Our Profession and Other Poems | Page 2

shall grasp the meaning?Of each truth they may contain,?Yet there remains a gleaning?Not a product of the brain.
One may know the truths of science?Till his mind may have full store,?Or may place some great reliance?On ancient and modern lore;?He may count the stars in heaven,?He may trace them in their course,?And from data that is given?He may prove creation's source;?He may use the best of diction?To portray his studied thought;?He may draw from truth and fiction?All the charm with which they're fraught;?He may be a friend of Nature?And may understand her laws;?He may prove embryo creature?Has within itself a "cause";?He may fathom all creation?And dwell among the stars,?Visit every land and nation?And return with honor's scars;?Yet he may lack a power,--?Occult to scientific truth--?Which is Heaven's richest dower?To the guides of ardent youth.
Though all these may give a polish?To the gem that lights the soul,?They are weak, useless, and foolish,?When they're taken for the whole?Of all the powers required?To entrance the youthful mind,?With a spirit so inspired?As to touch the eyes of blind?With a bright illumination?That shall prove itself to be?More than a corruscation?Of a short-lived ecstasy.
By intuition, children know?A heart that cares for them;?They recognize a friend or foe,?At instantaneous ken.?No mask can shield a fraud or fool,?E'en from a puerile mind;?It knows by rules not learned at school?The way true hearts to find.?An earnest love, unbounded, firm,--?A God-gift from our birth--?By far outweighs the noblest charm?Can be acquired on earth.
Who has not drunk deep at the well?Of childhood's innocence,?Or thinks that he should ever dwell?At such an eminence,?That he can never bend to raise?And cheer a longing heart,?Will waste his precious hours and days,?And finally depart?Without such fruitage or reward?As ever should be given?To him, who serves master or Lord,?And hopes for bliss in heaven.
Who sees no soul-buds here expand?To blossom by and by,?Hath fathomed not the great command?For which we live and die.?The State demands that every son?And daughter shall be free?From ignorance and vice which run?Toward crime and misery.?The future of our noble State?Dwells now in plastic form;?If she her past would emulate?And meet the coming storm?Of chaos, whose portentous wing?Seems hovering not afar,?In every school-room we should sing?Of banner and of star?That gave the land to Liberty,?And with a bold huzza?Proclaim that he who would be free?Must honor right and law.
Who serves his State and fellow-man?And plies his skill at best,?Assists to carry out the plan?To make all truly blest;?He may not sit in marble hall?Where legislators meet,?Nor may he rear fine towers tall,?Or dwell in a retreat?Where monks and nuns with solemn prayer?Pour out their orison;?The test of faith is filial care,?And duty nobly done.?Minds let us mould, men may we rear,?For God, for State, for man,?Using the right without a fear?To mar the heaven-born plan.
The test of great didactic skill?Is not to train the few?Whose active genius, tact, and will?Are always plain to view;?But he who takes an inert mind,?Housed in a sluggish frame,?And forms such man as God designed,?Deserves an honored name.
Like Sisyphus some ever roll?The same old round of things?Which dwarf the mind and starve the soul,?Until they long for wings?To fly from dull monotony,?Which carries in its train?That wreck of thought--Despondency--?Which preys on heart and brain.
The artist knows the colors best?That blend in harmony?With richest cloud-scenes, in the west,?That gild the sunset sky;?The minstrel knows what song to sing?To please the multitude;?His fingers deftly touch the strings?That yield response subdued?When weary soul would find relief?From sorrow's withering sigh,?Or when the heart is bowed with grief,?And tear-drops dew the eye;?But when the soul is full of joy,?How jubilant the strain?The tactful artist will employ?To please the heart and brain.
If those who toil in lowly spheres?Employ such artful ways?To charm the dull and listless ears?That such may sound their praise,?Why should the artist of the mind?Shrink from that noble aim?That seeks to elevate mankind,?And light a deathless flame!?Or why should he who shapes the lives?And destiny of man,?Be less exact than he who strives?From mercenary plan.
No instrument man ever made--?None ever can be found--?No matter when or where 'tis played,?Will yield so rich a sound?As that which falls from human tongue?When heart speaks unto heart,?Nor are its mysteries among?The hidden things of art;?A tyro on life's winding road?Reads understandingly?Each tone and word, each varied mode?The tongue and form portray.
Our heart's intents are from our looks?More plainly to be read,?Than thoughts expressed in printed books?Whose language oft seems dead,?Because it lacks a living form--?A voiceless, dull decree?That of itself has little charm?For youth's activity.
A potent charm of living light?Flows with resistless force,?Dispelling clouds of mental night?That meet its onward course,?When all the soul is centred in?The great and primal thought?That services which hearts would win,?With price can ne'er be bought.?Such service heaven alone repays?E'en though on earth 'tis done,?Its echoes last through endless