Poems by Hattie Howard Part 3

Who of their abundance have cheerfully given Wherewith to develop an embryo heaven-- To brighten conditions too hard and too sad And make the unhappy contented and glad.

Be blessedness theirs, who like knights of renown Thus scatter such largesse o'er country and town, Their monument building in many a dome Like healthful and beautiful Holiday Home.

Rutha.

The days are long and lonely, The weary eve comes on, And the nights are filled with dreaming Of one beloved and gone.

I reach out in the darkness And clasp but empty air, For Rutha dear has vanished-- I wonder, wonder where.

Yet must it be: her nature So lovely, pure, and true; So nearly like the angels, Is she an angel too.

The cottage is dismantled Of all that made it bright; Beyond its silent portal No love, nor life, nor light.

Where are the hopes I cherished, The joys that once I knew, The dreams, the aspirations?

All, all are perished too.

Yes, love's dear chain is broken; From sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e I roam-- No comfort, no companion, No happiness, no home.

Oh could I but enfold her Unto my heart once more, If aught could e'er restore me My darling as before;

If G.o.d would only tell me-- Such myriads above-- Why He must needs have taken The one I loved to love;

If G.o.d would only tell me Why mult.i.tudes are left, Unhappy and unlovely, And I am thus bereft;

If--O my soul, be silent And some day thou shalt see Through mystery and shadow, And know why it must be.

To every cry of anguish From every heart distressed, Can be no other answer Than this--G.o.d knoweth best.

The Student Gone.

So soon he fell, the world will never know What possibilities within him lay, What hopes irradiated his young life, With high ambition and with ardor rife; But ah! the speedy summons came, and so He pa.s.sed away.

So soon he fell, there lie unfinished plans By others misapplied, misunderstood; And doors are barred that wait the master-key-- That wait his magic Open Sesame!-- To that a.s.sertive power that commands The mult.i.tude.

Too soon he fell! Was he not born to prove What manhood and integrity might be-- How one from all base elements apart Might walk serene, in purity of heart, His face the bright transparency of love And sympathy?

The student ranks are closed, there is no gap; Of other brave aspirants is no dearth; Prowess, fidelity, and truth go on, And few shall miss or mourn the student gone, Reposing in the all-protecting lap Of Mother Earth.

Too soon--O G.o.d! was it thy will that one Of such endeavor and of n.o.ble mien, Enrapt with living, should thus early go From all he loved and all who loved him so, Mid life's activities no longer known, No longer seen?

Oh, not for aye should agonizing lips Quiver with questionings they dare not frame; Though in the dark penumbra of despair Seemeth no light, nor comfort anywhere-- All things enshadowed as in dense eclipse, No more the same.

Could we but know, in that Elysian lore Of happy exercise still going on Could we but know of glorious heights attained, Of his reward, of mysteries explained,-- Ah! but to know were to lament no more The student gone.

The Tourist.

Lo! carpet-bag and bagger occupy the land, And prove the touring season actively begun; His personnel and purpose can none misunderstand, For each upon his frontlet bears his honest brand-- The fool-ish one!

By caravan and car, from country and from town, A great gra.s.shopper army fell foraging the land; Like b.u.mblebees that know not where to settle down, Impossible it is to curb or scare or drown The tourist band.

With guidebook, camera, with rod and gun, to shoot, To lure the deer, the hare, the bird, the speckled trout, The pauper or the prince unbidden they salute, And everywhere their royal right dare none dispute-- To roam about.

From dark immuring walls and dingy ways of trade, From high society's luxurious stately homes, From lounging places by the park or promenade, From rural dwellings canopied in sylvan shade, The tourist comes.

To every mountain peak within the antipodes, To sweet, sequestered spots no other mortal knows; To every island fair engirt by sunny seas, To forest-centers unexplored by birds or bees, The tourist goes.

For Summer's fingers all the land have richly dressed, Resplendent in regalia of scent and bloom, And stirred in every heart the spirit of unrest, Like that of untamed fledglings in the parent nest For ampler room.

What is it prompts the roving mania--is it love Of wild adventure fanciful, unique, and odd?

Is it to be in fas.h.i.+on, and to others prove One's social standing, that impels the madness of The tramp abroad?

The question hangs unanswered, like an unwise prayer, Importunate, but powerless response to bring; Go ask the voyagers, the rovers everywhere-- They only say it is their rest-time, outing, their Vacationing.

So is the world's eccentric round of joy complete When happy tourist-traveler, no more to roam, His fascinating, thrilling story shall repeat To impecunious, luckless mult.i.tudes who greet The tourist home.

The Antiquarian.

Millions have been and pa.s.sed from view Benignity who never knew; No aspiration theirs, nor aim; Existence soulless as the clay From whence they sprang, what right have they To eulogy or fame?

So mult.i.tudes have been forgot-- But drones or dunces, good for naught; Like clinging parasites or burrs Taking from others all they dared, Yet little they for others cared Except as pilferers.

Not so with that majestic man The all-round antiquarian-- No model his nor parallel; From selfishness inviolate Are his achievements good and great, And thus shall ages tell.

A love for the antiquities His honest hold, his birthright is!

And things unheard of or unread, Defaced by moth or rust or mold, To him are treasures more than gold, Ay, than his daily bread.

At neither ghost nor ghoul aghast He echoes voices of the past, And tones like melancholy knells Of years departed to his ear Are sweeter than of kindred dear, Sweeter than Florimel's.

He delves through centuries of dust To resurrect some unknown bust, A torso, or a G.o.ddess whole; Maybe like Venus, minus arms-- Haply to find those missing charms; But not the lost, lost soul.

He dotes on aborigines Who lived in caves and hollow trees, And barters for their trinkets rare; Exchanging with those dusky breeds For arrow-heads and sh.e.l.ls and beads A scalplock of his hair.

Had he been born--thus he laments-- Along with other great events, Coeval say with Noah's flood, A proud relations.h.i.+p to trace With Hitt.i.tes--or with any race Of blue archaic blood!