Our Profession and Other Poems Part 15

ALONE.

"And the Lord G.o.d said, It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him a help meet for him."--Gen. 2, 18.

Alone! G.o.d saw His creature man, Deprived of great felicity, And changed the order of His plan That earth in harmony might be With all the products of the spheres, Which move in such perfect accord, That through aeons of pa.s.sing years They but proclaim a perfect Lord.

The earth was fair and fresh and young, The stars hung in a cloudless sky, Sweet perfumes on the air were flung From every breeze went laughing by; The brook and bird in wanton glee, Attuned their notes in such refrain That earth was full of minstrelsy, And heaven re-echoed it again.

G.o.d's image, man, heard not the strain, No beauty charmed his listless eye, Earth spread her treasures but in vain, In vain shone the bejeweled sky; Earth gave no food for hungry _heart_, No solace-cup from which to sip, Defective seemed Nature and Art, To _soul_ robbed of _companions.h.i.+p_.

A "help meet" then to man was given, To _soothe_ and _cheer_ his lonely way; Eve was an afterthought of Heaven That crowned the last creation-day.

Create anew, Almighty Power, A "help meet" for the desolate, Let no wild sophistry devour The solace Thou didst last create.

LOVE.

[Written after reading Shakespeare's sonnet commencing, "Love is not Love which alters when it alterations finds."]

Love is a sort of cannibal And lives upon its kind, It dares all dangers, fears no foes And to the world is blind, While faithful heart unswerving beats, Or pines in forced retreat; It deems all tortures fate may send Are perfumed with the sweet Aroma of implicit faith, Born of a kindred soul That to the outer things of life Spurns puny hate's control.

Love, undeceived, is perfect bliss When trust reciprocates The purest, sweetest touch that Heaven Within the soul creates; But fierce Vesuvius cannot burn With such destructive flame, As fires Love's victim of deceit Stung by the taunts that claim No truthful fountain as their source, No mild-voiced Justice to allay The cauldron of defenseless fraud Distilled through treachery.

Love that dissembles is not love, But a subtle treachery,-- A siren with a charming voice That sounds o'er a mirror sea,-- A beacon light set to allure From a harbor safe and calm,-- A soothing drug whose deadly power Yields to no proffered balm,-- A smiling face with winsome glow But poisonous, blasting breath, That breathes upon its victim, draughts Of sorrow, tears, and death.

Love that would gain a mastery To wield for pelf or power, Is not a love born clean and pure O'er which no evils lower, But like a miasmatic clime That yields delicious fruit, It hides the venom it distills, And seeks its sole repute In outward show and pageantry, Wherein are deep concealed The poisoned arrows plumed for death, It would not have revealed.

Unselfish love is but a spark Of G.o.d's own spirit dropped from Heaven, The richest boon, the sweetest joy, That unto mortals G.o.d hath given; Within itself it hath a power To lift the soul on joyous wings, Attune the heart to harmonies, And softly touch the tensioned strings That vibrate in such unison With other strings so like its own, That not a discord may be heard In cadence, blend, or tone.

As a cricket sang his song to me On a late September eve, The tone had a sadness in it, That over my spirit did weave A spell of gloom, at the requiem He sang in his solitude, For the dying year, th' fading leaf, And flowers by frost subdued.

LIES.

If aught on earth my soul can fire, 'Tis the deception of a liar Who with soft smoothness of the tongue, Has promises and pledges strung To suit all needs that come to hand, To serve the purpose Satan planned.

Satan himself, I think, would shun The presence of that artful one, Who violates truth's sacred laws, Regardless of the end or cause, But deems it strategy to live For the sole purpose to deceive.

If h.e.l.l has any corner where Vile culprits may be doomed to share The merits they richly deserve, It should be held in strict reserve For them whose flattery and art Are used to kill a trusting heart.

Let me abhor, loathe, and despise The author of those fiendish lies, Who would for pleasure, greed, or power, The confidence of youth devour, And blight the soul with foul distrust, Or trample honor in the dust.

No sting of pain can e'er atone, No purging fire was ever known For cleansing of a heart defiled By falsehood; though it may be styled In diction, affability, It poisons like the upas tree.

Beware the tongue that will deceive, At last 'twill cause your soul to grieve Though smooth its accents now may be, Its motive power is treachery, Its fruits are laden with disease, Although its tones may often please.

Dissimulation's oily tongue Will grace Simplicity, among Her unsuspecting, trustful throng, That he may do her greater wrong, And covertly defile the pure, Some envied purpose to secure.

HEARTSTRINGS.

The tiny trembling tendons That twine about the heart, Are chords that yield a music Unknown to vocal art.

Though soft the notes are sounded, Each vibration tells a tale Of the mellow, winsome suns.h.i.+ne, Or of fierce, destructive gale.

Though the strings be few in number, They have compa.s.s far beyond The myriad chords around them, That are less delicately tuned.

List we softly to the music As its volumes gently roll, Varied in their intonation By the tension of the soul.

Ecstatic measures fill us With a rapture so profound, That we fancy heaven's portals With such harmonies abound.

Each note is rich in meaning, Each tone is full and clear To the charming sweet delusion Of imagination's ear.

If you would hear this music And be charmed by its tone, Attune your heart to harmony, For the music is its own.

No lessons conned in schooldays, No studied forms of art, Can profit us so greatly As communion with our heart.

It will sing us songs of rapture, Though silent each may be; It will help to solve the questions Of life's great mystery.

If one would hear sweet harmony He carefully must live; For these songs will be an echo Of the keynote he shall give.

If heartstrings be but tuned aright Sweet melodies we hear; If strung with envy and deceit, The tone is doleful, drear.

Then let us tune our hearts with joy, And touch the strings with glee, For honor, truth, and purity, Will bring soul-ecstasy.

WHO KNOWS?

It matters not what be our lot Upon this mundane sphere, In spite of fears and burning tears While we shall linger here, We must depend on foe or friend For many things we need To give the soul that full control Which makes it strong indeed.

For n.o.ble end, make him a friend Who can reciprocate, A kindly act, not to it tacked The proof of reprobate.

G.o.d only knows whom we may choose And safely trust as brother, The seeming saint may have a taint That proves him quite another.