Our Profession and Other Poems | Page 3

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 days,
And dies but with the sun.
A
mercenary soul must find
A more congenial field
Than that of
training human mind

Wherein a soul's concealed,
If it would live
out all the days
Allotted unto man,
And bask in all the genial rays

Revealed in God's great plan.
No lubrication of the nerves
Has ever yet been found,
For him who
like a menial serves
Dull lesson's daily round;
But gnawing friction,
stern and gaunt,
Tears flesh and brain away,
While ghosts nocturnal
ever haunt
A soul with fell dismay,
Whose mercenary greed has led

Itself into a snare
That counts by scores its strangled dead,
Its

hundreds, in despair.
He doubly lives who can forget
Himself and his own ease,
While
toiling patiently to set
New gems in crowns he sees,
That may
adorn some other head
Than that he calls his own,
And animate the
germs wide spread
In seeds already sown.

To skim the surface of knowledge,
And seldom its root to reach,
Is
a recipe one may offer
To direct "How Not To Teach."
NEEDS AND POWERS.
I know of no profession
'Mong profane or divine,
Excelling in its
mission
The power embraced in mine.
It reaches earth and heaven
Through heart and soul of man,
It lives
beyond the present--
Eternity doth span.
Mind in its first formation,
While in its plastic state,
Receives
primal impressions
Which make it vile or great.
When soil of thought is fertile
And ready for the seeds,
It may bring
precious fruitage,
Or vile and noxious weeds.
No sower should be careless,
For harvest much depends
Upon the
well-selected seeds,
With mental soil he blends.
If field be rich and mellow
And no good seed be sown,
With
tangled mass of vileness
It will be overgrown,
And shield the deadly serpent,
The basilisk of sin,
That far exhales
its pois'nous breath,
Then crawls its den within.
No atoms of pollution
In matter e'er was known,
So vile or so

destructive
As soul by sin o'erthrown.
The vilest spot upon the earth,
Through sunshine, air, and rain,
May
be transformed in ev'ry part
And purified again.
The fields where chaos reigned supreme
And Nature frowned aghast,

By patient-toil have fruitage borne
And blossomed fragrance cast.
The wreck of spheres by traction's laws
Hurled wildly into space,

May gather atoms round itself
And find some resting place
Where it may serve creation's end,
And 'mong the planets roll,
True
to the laws of gravity
That marks its outer pole.
The mind and soul can never
Within themselves find rest,
When all
the sin's pollutions
Are harbored in the breast.
Then sow good seed, brave teacher,
And deeply plant with care,

That both here and hereafter
Rich harvest it may bear.
The sowing may be silent--
It may be but a tear,
Its strength is in its
purpose,
Its aim must be sincere.
It should not be a rite or creed,
But wider far than these,
It should
encompass God and man,
Home and antipodes.
To learn the truths of science,
Know tables, books and charts,
To
analyze the potent thrill
That fires all earnest hearts,
To revel in the mysteries
That lie deep in the earth,
To give the
proper data
When planets had their birth,
To know the exact elements
That constitute the sun,
The causes
why swift currents
Within the ocean run,
The ratio of the vapors
That color sunset skies,
Time's infinitesimal

fraction
When planets set and rise,
To solve the problems of the air,
The secrets of the deep,
Are all
intrinsic subjects
And worthy of our keep.
But these alone are worthless,
They need augmented force
To lead
mind toward the fountain
From which it had its source.
They leave one vital question--
Development of man--
Without e'en
crude solution,
Without a working plan.
They leave the mighty problem
Of Maker and the Made,
Devoid of
any sequence,
Or any plan portrayed.
These are of greatest moment
To persons and to State,
Upon their
wise adjustment
Must hang progression's fate.
Cold are the truths of science,
Lifeless their every plan,
Until in
living presence,
They're crystalized in man.
As hidden truths are useless
And aid not human skill,
So slumber
mighty forces
Through lack of human will.
To know the right is not enough,
It must be given power
Through
culture of the heart and soul,
If it shall blessings shower.
To State, to manhood and to God
Must mind be wholly given,
Ere
truth will shine a beacon light,
To illumine earth and heaven.