 | Lines in Pleasant Places |  |
168
A PICTURE.
I paint a man of merit rare,
With look of grace and gentle air,
A presence welcome everywhere,
But strangely shy,
Who might earth's proudest honors share,
Yet puts them by.
With look of grace and gentle air,
A presence welcome everywhere,
But strangely shy,
Who might earth's proudest honors share,
Yet puts them by.
The discords of the world offend;
He has no hungry ear to lend
To hoarse refrains that to him wend
Of human strife,
Nor craves with noisy crowds to blend
That make up life.
He has no hungry ear to lend
To hoarse refrains that to him wend
Of human strife,
Nor craves with noisy crowds to blend
That make up life.
He moves the ranks of men among
With absent eye and silent tongue;
And out where Nature's song is sung
By myriad choirs,
The tuneful anthem broadcast flung
His verse inspires.
With absent eye and silent tongue;
And out where Nature's song is sung
By myriad choirs,
The tuneful anthem broadcast flung
His verse inspires.
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But, from the bustle of the street,
With quiet throned and converse meet,
Then flow his words in channels sweet,
With truth imbued,
And hours fly by, on pinions fleet,
With bright flowers strewed.
With quiet throned and converse meet,
Then flow his words in channels sweet,
With truth imbued,
And hours fly by, on pinions fleet,
With bright flowers strewed.
But his is no exclusive part;
He feels for those 'neath sorrow's smart,
Who wander without guide or chart,
And strikes the strain,
Till softened grows the fallow heart
That cold hath lain.
He feels for those 'neath sorrow's smart,
Who wander without guide or chart,
And strikes the strain,
Till softened grows the fallow heart
That cold hath lain.
Like King Admetus' bard's, his lyre
Pours forth the strain that all admire,
And wakes in other breasts the fire
Of Hope and Love,
And bids the good in man aspire
To scenes above.
Pours forth the strain that all admire,
And wakes in other breasts the fire
Of Hope and Love,
And bids the good in man aspire
To scenes above.
How grand his strain of faith and trust
That points the mourner from the dust
To where, in airs more pure and just,
The lost one waits,
Where no obstruction mars nor rusts
The golden gates!
That points the mourner from the dust
To where, in airs more pure and just,
The lost one waits,
Where no obstruction mars nor rusts
The golden gates!
The dying outcast's “bed of stone,”
The lonely orphan's piteous moan,
The soul from which all hope has flown,
His pity wake,
And from his muse rare light has shone
Woe's clouds to break.
The lonely orphan's piteous moan,
The soul from which all hope has flown,
His pity wake,
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Woe's clouds to break.
And royal verse has graced his pen,
Where true nobility in men
Has flashed athwart his vision's ken,
And late it shed
Bright lustre on a hero, when
His spirit fled.
Where true nobility in men
Has flashed athwart his vision's ken,
And late it shed
Bright lustre on a hero, when
His spirit fled.
But whose the portrait? Does it need
That line to give the dullard heed
“This is a man,” or some such screed,
To make it clear,
Or do its manly lines, indeed,
Self-shown appear?
That line to give the dullard heed
“This is a man,” or some such screed,
To make it clear,
Or do its manly lines, indeed,
Self-shown appear?
Not one whose greatness fills the frame,
With nostrils breathing fire and flame,
Who fights, or trades, or speaks for fame,
Yet grander far
Than these, and more the tongue could name,
As is a star.
With nostrils breathing fire and flame,
Who fights, or trades, or speaks for fame,
Yet grander far
Than these, and more the tongue could name,
As is a star.
| Lines in Pleasant Places | |