Mountain idylls, and Other Poems | Page 8

may reap the harvest of danger sowed,
The
hole which he drills he may never load,
For the powder may e'en in
his hand explode,
To mangle, if not to kill.
Clink! Clink! Clink!
The song of the hammer and drill!
Facing
dangers more grim than the cannon's mouth;
Breathing poisons more
foul than the swamps of the south
In their tropical fens distill.
Clink! Clink! Clink!
Thus the battle he fights for his daily bread;

Thus our gold and our silver, our iron and lead,
Cost us lives, as true
as our blood is red,
And probably always will.
Life's Undercurrent.
Within the precincts of a hospital,
I wandered in a sympathetic mood;

Where face to face with wormwood and with gall,
With wrecks of
pain and stern vicissitude,
The eye unused to human misery
Might
view life's undercurrent vividly.
My gaze soon rested on the stricken form
Of one succumbing to the

fever's drouth,
With throbbing brow intolerably warm,
With wasted
lips and mute appealing mouth;
And when I watched that prostrate
figure there
I thought that fate must be the worst to bear.
I next beheld a thin but patient face,
Aged by the constant twinge of
hopeless pain,
Wheeled in an easy chair from place to 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 CAÑON, 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