Poems Teachers Ask For Volume II Part 40

_John F. Nicholls._

The Two Pictures

It was a bright and lovely summer's morn, Fair bloomed the flowers, the birds sang softly sweet, The air was redolent with perfumed balm, And Nature scattered, with unsparing hand, Her loveliest graces over hill and dale.

An artist, weary of his narrow room Within the city's pent and heated walls, Had wandered long amid the ripening fields, Until, remembering his neglected themes, He thought to turn his truant steps toward home.

These led him through a rustic, winding lane, Lined with green hedge-rows spangled close with flowers, And overarched by trees of n.o.blest growth.

But when at last he reached the farther end Of this sweet labyrinth, he there beheld A vision of such pure, pathetic grace, That weariness and haste were both obscured, It was a child--a young and lovely child With eyes of heavenly hue, bright golden hair, And dimpled hands clasped in a morning prayer, Kneeling beside its youthful mother's knee.

Upon that baby brow of spotless snow, No single trace of guilt, or pain, or woe, No line of bitter grief or dark despair, Of envy, hatred, malice, worldly care, Had ever yet been written. With bated breath, And hand uplifted as in warning, swift, The artist seized his pencil, and there traced In soft and tender lines that image fair: Then, when 'twas finished, wrote beneath one word, A word of holiest import--Innocence.

Years fled and brought with them a subtle change, Scattering Time's snow upon the artist's brow, But leaving there the laurel wreath of fame, While all men spake in words of praise his name; For he had traced full many a n.o.ble work Upon the canvas that had touched men's souls, And drawn them from the baser things of earth, Toward the light and purity of heaven.

One day, in tossing o'er his folio's leaves, He chanced upon the picture of the child, Which he had sketched that bright morn long before, And then forgotten. Now, as he paused to gaze, A ray of inspiration seemed to dart Straight from those eyes to his. He took the sketch, Placed it before his easel, and with care That seemed but pleasure, painted a fair theme, Touching and still re-touching each bright lineament, Until all seemed to glow with life divine-- 'Twas innocence personified. But still The artist could not pause. He needs must have A meet companion for his fairest theme; And so he sought the wretched haunts of sin, Through miry courts of misery and guilt, Seeking a face which at the last was found.

Within a prison cell there crouched a man-- Nay, rather say a fiend--with countenance seamed And marred by all the horrid lines of sin; Each mark of degradation might be traced, And every scene of horror he had known, And every wicked deed that he had done, Were visibly written on his lineaments; Even the last, worst deed of all, that left him here, A parricide within a murderer's cell.

Here then the artist found him; and with hand Made skillful by its oft-repeated toil, Transferred unto his canvas that vile face, And also wrote beneath it just one word, A word of darkest import--it was Vice.

Then with some inspiration not his own, Thinking, perchance, to touch that guilty heart, And wake it to repentance e'er too late, The artist told the tale of that bright morn, Placed the two pictured faces side by side, And brought the wretch before them. With a shriek That echoed through those vaulted corridors, Like to the cries that issue from the lips Of souls forever doomed to woe, Prostrate upon the stony floor he fell, And hid his face and groaned aloud in anguish.

"I was that child once--I, yes, even I-- In the gracious years forever fled, That innocent and happy little child!

These very hands were raised to G.o.d in prayer, That now are reddened with a mother's blood.

Great Heaven! can such things be? Almighty power, Send forth Thy dart and strike me where I lie!"

He rose, laid hold upon the artist's arm And grasped it with demoniac power, The while he cried: "Go forth, I say, go forth And tell my history to the tempted youth.

I looked upon the wine when it was red, I heeded not my mother's piteous prayers, I heeded not the warnings of my friends, But tasted of the wine when it was red, Until it left a demon in my heart That led me onward, step by step, to this, This horrible place from which my body goes Unto the gallows, and my soul to h.e.l.l!"

He ceased as last. The artist turned and fled; But even as he went, unto his ears Were borne the awful echoes of despair, Which the lost wretch flung on the empty air, Cursing the demon that had brought him there.

The Two Kinds of People

There are two kinds of people on earth to-day; Just two kinds of people, no more, I say.

Not the sinner and saint, for it's well understood, The good are half bad and the bad are half good.

Not the rich and the poor, for to rate a man's wealth, You must first know the state of his conscience and health.

Not the humble and proud, for in life's little span, Who puts on vain airs is not counted a man.

Not the happy and sad, for the swift flying years Bring each man his laughter and each man his tears.

No; the two kinds of people on earth I mean, Are the people who lift and the people who lean.

Wherever you go, you will find the earth's ma.s.ses Are always divided in just these two cla.s.ses.

And, oddly enough, you will find, too, I ween, There's only one lifter to twenty who lean.

In which cla.s.s are you? Are you easing the load Of overtaxed lifters, who toil down the road?

Or are you a leaner, who lets others share Your portion of labor, and worry and care?

_Ella Wheeler Wilc.o.x._

The Sin of Omission

It isn't the thing you do, dear, It's the thing you leave undone That gives you a bit of a heartache At the setting of the sun.

The tender word forgotten; The letter you did not write; The flowers you did not send, dear, Are your haunting ghosts at night.

The stone you might have lifted Out of a brother's way; The bit of hearthstone counsel You were hurried too much to say; The loving touch of the hand, dear, The gentle, winning tone Which you had no time nor thought for With troubles enough of your own.

Those little acts of kindness So easily out of mind, Those chances to be angels Which we poor mortals find-- They come in night and silence, Each sad, reproachful wraith, When hope is faint and flagging And a chill has fallen on faith.

For life is all too short, dear, And sorrow is all too great, To suffer our slow compa.s.sion That tarries until too late; And it isn't the thing you do, dear, It's the thing you leave undone Which gives you a bit of a heartache At the setting of the sun,

_Margaret E. Sangster._

The Bible My Mother Gave Me

Give me that grand old volume, the gift of a mother's love, Tho' the spirit that first taught me has winged its flight above.

Yet, with no legacy but this, she has left me wealth untold, Yea, mightier than earth's riches, or the wealth of Ophir's gold.

When a child, I've kneeled beside her, in our dear old cottage home, And listened to her reading from that prized and cherished tome, As with low and gentle cadence, and a meek and reverent mien, G.o.d's word fell from her trembling lips, like a presence felt and seen.

Solemn and sweet the counsels that spring from its open page, Written with all the fervor and zeal of the prophet age; Full of the inspiration of the holy bards who trod, Caring not for the scoffer's scorn, if they gained a soul to G.o.d.

Men who in mind were G.o.dlike, and have left on its blazoned scroll Food for all coming ages in its manna of the soul; Who, through long days of anguish, and nights devoid of ease, Still wrote with the burning pen of faith its higher mysteries.

I can list that good man yonder, in the gray church by the brook, Take up that marvelous tale of love, of the story and the Book, How through the twilight glimmer, from the earliest dawn of time, It was handed down as an heirloom, in almost every clime.

How through strong persecution and the struggle of evil days The precious light of the truth ne'er died, but was fanned to a beacon blaze.

How in far-off lands, where the cypress bends o'er the laurel bough, It was hid like some precious treasure, and they bled for its truth, as now.

He tells how there stood around it a phalanx none could break, Though steel and fire and lash swept on, and the cruel wave lapt the stake; How dungeon doors and prison bars had never damped the flame, But raised up converts to the creed whence Christian comfort came.

That housed in caves and caverns--how it stirs our Scottish blood!-- The Convenanters, sword in hand, poured forth the crimson flood; And eloquent grows the preacher, as the Sabbath suns.h.i.+ne falls, Thro' cobwebbed and checkered pane, a halo on the walls!

That still 'mid sore disaster, in the heat and strife of doubt, Some bear the Gospel oriflamme, and one by one march out, Till forth from heathen kingdoms, and isles beyond the sea, The glorious tidings of the Book spread Christ's salvation free.

So I cling to my mother's Bible, in its torn and tattered boards, As one of the greatest gems of art, and the king of all other h.o.a.rds, As in life the true consoler, and in death ere the Judgment call, The guide that will lead to the s.h.i.+ning sh.o.r.e, where the Father waits for all.