Our Profession and Other Poems | Page 2

hands,
In which the spirit e'er survives
And
through eternity expands.
Paint truthfully the living dead
Whose sensibilities were slain
By
tyros, oft unskilled, unread,
In all the workings of the brain;
Whose
concepts of the avenues
That reach the mind of tender youth,
Are
labyrinths of tangled views
Devoid of art, science, and truth;
Touch
but that chord of magic power
Which gives the soul augmented bliss,

And lifts it for the present hour
Above the world's base selfishness;

Then let the search-light of the soul
Illumine every page that's read,

Until an animated whole
Shall supersede the living dead.
Then, then shall dawn the golden day
When Ignorance shall
shamed-faced fly
Before the potent living ray
Of mind, touched by
effulgency
That pours its light in vital force,
Upon the mind of
plastic youth,
And leads it gently to the source
Of light and
scientific truth.
OUR PROFESSION.
There's an art in our profession,
Which cannot be wholly learned

From all books in our possession,
Though their leaves be deftly
turned
Till the mind 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