplendent To place upon His honored child Whose life is heavy laden, But keeps a spirit undefiled To enter into Eden.

Though brown and dusty be his garb From wrestling with the soil, The farmer is G.o.d's n.o.bleman, Made so, by honest toil.

THE OLD FARM.

The dear old farm has a sacred charm That extends to farthest bound, Every rock and tree is dear to me, And hallowed seems the ground.

Its beautiful stream whose waters gleam As they dance on to the sea, Sings sweeter song, as it moves along, Than other waters to me.

No leaves are so green, as those that screen The revered old farm-house doors, From the burning sun of torrid June When his fiercest rays he pours.

Each grove and field doth a mem'ry yield Of dear childhood's blissful hours, And in accents clear, voices I hear That have now augmented powers.

My father's care and my mother's prayer Are now ended here on earth, But as time rolls on, since they have gone, I shall understand their worth.

There's a sacred charm in the dear old farm, For loved ones have trod its soil, And much I now see, appears to me As fruit of their faithful toil.

MAPLE AT MY FATHER'S DOOR.

On velvet green of gra.s.sy floor, 'Neath maple at my father's door My couch at eve has been; There gazing on the tranquil sky, With all its astral brilliancy, My spirit sang within.

Then far away beyond the blue, On Fancy's wings my vision flew And scanned the realms of s.p.a.ce; Then like a dove far from her nest, Returned to find a perfect rest Within its dwelling place.

OCEa.n.u.s' MIRROR, TRINITY LAKE, N. Y.

[See Note on "Fidelity."]