They lift me in thought to realms pure and bright;
They speak of a Nature with which to have union
Dispels all my sorrows and gives me delight.
Every sigh of the breeze, every note of wild bird,
Every plant that springs up from earth's fertile sod,
Are sermons of eloquence when rightly heard,
That soothe me and bring me nearer to God.
NATURE'S CHILD.
I would rather dwell with Nature
And be her favored child,
To love plant, tree, and creature
That live in forest wild;
And feel the satisfaction
That I can understand
The beauty and attraction
Of motives, noble, grand,
That fashioned for man's pleasure
This brilliant world of ours,
Than possess the jeweled treasure
Of all earth's kingly powers.
LAKE GEORGE, N. Y.
Beautiful, beautiful Horicon!
Over thy waters so blue,
Sunshine and shadow in silence flit on,
Painting fresh scenes on the ecstatic view.
Blue are the skies that kiss the green tops
Of sentinel mountains grand,
Pure are the waters descending in drops,
Or rushing in torrents from mountain to strand.
Like emerald crowns thy islands rise,
And mirrored back are doubly seen
Gray rocks of the mountains, the cloud-flecked skies,
Gorgeous adornments, and fringes of green.
Silent and wild are the fairy shores
Save song of the warbling bird,
Or the glen wherein the cataract roars,
Or the pine tree's branch by strong breezes stirred.
When sunset purples the dark ravine
And throws crimson on thy breast,
Soft-tinged are the hues that e'er lie between
Thy shores and the peaks that rise in the west.
I see in my fancy days long past,
I hear the brave soldier's song,
The bugle that summoned hosts at its blast,
Whose notes died in echoes the green shores along.
I see in the past ten-thousand oars,
And a thousand boats so grand,
As they leave the marge of thy southern shores
To meet the French foes of Montcalm's command.
I see Abercrombie grandly brave
With his fifteen thousand men,
Glide swiftly, silently over the wave
To contest from which many came not again.
Beautiful, beautiful Horicon!
How changed is the scene to-day,
The pageant of war and carnage is gone
Thy waters now bear the light-hearted and gay.
* * * * *
Who loves devoutly Nature wild,
And sees in her a Master's hand,
Will seldom be a wayward child
Though foul temptations round him stand.
Magnetic forces draw him back
From following low and slavish ways,
His soul revolts at the attack
That foe of Nature--Vice, displays.
THE THRUSH.
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 God 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 birdship 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 sturdy 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 God 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 God's nobleman,
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 grassy 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 space;
Then like a dove far from her nest,
Returned to find a perfect rest
Within its dwelling place.
OCEANUS' MIRROR, TRINITY LAKE, N. Y.
[See Note on "Fidelity."]
I've been charmed by many a picture,
That has brought its master renown;
I have looked on beautiful valleys
From the mountain's lofty crown;
I have gazed on the sky at evening,
When the heavens were all aglow,
But they fail to charm me so fully
As this scene in the waters below.
Fair Trinity lay in her beauty,
Not a ripple was on her breast,
Her borders of hemlocks and mosses
With beautiful flowers were dressed;
Clear as the air on her bosom
Were her waters so pure and deep,
They seemed like the magical mirror
That Flora and Nereus keep.
Where the rocks and trees bend over
The marge of her western shore,
The boat glided slowly onward
Without the aid of the oar;
When glancing the eye at the shadows
Reflected from shore near at hand,
There appeared a bright panorama,
Most charming--exquisitely grand.
Down, down, far down in the waters,
And touching the brink of the lake,
Was a picture no master painter
With pencil or brush could make;
Gray rocks, green trees, and bright flowers,
Inverted and magnified, too,
Seemed perfect in all but proportion
And their upturned chimerical view.
It seemed like a fairy enchantment
Inviting to feasts down below,
Where grottoes and caverns of beauty
Illumine the flowers that grow
To charm the nymphs of the water,
And beguile all the sylvan elves
To the table of old Oceanus,
Where guests ever help themselves.
Some spirit seemed calling me sweetly,
Inviting me then to partake
Of the fanciful pleasures reflected
Far down in the clear, placid lake.
O, beautiful scene of reflection!
So perfect, so grand, and so pure,
In my mind that mirror enchantment
To the end of my days must endure.
MORNING FLOWERS.
The flowers all wash their faces fair
With the dews of the smiling morn,
Then turn to greet the god of the air
As his light in the east is born.
They call th' breeze from th' slumb'ring west
And a censer place in his hand,
Then mingle perfumes, choicest, best,
To waft o'er the festive land.
The flower of th' heart may lave in deeds
That refresh the worthy poor,
And th' soul's perfume is that which feeds
The hungry, weak, and sore.
* * * * *
That spring unfolds to pleasure's eye;
There's wisdom in the falling drop
That had its birth in yonder sky.
The breeze that fans the fevered brow,
Or gives new vigor to frail man,
Is but the breath of the Divine
Sent to fulfill benignant plan.
ARTIST NATURE.
When Aurora springs from her couch of clouds
And opens the gate of a perfect day,
And her brother Sol in his daily rounds
Advances his steeds toward Polaris' ray,
Then the vernal bloom and the warbling bird
That follow his track as he speeds along,
Send their fragrance pure on the morning air,
And fill leafy groves with ecstatic song.
Oceanus lends invisible bowls,
Well filled with vapors that rise from his breast,
Eurus is summoned to waft them afar
And scatter abroad in the distant west,
Where Sol with his brush and an artist's touch,
Paints on the sky all the glories of heaven,
In colors more bright and blendings more true,
Than ever on canvas by mortal was given.
One sunset scene in Hesperian sky,
When the courts of heaven are all ablaze
With the glorious tints and pageantry
That to mortal mind so clearly portrays
The mighty power of omnipotent hand,
And the tender touch of a boundless love,
Is an omen true--infallible proof
Of a Deity who presides above.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
MUSIC.
When musical chords are tensioned
To sentiments they should express,
And touched by a master artist
Whose deft hand gives the proper stress,
The effect is so ecstatic
When vibrations fall on the ear,
The soul stands in silent rapture,
And our being expands to hear.
At skillful touch of the master
A creation of joy is given,
That lends to the spirit pinions
To waft it away toward heaven,
While it sings to the same measure
And becomes a part of the song,
Enraptured by the magic power
Which carries it gently along.
O the magic power of tension
When a master hand has control!
It wins the heart's approbation
And augments the receptive soul;
'Tis a rapture born in heaven
To entrance our expectant ears,
'Tis angelic diapason
Such as harmonized once the spheres.
We each have an organ, tensioned
With a thousand strings and their keys,
All made by a Master builder
Who permits us ourselves to please;
Its wonderful combinations
Far surpass all the works of art,
'Tis the master-piece of creation--
The versatile, strange, human heart.
We have sole choice of the music
That shall sound on the tensioned strings;
We may choose if sad or joyous
Shall be the final note it sings;
Though fate may fling fiercest chaos,
Its Maker reserved to us powers
That we need not ever surrender,
For the strength to possess is ours.
Let my tongue sing songs of rapture
And my heart-strings sweetly respond,
Till the notes shall pass earth's border
And reach the bright portals beyond;
And when in the great hereafter
The tension shall be much increased,
My joys will be there augmented
To know that earth's songs have not ceased.
* * * * *
I often long for some quiet nook
Away from the noise and strife
Which come from the steady daily round
That absorbs my busy life;
Away in some shadowy forest
Whose silence is supreme,
Save the song of feathered minstrel
And the murmur of a stream;
Far away among the dark shadows
That form Fauna's trysting-bowers,--
But the time of this total seclusion
Should ne'er exceed six hours.
REST.
When wearisome task is finished
And flesh with fatigue is oppressed,
When muscles are tired and languid
And sinews are sorely distressed,
No balm can renew their vigor
Like that boon from heaven called rest.
We know not its composition,
Nor can we expound all its laws,
We grant the effect is pleasant
Tho' we cannot explain the cause;
We therefore accept the blessing
And bid curiosity pause.
Foremost in its rank of agents
Is a heavenly maid called Sleep,
Who stands in unbroken silence,
And ever her watch will keep
O'er mortals whose labors and trials
Seem heavy, oppressive, and deep.
Sometimes when sorrows are deepest
This maiden refuses relief;
She's no balm for the broken-hearted,
No cure for a head bowed with grief,
No soothing touch for the anguish
That robs like a heartless thief.
She flies from deep woe and sorrow
And recedes from the blinding tear;
Yet hastes to fatigue and trials
And offers to them smiles of cheer
Such as turn to joy and gladness,
Murky doubt and foreboding fear.
When death shall release the spirit
From its prison-house of vile clay,
It will speed to an elysian
Of a cloudless, unending day,
Where with others of its kindred,
It will find a rest for aye.
* * * * *
Well filled with murky ink,
When in my solitary den
I sit for hours to think,
And trace my thoughts in liquid flow
Upon some virgin page,
That in the future it may show
What thoughts my mind engage.
SUCCESS.
Success knows no diminution,
For failure hovers so near,
That with trace of slight dilution,
Success must cease to appear.
We look in vain for a substitute
To take the place of success;
A proxy saps its vital cords,
It dies of paralysis.
Nothing can take the place of success,
Its measure must be complete,
If slightest imperfection is found
It suffers a deadly defeat.
The marge that divides sturdy success
From failure grim and gaunt,
Is invisible space, but separates
Abundance from woe and want.
Like pack of wolves on army's trail,
Fell failure lives on distress,
Devouring with greed th' foul refuse
That falls from th' hands of success.
Success and failure closely abide--
Success has a palace fine,
While failure dwells in a dreary hut,
Like a herding place for swine.
Success may not always achieve
The object it has in view,
But lives while its motives and acts
Are earnest, noble, and true.
True failure can only be found
In a being devoid of heart,
Whose efforts and deeds are all dead,
Or act but a sluggard's part.
Success has a heart that can sing,
A hand and a spirit to try,
A word that is fraught with good cheer,
A soul that illumines the eye.
Failure is cheerless, sullen, and glum,
His hand hanging idly by,
His voice is an echo of woe,
His face distorted, awry.
FRAGMENTS.
This world was made of fragments
Each separate from the other,
Yet in such close relation
As to indicate a brother.
Each atom of the universe
Has in itself attraction,
That finds response so much allied
To voluntary action,
That one might quickly recognize
A power, supreme, benign,
That emanates from master hand
With forces so divine,
That every touch which nature gives
To matter or to mind,
Must indicate creative power
Superior to mankind.
What scientist can ever tell
The mainspring of all action,
If all his reasons fail so prove
Molecular attraction?
It has its source from out the space,
Beyond the astral heaven;
It had a purpose to perform,
Or it had not been given.
We may not know its secret laws
Or understand its source,
But faith has taught us to be wise
And recognize its force.
Of all the teeming millions now
Upon this mundane sphere,
Not one can give a reason
For his living presence here.
'Tis strange, and yet we know 'tis true,
We constantly are dying,
All things are old, nothing is new,
And life with death is vying.
We know not when this all will cease,
We cannot understand
Why matter never may increase,
Or seas become dry land.
Enough we know to serve the end
For which we were designed,
God never yet was known to send
The blind to lead the blind.
If we but act an honest part,
And use the powers given,
When from this earth we shall depart,
We may be wise in heaven.
A BEACON LIGHT.
Adown the vistas of the past
I cast my memory's eye,
And see bright scenes receding fast,--
Some hopes in ruins lie;
Yet still there shines a beacon light
Whose ray on me descends,
And shows in its effulgency
A circle of true friends.
The magic charm this circle yields
Is richer far to me,
Than cattle in a thousand fields
Or gems from the deep sea;
It whispers softly in my ears
And cheers me on my way,
Gives faith for doubt and murky fears,
And comfort for dismay.
MEMORY.
Earthly scenes are worth preserving,
Bitter though they sometimes be;
Who would wish to sink in Lethe
All the fruits of Memory?
None could dare offend his Maker
By a wish so rash and vain;
For by this kind boon from Heaven
Life is all lived o'er again.
In the silent hour of twilight,
Thoughts of by-gone days will come,
Stealing o'er our better feelings,
Bringing back our early home;
All the soothing words of friendship
Spoken by a tongue now still,
Touch the fountains near our heart-strings,
And our eyes with moisture fill.
Tender, oh, how sweetly tender,
Are the musings of an hour,
When the mellowing scenes around us
Give to Memory magic power;
Thought recalls those scenes long parted,
Life epitomized appears,
Moments then reflect a lifetime
Reaching back through many years.
Oh, how blessed are those moments!
Present scenes can never fire
Such a rapture in our bosom
As fond Memory can inspire;
Naught on earth can e'er be spoken
To attract the living ear,
Like the words of the departed
Uttered when among us here.
Time and Death have made them sacred,
Memory calls them oft to mind,
And her choicest, dearest treasures,
She for them has oft entwined;
This is but a simple homage,
Richly paying him who kneels;
He who's prompted by such feelings,
For his fellow being feels.
Dark must be that soul enshrouded,
Which Oblivion would prefer
To the soothing power of Memory
And the influence shed by her:
Life itself is not worth having
If deprived of such a bliss,
Earth has not another treasure
That we may compare with this.
DISCONTENT.
Let quiet people talk of peace--
Contentment of the mind,
But he who lives at perfect ease
Can never bless mankind.
If each no higher end should seek
Than that which now he fills,
But be content, subdued, and meek,
'Twould bring a thousand ills.
Advancement then would have an end.
Progression then would cease,
Invention have no earnest friend,
And science no increase.
But Discontent, though called a fiend,
Is progress in disguise,
'Tis _this_ by which our end's attained,
'Tis _this_ by which we rise.
The pupil may surpass the sage
If such his aim shall be,
May fathom truths for many an age
Were wrapped mystery.
The genius may invent some plan
To ease the laborer's toil,
Or add facility for man
To cultivate the soil.
Contentment never did aspire
To elevate mankind,
It never raised the standard higher
Of science or of mind.
'Tis Discontent that gains the prize
In every useful art;
Although it brings us tearful eyes
And restlessness of heart;
But then it has a sweet reward--
Progression is the fruit,
But some this sweetness have abhorred
For others have the boot.
For he who blesses most mankind,
Himself is seldom blessed,
And he whose deeds should be enshrined
Will seldom be caressed.
Yet, let our banner ne'er be furled,
Our lives in quiet spent;
For 'tis a truth that all the world
Still thrives on Discontent.
OUR POLITICS.
"The purification of politics is an iridescent dream."
U. S. Senator, John J. Ingalls, Kansas.
"Purification of politics
Is an iridescent dream,"
Is the Ingalls way of saying that
Corruption's power's supreme.
Have the people lost their honesty,
Has the Nation sunk so low,
That partisan strife can blind our eyes
Till we know not friend from foe?
If such be true, this fair land of ours
Must fail to mature the Hope
That blossomed fair on Liberty's tree,
But in impotence must grope.
Beautiful land! God's own favored land!
Thy sons must united be,
Statesmen should now hold the public helm,
Throw factions into the sea,
Teach politicians with all their schemes,
The people yet are supreme;
That Augean stables--politics--
May be cleansed by ballot's streams.
SUNSET.
Softly the tints of expiring day
Tinge th' vaults of Hesperian heaven,
Leaving a trace of the sun's mellow ray
To escort the shadows of even.
All of the gates of Phoebus are drawn,
Yet his splendor has left to sight
A trail of enchantment to linger till dawn,
To charm the still hours of the night.
Scenes of such cloud-land often reveal
A grandeur that augments the soul;
Heaven has no beauties it seeks to conceal,
No secrets inscribed on its scroll.
Through the earth for an age we may roam,
And through space our vision may fly,
Yet no pleasure is like that at home
When we gaze on a God-painted sky.
When we think of the forces displayed
To prepare for a cloud-scene at even,
Of the elements deftly arrayed
That a gorgeous effect may be given,
Of the mists and the winds and the light,
Of the blendings that art cannot teach,
Of the mysteries hidden from sight
That our knowledge would gladly reach,
Of the order, the purpose, design,
In the pictures that hang in the sky,
We know that the hand is divine
That arranged all their brilliancy,
Then our faith lifts the curtain that hides
The Spirit that ordered the plan,
And assures us He ever abides
To encourage and elevate man.
At sunset my spirit shall sing
Of the beauties the elements yield,
Let my heart then its off'ring bring
To the Artist of sky and of field.
When my soul from its dwelling of clay,
Shall escape to that unknown sphere,
May it be at the close of the day,
When the glories of sunset appear.
Soothingly, sweetly comes unto me
The thought that my soul may rest,
In a land whose glory shall be
Like cloud-scenes that glow in the west.
SELFISHNESS.
Who lives for self alone should be
Placed in some lonely, hollow tree,
And left to toad and bat and owl--
To creatures man considers foul--
Where he shall be perpetual prey
For frightful ogres night and day.
A narrow soul that lives for self,
Should stand on some old musty shelf,
Where spiders, rats, and vermin throng,
And listen only to the song
Of filing saw and creaky mill,
And owlet's hoot and whip-poor-will.
Who lives for self is not afraid
Of meanest thing God ever made,
For he himself is that same thing;
Though peasant, plebian, or king,
He thwarts the purpose of God's plan,
He lacks the impulse of a man.
No soul enwrapped within itself,
Or dwarfed by pride, or love of pelf,
Can serve its Maker or mankind
As nobly as was erst designed
By the Great Architect above,
Whose being is Unselfish Love.
RETROSPECTION.
I sit when the shadows are stealing
The light of departing day,
And think of the scenes and pleasures
I enjoyed in my childhood's play.
I can picture them all so plainly,
They seemed not a day gone by,
I recall the fields and garden,
The lake and the clear blue sky.
I can see the bright water flowing
At the foot of the sloping hill,
The dam that impeded its progress,
The toy-wheel of water-mill.