Our Profession and Other Poems Part 20

Oh, marshalled hosts of warring clouds!

Teach me this truth to know, There's light beyond, though trouble shrouds The valley here below.

THEIR LIFE IS WHAT THEY MAKE IT.

Let melancholy mortals grieve And tell their tale of sorrow, Their gloomy spirits to relieve, But all returns to-morrow; For all the while they court their grief, Unwilling to forsake it, And in the way they seek relief, Their life is what they make it.

They brood o'er sorrow day by day, With dreams they are affrighted, But never strive to cast away What most their spirits blighted; And if fair fortune chance to smile And give no cause for sorrow, They're not content to rest awhile, But off they go and borrow.

Avoiding all life's pleasant ways Their life is always clouded, They see no happy sunny days, For all in gloom is shrouded; They never see the flowers that bloom As on Life's road they ramble, But in the darkest paths of gloom Are seeking for a bramble.

The pleasures of this life do not Depend on its surrounding, But if the heart's trained as it ought, Content will be abounding; The silent heart's the seat of joy, And by continual training Life's trials scarcely will annoy The soul where peace is reigning.

Then tell me not Fate made them so, And they cannot avoid it, That all their life is doomed to woe, And they have not alloyed it; For all the while they court their grief, Unwilling to forsake it, And in the way they seek relief, Their life is what they make it.

The atmosphere may be redolent With fragrance from some happy soul Whose unconscious influence has sent Attractive power, like magnetic pole, Till laugh of bright eyes is contagious, Infectious, the mirth of a smile, And the ominous brow umbrageous, Casts aside its lowerings vile.

THE LONE BIRD.

A solitary bird was seen by the writer, making its toilsome flight against a strong storm-wind. The peculiar undulating flight, the gathering darkness of the night, and the portentous indications of storm suggested this:

Whither away on such winged undulations, Breasting the winds and the tempests wild glee, Lifting your form in graceful vibrations As onward you move like a billowy sea?

Alone, all alone, on wing wide extended, Nerved for the tempest that sounds not afar, Night her dark mantle o'er earth has suspended, Thro' which may not s.h.i.+ne e'en the light of one star.

Stop, lonely wanderer, and tell me why mateless, Tell me the story of your solitude; G.o.d, e'en a bird has not left so fateless But somewhere there lives a companion for you.

Tell me if death has robbed you of treasures That sweetened the tone of your vesper song; Tell me if fears have destroyed all the pleasures Which justice and right say to you should belong.

Tell me, yes, tell me, and tell me most truly, Is there just cause why your flight is alone?

Is there some stain whereby you are duly Debarred from the pleasures that should be your own?

Still but your wing and confide me the story, Chant it to me in a short plaintive song; Perhaps it may speak of a sweet transient glory That faded and died 'mid disaster and wrong.

Perhaps I may speak some word that has healing For solitude's wounds, e'en sweet tho' they be, For sorrows augment by sacred concealing, And steal from the heart ev'ry wish to be free.

Dear blessed bird! you have stopped at my pleading, My soul aids my ears to catch your sweet tone: "If life is not sweetened by presence and breeding, 'Tis better by far to travel alone.

"I have learned as my wings have borne me thro' groves Where G.o.ds their ambrosial nectar sip, That the heart's best experience ever proves, Joy comes not from _presence_, but _companions.h.i.+p_."

A LESSON FROM NATURE.

O who has not felt his gay heart beat with gladness, As forth he has wandered some morning in May?

It drives away care and relieves us from sadness, It cheers the lone heart and makes us feel gay.

We see how all Nature rejoices around us, The plants as they spring from the earth seem to smile, The fresh growing leaves of the groves now surround us, And soft sounds of Spring-time unite to beguile.

The earth is now teeming with bright vegetation, The early spring flowers are now in their bloom, And where'er we look there appears animation Just bursting the cells of the last winter's tomb.

The soft breeze of May-day, we welcome it near us, As filled with rich fragrance it comes thro' the trees, And the bright feathered songsters apparently fear us No more than the odors that float on the breeze.

They tune their sweet voices and sing their devotion, Their hearts seem so light, so merry and free, That ideal beauty graces each motion, While they playfully dart from bush and from tree.

Our hearts beat with rapture too great for expression While viewing sweet Nature, so lovely, so gay, And hearing those sweet lulling sounds in succession, We wished in our joy it always were May.

Thus tempted to linger and spend one short hour, In looking around us in bliss most supreme, We found a choice spot in a fine shady bower, Where near it there murmured a bright silver stream.

From this lovely spot we intently were watching The scenes that surround us on this merry May, Every strain of grove-music our ears were now catching, And we saw every movement that came in our way.

A sweet, tiny bird on a twig near the river, Was warbling softly his choice matin lay, While near on a branch we soon did discover A serpent preparing to make him his prey.

Then glancing the eye to a branch that was near them, We saw there a nest that contained a young brood; While this parent bird was singing to cheer them, The other returned to the nest with their food.

The worm which she held in her beak she soon gave them, Then off in the thicket she darted again, To seek for their food, and from hunger relieve them; But on her return how great was her pain!

For while she had wandered, this serpent intruder Had charmed her loved mate, as he sat on the spray, His sweet song had ceased, and his notes became ruder, But his fluttering wings could not bear him away.

We flew to the rescue--struck down the invader Before the sweet songster had yielded his life, Put an end to this cunning and mischievous raider, And quieted all of the songster's great strife.

We learned from the scenes of this morning's ramble That moments of happiness soon may decay; While plucking the flowers to beware of the bramble, Which hid among blossoms may sadly betray.

We learned that the joys of this world are not lasting; That what we call pleasure may be a vain show; While joys seem the sweetest they only are blasting, And happiness frequently ends in great woe.

We learned that when Nature seems most to invite us, To build some fond hope on some loved scheme of ours, That there may be sadness preparing to blight us, Which evades all our watchings, defies all our powers.

MY MOTHER'S LOVE.

Nine months after writing this poem, my mother died, Dec. 21st, 1894.

My vision eye beholds a form, Bent low by years of life's fierce storm, That moves with feeble tread; Though time has worn that weary frame The heart still keeps its sacred flame True, undiminished.

No power but Death can ever quell-- No mortal tongue can ever tell A mother's boundless love; 'Tis shadowed in the secret sigh, Or in the moisture of the eye-- E'en silence, it may prove.