Our Profession and Other Poems Part 19

AN OPEN BOOK.

How strange are the stories we sometimes read In faces we meet by the way, They unconsciously tell of motive or deed That the tongue would refuse to betray.

Each lineament is a page set apart To be studied and understood By the shade that reflects the mind and heart, In their varied forms and mood.

The eye oft reflects the secrets of soul That are occult to all beside, And form of the mouth defying control Betrays what the heart fain would hide.

The quivering chin and tear-bedewed eye That respond to a kindred word That unconsciously fell from a tongue pa.s.sing by, Oft betrays how th' heart has been stirred.

There are fountains so deep in some human lives That from them no draught can be drawn, Save the perfect mirage the face ever gives Of the soul when reflections dawn.

How varied the pages we daily read-- Some are joyous and full of glee, While others may tell of brave hearts that bleed, And then break in deep misery.

The facial page to me hath a charm That no printed book can impart, 'Tis no fancied tale, 'tis no false alarm, But stern truths from the human heart.

Pencils write plainly each act, on the face, Each motive indulged is seen there, No after decision can fully erase The masks faces ever must wear.

If the face would be fair and bright and young, Wear a charming, a joyous hue, To truth and to right heart-strings must be strung, Every thought, every act must be true.

Let the pencil of truth inscribe on the face, Let honor illumine the eye, Let generous thoughts and acts ever grace The face-page the world shall descry.

SOME CHARACTERS I MUCH ADORE.

An honest man with n.o.ble mind, With heart sincere, true, and refined, Who lives for G.o.d and all mankind, Who cares for rich and poor, And opens wide his soul to see The sweet designs of Deity, Yet from all prejudice is free, Is character I much adore.

The man who all his rights will claim, But gives another just the same, And shares with equity the blame Of faults done long before, Who will not shrink when sorely tried.

But firmly by the truth abide, E'en when his own faults are allied, Is character I much adore.

A man who will not plead a cause That violates the nation's laws, Or seek to give Justice a pause, For gold or worldly store, But Pallas-like will e'er defend, Alike for foe, or trusted friend, The rights on which morals depend, Is character I much adore.

A man who rises by his worth And not through fortune-favored birth, Who owns himself, though all the earth May bribes around him pour, Who wears distinction's jeweled crown, But not from trampling others down, Or acts that cause Justice to frown, Is character I much adore.

The teacher who sees soul and mind In pleasing harmony combined Within the clay to be refined, And scans it o'er and o'er, That through instruction, skill, and love, It may expand and so improve, To honor earth and heaven above, Is character I much adore.

The man of G.o.d who feels no loss To bear the burden of the cross Though waves of fury round him toss, That sometimes hide the sh.o.r.e; Who guides alike the rich and poor Toward Him who said, "I am the Door,"

And bids them come though sick and sore, Is character I much adore.

The man who fills a humble lot As best he can, and murmurs not At what he has, or has not got, But uses all his power To elevate his work and life, And knows no mean ign.o.ble strife, With which the world is too much rife, Is character I much adore.

A faithful wife bent low in prayer O'er suffering one in wild despair, While tender hands relief prepare Upon th' uncovered floor Of him who cursed her life by drink And caused her trusting heart to sink Upon Despair's cold, cheerless brink, Is character I much adore.

Nature has printed the largest book That eye has ever seen, And filled it with colored pictures fair, In white and gray and green.

She offers it free to all mankind-- n.o.ble, generous deed-- But few there are in its pages rare, Have ever learned to read.

SOME CHARACTERS I CAN'T ADMIRE.

The seeming saint with long drawn face, Who thinks that he has so much grace He should be throned on highest place To which saints may aspire, And yet, when dealing with a man, Will use some vicious, subtle plan By which a vantage he may gain, Is character I can't admire.

The zealot who thinks G.o.d has given A delegated power from heaven To him, to see that men are driven To escape a burning fire, Yet draws no souls by filial love, But deems the world can never move By holy influence from above, Is character I can't admire.

The man whose prayer is long and loud, Whose knee is bent, whose head is bowed-- With worldly goods richly endowed With all man can desire, Yet sees a _worthy_ brother fall, Without responding to his call For aid to soothe starvation's gall, Is character I can't admire.

The teacher who devoid of heart, Unskilled in pedagogic art, With looks and acts severely tart Would loathesome tasks require, Of pupils dulled by daily grind, Or stirred by words unjust, unkind, Which leave a canker in the mind, Is character I can't admire.

The mother who aspires to be A beacon light of charity, Regardless of the nursery Whereof she seems to tire, Who thinks her husband needs no care, But drives him wildly toward despair By meagre love, and frigid fare, Is character I can't admire.

The husband who spends days and nights In low resorts, mid brawls and fights, In which his heart greatly delights, But stops not to inquire, If wife and child have needed care, Or from his draughts he may not spare The pittance they should justly share, Is character I can't admire,

The millionaire who doth obtain His wealth by brawn and muscle strain Of those he poorly doth maintain Through scanty meed and hire, Who will not justly, freely give A recompense whereby may live In health, the man who makes him thrive Is character I can't admire.

The man who feels no poignant ruth At the dethronement of a truth, That to old age from tender youth Has felt no fervid ire When hate and envy swayed the tongue, And took no pride in checking wrong, No matter where it may belong, Is character I can't admire.

The man who lives for self alone, The man whose truth and honor 've flown, The man who hears a fellow groan Or sees a soul expire, And lifts no friendly hand to aid, No sympathy of soul betrayed, No fevered brow with balm allayed, Are characters I can't admire.

ON BROOKLYN BRIDGE.

I stood upon the slender link That joins two cities into one, And saw from thence the storm-clouds drink Their moisture from the sun.

I watched their lowering, frowning edge, Girt round with silver band, Saw castles tall and towering ledge a.s.sume their forms so grand.

I saw the marshalled hosts of heaven Join for the mighty fray, Their ranks by tempest-winds were driven Along their dark highway.

High in the heavens the giant forms Of chariots, hors.e.m.e.n, towers stand, Whose home is ever 'mid the storms-- When chaos reigns, most grand.

I saw the fragments of the cloud Join with the nucleus form, Cirrus to Nimbus quickly bowed-- Sure harbinger of storm.

These were but outward signs I saw, Portending danger, strife, and fear, Yet still I knew by Nature's law, Beyond the clouds, 'twas clear.

In spite of cloud and storm and strife, Of tempests wild, severe, There's suns.h.i.+ne in our daily life, If one true heart is near.

No battle vanquishes the _true_, E'en thought of death is sweet To him whose soul would e'er subdue The scorpion-sting--deceit.

One trusting, true, and tender heart Can cure a thousand ills, Extract the poison from the dart Of malice e'er it kills.