Mountain idylls, and Other Poems | Page 8

place,?A form which ne'er might stand erect again;?I viewed that human shipwreck in his chair,?And thought a fate like that was worst to bear.
Within her room a beauteous maiden lay,?Moaning in agony no words express,?A cancer eating rapidly away?Her vital force,--so foul and pitiless;?And when I saw that face, so young and fair,?I thought such anguish was the worst to bear.
[Illustration: "Have cut the deep gorge with its wonderful curves."
BOX CA?ON, LOOKING INWARD, OURAY, COLORADO.]
A helpless paralytic met my eyes,?Whose hands might never grasp a friendly hand,?But hung distorted and of shrunken size,?Insensible to muscular command;?His face an abject picture of despair;?I thought a fate like that was worst to bear.
With wasted form, emaciate and wan,?A pale consumptive coughed with labored breath,?His sunken eyes and hectic flush upon?His cheek, foretold a sure but lingering death;?I thought, whene'er I met his hollow stare,?A wasting death like that was worst to bear.
That day with fetters obdurate and fast,?With chain of summer, winter, spring and fall,?Is bounden to the dim receding past;?Time o'er my life has spread a somber pall,?With sightless eyes I grope and clutch the air,?My lot is now the hardest lot to bear.
They Cannot See the Wreaths We Place.
They cannot see the wreaths we place?Upon the silent bier,?They cannot see the tear-stained face,?Nor feel the scalding tear,?And now can flowers or graven stone,?For wrongs done them in life atone?
Better the flower that smooths the thorns?On earthly pathway found,?Than that which uselessly adorns?The bier or silent mound.?And neither tear nor floral token?Retracts the hasty word, when spoken.
Then strew the flowers ere life has fled,?While yet their eyes discern;?Why waste their fragrance on the dead?Who no fond smile return??The heaving breast with sorrow aches,?Comfort the throbbing heart which breaks.
Mother.--Alpha and Omega.
Mother! Mother!?The startled cry of childish fright?Rang through the silence of the night,?As but the mother's fond caress?Could soothe its infantile distress;?And the mother answered, with loving stroke?Of her gentle hand, as she softly spoke:?"Hush, hush, my child, that troubled cry;?What evil can harm thee, with mother nigh?"
Mother! Mother!?Long years have passed, and the fevered brow?Of a bearded man, she is stroking now,?As through delirium and pain?He cries as a little child, again.?And the mother answered, with loving stroke?Of her careworn hand, as she softly spoke:?"Hush, hush, my child, that troubled cry;?What evil can harm thee, with mother nigh?"
Mother! Mother!?Still time rolls on, and an old man stands?Trembling on life's declining sands;?As memory bridges the flood of years?He cries as a child, with childish tears;?And memory answers, with loving stroke?Of a vanished hand, and an echo spoke:?"Hush, hush, my child, that troubled cry;?What evil can harm thee, with mother nigh?"
Empty are the Mother's Arms.
Ah, empty are the mother's arms?Which clasp a vanished form;?A darling spared from life's alarms,?And safe from earthly storm.
In absent reverie, she hears?That voice, nor can forget;?The fond illusion disappears,--?Her arms are empty, yet.
In Deo Fides.
Almighty God! Supreme! Most High!?Before Thy throne, in reverence, we kneel;?We cannot realize Thine infinity;?Beholding not, we can Thy presence feel;?Though veiled impenetrably, Thou dost reveal?Such evidence as clouds cannot conceal!
Acknowledged, though unseen, Almighty Power!?Within its secret depths, the bosom pays?In pleasure's or affliction's calmer hour,?The heart's sincerest offering of praise;?Intuitive, unuttered prayers arise?Without the outstretched arms, or reverently clos-ed eyes.
Down deep within the soul's mysterious seat,?The voice of reason, and inherent sense,?Admits Thy Sovereign Power, and doth entreat?The guidance of a Just Omnipotence;?Thus doth the human essence e'er depend?On that Supreme. Eternal. Without End.
Supreme, Mysterious Power! Whate'er Thou be,?Can e'er our mortal natures comprehend,?This side the veil which shrouds futurity,?Thy Wisdom, Power, and Love? The end?Of all conclusions, reasoned o'er and o'er,?We know Thou dost exist! Can we know more?
Shall Love, as the Bridal Wreath, Whither and Die?
Shall love as the bridal wreath, wither and die??Or remain ever constant and sure,?As the years of the future pass rapidly by,?And the waves of adversity's tempest roll high,?Ever changeless and fervent endure?
Mistake not the fancy, that lasts but a day,?For the love which eternally thrives;?That sentiment false, is as prone to decay?As the wreath is to fade and to wither away;?And like it, it never revives.
Shall Our Memories Live When the Sod Rolls Above Us?
Shall our memories live, when the sod rolls above us?And marks our last home with a mouldering heap??Shall the voices of those who profess that they love us?E'er mention our names, as we dreamlessly sleep?
Will their eyes ever dim at some fond recollection,?Or their hands ever plant a small flower o'er the breast, Or will they gaze with a sad circumspection?At the tablets, which tell of our last solemn rest?
Ah! soon shall the hearts which our memories cherish?Forget, as they strive with the cares of their own;?And even the last dim remembrance shall perish?As we peacefully slumber, unwept and unknown.
But if our lives, though of transient duration,?Are filled with some work