Poems by Hattie Howard Part 2

II.

Is Hymen then amba.s.sador divine, His mission, matrimonial and benign, The heart to counsel, ardor to incite, Convert the nun, rebuke the eremite?

As if were this his mandate from the throne: "It is not good for them to be alone; Behold the land! its fruitage and its flowers, Not mine and thine, but ours."

III.

Did not great Paul aver, in lucid spell, That they of conjugal intent "do well"?

But hinted at a better state,--'tis one With which two loving souls have naught to do.

For, in well-doing being quite content, Be there another state more excellent To which the celibate doth fain repair, They neither know nor care.

IV.

And does the Lord of all become High Priest, And with his presence grace the wedding-feast?

Then must the whole celestial throng draw nigh, For nuptials there are none beyond the sky; So is the union sanctified and blest, For Love is host, and Love is welcome guest; So may the joyous bridal season be Like that of Galilee.

V.

Sweet Mary, of the blessed name so dear To all the loving Saviour who revere, Madonna-like be thou in every grace That shall adorn thee in exalted place, And thine the happy privilege to prove The depth, the tenderness of woman's love; So shall the heart that honors thee today Bow down to thee alway.

VI.

O radiant June, in wealth of light and air, With leaf and bud and blossom everywhere, Let all bright tokens affluent combine, And round the bridal pair in splendor s.h.i.+ne; Let sweethearts coy and lovers fond and true On this glad day their tender vows renew, And all in wedlock's bond rejoice as they Whom G.o.d hath joined for aye.

A Fowl Affair.

I hope I'm not too orthodox To give a joke away, That took me like the chicken-pox And left a debt to pay.

Let argument ignore the cost, If it be dear or cheap, And only claim that naught be lost When it's too good to keep.

The proverb says "All flesh is gra.s.s,"

But this I do deny, Because of that which came to pa.s.s, But not to pa.s.s me by.

A body weighing by the pound Inside of half a score, In case and cordage safely bound, Was landed at my door.

What could it be? for friends are slack, And give, I rather trow, When they are sure of getting back As much as they bestow.

My hair, at thought of dark design, Or dynamitish fate, Stood up like quills of porcupine, But more than twice as straight.

Anon, I mused on something rare, Like duck or terrapin, But dreamed not, of the parcel, there Might be a pullet-in.

A mighty jerk,--the string that broke The fowl affair revealed, The victim of a cruel choke, Its neck completely peeled.

The biped in its paper cof- Fin, cramped and plump and neat, Had scratched its very toenails off In making both ends meat.

The only part I always ate, That never made me ill, Had gone away decapitate And carried off the bill.

I pondered o'er the sacrifice, The merry-thought, the wings, On giblet gravy, salad nice, And chicken-pie-ous things.

In heat of Fahrenheit degree Two hundred twelve or more, Where its grandsire, defying me, Had crowed the year before,

I thrust it with a hope forlorn,-- I knew what toughness meant, And sighed that ever I was born To die of roasting scent.

But presto! what _denouement_ grand Of cookery sublime!

'Twas done as by the second hand, The drumsticks beating thyme.

And now the moral--he who buys Will comprehend its worth,-- Look not so much to weight and size As to the date of birth.

In fowls there is a difference; "The good die young," they say, And for the death of innocence To make us meat, we pray.

Holiday Home.

Of all the sweet visions that come unto me Of happy refreshment by land or by sea, Like oases where in life's desert I roam, Is nothing so pleasant as Holiday Home.

I climb to the top of the highest of hills And look to the west with affectionate thrills, And fancy I stand by the emerald side Of charming Geneva, like Switzerland's pride.

In distant perspective unruffled it lies, Except for the packet that paddles and plies, And puffing its way like a pioneer makes Its daily go-round o'er this pearl of the lakes.

Untroubled except for the urchins that come From many a haunt that is never a home, Instinctive as ducklings to swim and to wade, Scarce knowing aforetime why water was made.

All placid except for the dip of the oar Of the skiff, or the barge striking out from the sh.o.r.e, While merry excursionists shout till the gale Reverberates laughter through rigging and sail.

How it scallops its basin and s.h.i.+mmers and s.h.i.+nes Like a salver of silver encompa.s.sed with vines, In crystal illusion reflecting the skies And the mountain that seems from its bosom to rise.

There stands a great house on a summit so high, Like an eyrie of safety enroofed by the sky; And I think of the rest and the comfort up there To sleep, and to breathe that empyreal air.

Oh, the charm of the glen and the stream and the wood Can never be written, nor be understood, Except by the weary and languid who come To bask in the quiet of Holiday Home.

From prisonlike cellars unwholesome and drear, From attic and alley, from labor severe, For the poor and the famished doth kindness prepare A world of diversion and excellent fare.

To swing in the hammock, disport in the breeze, To lie in the shade of magnificent trees-- Oh, this is like quaffing from luxury's bowl The life-giving essence for body and soul!

Nor distance nor time shall efface from the mind The influence gentle, the ministry kind; While grat.i.tude fondly enhallows the thought Of a home and a holiday never forgot.

Ah, one is remembered of saintliest men To lovely Geneva who comes not again; Who left a sweet impress wherever he trod, Humanity's helper, companion of G.o.d.

In the hearts of the many there sheltered and fed, As unto a hospice by Providence led, Does often a thought like a sunbeam intrude Of the bounty so free, and the donors so good?