 | Poems of home and country |  |
SENTIMENTAL.
THE SEAL ONCE LAID ON PLIANT WAX.
ADDRESSED TO A TEACHER.
The seal, once laid on pliant wax,Stamps its own image, cancelled never;
The teacher's lineaments on the soul
Their vivid impress leave forever.
Lay careful hand on head and heart
While waits the youth at life's fair portal;
So shall your work, in beauty wrought,
Be beauty, stamped with life immortal.
NOTHING WITHOUT EFFORT.
Some nice things, you think, can be done without toil,
As weeds grow, untilled, from the generous soil;
You guess men in black, with the cheerfullest air,
Eat bread without work, and live without care;
So happy they float, like clouds in the blue,
You think, very likely, they 've nothing to do
But to read pleasant books and court life with the Muses,
While the hand of the workman is sore his bruises.
But no farmer grows rich who sets up for a shirk,
Nor merchant, whose aim is to live without work;
There is labor more wearing than digging a drain,—
Oh, that some men would try it,—'t is work with the brain!
As weeds grow, untilled, from the generous soil;
You guess men in black, with the cheerfullest air,
Eat bread without work, and live without care;
So happy they float, like clouds in the blue,
You think, very likely, they 've nothing to do
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While the hand of the workman is sore his bruises.
But no farmer grows rich who sets up for a shirk,
Nor merchant, whose aim is to live without work;
There is labor more wearing than digging a drain,—
Oh, that some men would try it,—'t is work with the brain!
I'll tell you a secret,—the song of the poet
Springs not with a gush before one can know it,
As breaks from the fountain the tinkling rill
And flows from the side to the foot of the hill.
The thought, born to shine in his beautiful strain,
Lies, like gems to be cut, in the depth of his brain;
But to clothe it with beauty, to point it with wit,
To fit to each line a shaft that will hit,—
To gather the glories, his lay to enfold,
From earth, air, and sea, from the crimson and gold,
That glow in the path of the opening day,
Or burnish the sky as the light fades away,—
Is never the work of a glance and a dash,
As the fluid-electric shoots out with a flash;—
The search for a jingle, the chase for a rhyme,
Is a toil to the brain, and the labor of time.
As a steamer,—the monster,—caught fast in the narrows,
Or striving, in summer, to pass over shallows,
Drives fierce on her pathway, ascending the stream,
But is forced to fall back with a shock and a scream,
To try a fresh channel, to make a new tack,
Still foiled in her efforts, still doomed to push back,
Till at last, as if borne by a freak of good chance,
She floats o'er the shoal, and shoots, with a glance,
To the sea of deep water, and glides through the tide,
Where balmy winds kiss her, and navies might ride,—
So, often, the poet, intent on his chime,
Seeks, earnest, to match some choice word with a rhyme;
But bootless his efforts,—his search all in vain,—
He backs off from the shallow and tries a new strain,
Gives up the dear word on which swung his fine thought,
Abandons the rhyme, long chased, but ne'er caught,
Creeps back through the shallows,—recasts his whole plan,
And, foiled where he wishes, he sails where he can,
Then floats, proud in success, o'er the glorious main,
Till the rhyme-search shall ground him in shallows again.
O wisdom of Virgil!—the bard of the ages,—
A wisdom well worthy of prophets and sages,
No genius, untoiling, to glory is whirled;
“A line in a day” brings the praise of the world.
Springs not with a gush before one can know it,
As breaks from the fountain the tinkling rill
And flows from the side to the foot of the hill.
The thought, born to shine in his beautiful strain,
Lies, like gems to be cut, in the depth of his brain;
But to clothe it with beauty, to point it with wit,
To fit to each line a shaft that will hit,—
To gather the glories, his lay to enfold,
From earth, air, and sea, from the crimson and gold,
That glow in the path of the opening day,
Or burnish the sky as the light fades away,—
Is never the work of a glance and a dash,
As the fluid-electric shoots out with a flash;—
The search for a jingle, the chase for a rhyme,
Is a toil to the brain, and the labor of time.
As a steamer,—the monster,—caught fast in the narrows,
Or striving, in summer, to pass over shallows,
Drives fierce on her pathway, ascending the stream,
But is forced to fall back with a shock and a scream,
To try a fresh channel, to make a new tack,
Still foiled in her efforts, still doomed to push back,
Till at last, as if borne by a freak of good chance,
She floats o'er the shoal, and shoots, with a glance,
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Where balmy winds kiss her, and navies might ride,—
So, often, the poet, intent on his chime,
Seeks, earnest, to match some choice word with a rhyme;
But bootless his efforts,—his search all in vain,—
He backs off from the shallow and tries a new strain,
Gives up the dear word on which swung his fine thought,
Abandons the rhyme, long chased, but ne'er caught,
Creeps back through the shallows,—recasts his whole plan,
And, foiled where he wishes, he sails where he can,
Then floats, proud in success, o'er the glorious main,
Till the rhyme-search shall ground him in shallows again.
O wisdom of Virgil!—the bard of the ages,—
A wisdom well worthy of prophets and sages,
No genius, untoiling, to glory is whirled;
“A line in a day” brings the praise of the world.
WHERE ARE THE BOYS OF EARLIER YEARS?
“THE BOYS.”
Where are the boys of earlier years.
Once known and loved so well?
Where childhood's hopes and childhood's fears,
O Muse of history, tell?
Once known and loved so well?
Where childhood's hopes and childhood's fears,
O Muse of history, tell?
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Where are the noisy shouts that spoke
In wild joy on the air?
Where are the lips, in love which spoke—
The echoes answer, Where?
In wild joy on the air?
Where are the lips, in love which spoke—
The echoes answer, Where?
Where are the ready eye and hand
That made our greetings sweet?
Parted long since,—the choice old band,—
Where will they ever meet?
That made our greetings sweet?
Parted long since,—the choice old band,—
Where will they ever meet?
Where are they? Ask the manly face,
White hairs, and furrowed brow;
The veterans, with their antique grace—
The boys are elders now.
White hairs, and furrowed brow;
The veterans, with their antique grace—
The boys are elders now.
Roll back, roll back Life's hastening tide,
Nor count each passing year;
Behold, their bows in strength abide,
The ancient boys are here!
Nor count each passing year;
Behold, their bows in strength abide,
The ancient boys are here!
THE LADY AND THE POET.
I have read of a poet whose minstrelsy woke
The spirit of music in beautiful Spain;
He was urged by a lady, not quite to his taste,
To write her a sonnet,—nor urged she in vain.
The spirit of music in beautiful Spain;
He was urged by a lady, not quite to his taste,
To write her a sonnet,—nor urged she in vain.
In the noble Castilian 't were easy to write,
From a madrigal down to a funeral knell;
So this son of the Muses proceeded to draw
The sonnet she claimed from his murmuring shell.
From a madrigal down to a funeral knell;
So this son of the Muses proceeded to draw
The sonnet she claimed from his murmuring shell.
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She deemed he would glory her beauty to praise,
Her form, and her hair, and form her dark Spanish eyes;
And her fancy was filled with the glow of his lays,
Lighted up like the rainbow with heavenly dyes.
Her form, and her hair, and form her dark Spanish eyes;
And her fancy was filled with the glow of his lays,
Lighted up like the rainbow with heavenly dyes.
But her guess was at fault; not a word of her charms
Was allowed by the minstrel to smile on his page,
Not a breath of true gallantry breathed from his lip,
Not a soft note of grace warbled forth from his cage.
Was allowed by the minstrel to smile on his page,
Not a breath of true gallantry breathed from his lip,
Not a soft note of grace warbled forth from his cage.
But he set for his quill the ingenious task
Of making the sonnet, in measure and time,
As smooth as an eclogue, as bald as a stone,
And as empty of meaning as faultless in rhyme.
Of making the sonnet, in measure and time,
As smooth as an eclogue, as bald as a stone,
And as empty of meaning as faultless in rhyme.
The words were consummate in number and time,
The lines were as faultless as eye ever read;
The sonnet was perfect, excepting alone,—
'T was just what he purposed,—that nothing was said.
The lines were as faultless as eye ever read;
The sonnet was perfect, excepting alone,—
'T was just what he purposed,—that nothing was said.
HOW BLEST THE ART THAT LINKS IN SACRED BONDS.
PRESERVED THOUGHTS.
How blest the art that links in sacred bonds
The living present with the living past!
The life of other years to ours responds,
Pulse-beat to pulse-beat thrills, and first to last.
The living present with the living past!
The life of other years to ours responds,
Pulse-beat to pulse-beat thrills, and first to last.
The thoughts once breathed in prose, or rolled in song,
Treasured in faithful records, sound again;
Genius and love their harmonies prolong,
And vanished souls converse again with men.
Treasured in faithful records, sound again;
Genius and love their harmonies prolong,
And vanished souls converse again with men.
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And books are thoughts; these alcoves fair shall hold,
Like rare and priceless gems, the sacred trust,
When monumental piles and shrine of gold,
Battered and worn, shall crumble into dust.
Like rare and priceless gems, the sacred trust,
When monumental piles and shrine of gold,
Battered and worn, shall crumble into dust.
Whose shall the honor be, O history, say,—
When, passed from earth, the glorious thinkers sleep,—
Their thoughts, like jewels rescued from decay,
In fitting chambers to arrange and keep?
When, passed from earth, the glorious thinkers sleep,—
Their thoughts, like jewels rescued from decay,
In fitting chambers to arrange and keep?
Thank God! such trusts to human hands are given;
Thank God! such trusts shall not be given in vain;
Earth's clustered blooms will show fair fruit in heaven,
Thoughts, saved on earth, will shine in heaven again.
Thank God! such trusts shall not be given in vain;
Earth's clustered blooms will show fair fruit in heaven,
Thoughts, saved on earth, will shine in heaven again.
How blest the task, in this short life of ours,
Life's loving work and influence to extend,
Clothing the mortal with immortal powers,
Making all ages with all ages blend!
Life's loving work and influence to extend,
Clothing the mortal with immortal powers,
Making all ages with all ages blend!
THE GENTLE MUSE OF TO-DAY.
The Muses, in the olden days,—
They numbered barely nine,—
'T was theirs to wake the sweetest lays,
To charm and to refine;
To teach the bliss of life and love,
To make the whole world bright,
Ten thousand rills of joy to start,
To shine, as shines the light.
They numbered barely nine,—
'T was theirs to wake the sweetest lays,
To charm and to refine;
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To make the whole world bright,
Ten thousand rills of joy to start,
To shine, as shines the light.
But we, in later times, have found
A hundred Muses more;
And on each gentle Muse we meet,
Our love and praise we pour;
Each makes earth happier, life more blest,
Brings to our homes a heaven,—
Dear charmers of our secret hearts,
The best gift God has given!
A hundred Muses more;
And on each gentle Muse we meet,
Our love and praise we pour;
Each makes earth happier, life more blest,
Brings to our homes a heaven,—
Dear charmers of our secret hearts,
The best gift God has given!
Ardent, they study to expand
The fields already won;
And in their noble deeds surpass
All that the past has done;
By pinnacles of honor gained,
By summits grandly trod,
They prove what woman can attain,
Inspired and helped of God.
The fields already won;
And in their noble deeds surpass
All that the past has done;
By pinnacles of honor gained,
By summits grandly trod,
They prove what woman can attain,
Inspired and helped of God.
We honor all whose hearts are true,
And gladly, proudly, raise
The noblest trophy art can bring
Their glorious course to praise;
A thousand blessings on them rest,—
Blessings from heart and hand,—
The Muses we delight to own,
They are this fairy band.
And gladly, proudly, raise
The noblest trophy art can bring
Their glorious course to praise;
A thousand blessings on them rest,—
Blessings from heart and hand,—
The Muses we delight to own,
They are this fairy band.
| Poems of home and country | |