In the Wayne Highlands
The shadows fall on Twin Lake fairAs crimson sets theAutumnsun;A holy hush is on the airOf eventide and day is done.
No zephyrs kiss the little lake;So still and calm is either shore,That on her face dim shadows wakeAnd deepen ever more and more.
And where the long-leaf laurels growA cuckoo sounds the hour of rest,And fondly answering far belowIts mate is calling from her nest.
Now comes the twilight, calm and still,And, with a cloak of sable hue,Half hides the lake and upland hillThat faint and fainter fades from view.
And through the broken web of nightEach stalwart star with even rayReflects upon the lake a lightTo guide a boatman on his way.
And soon the massive moon doth rideAthwart the pine trees' heavy shade,That doth her fiery chariot hide,As an apparent halt is made.
And sweetly from a maiden fairIn yon canoe that skirts the shoreA laugh rings out upon the airAnd echoes softly o'er and o'er
Till dying on the distant hill,An evening silence settles far,—A quietness, so calm, so still,With rising moon and silent star—
That peace, sweet peace subdues the soul,While on the clear and pensive airThe bells of Como softly tollThe ever-sacred hour of prayer.
It is often, yes, often that the man who swearsIs a man who dares and a man who cares;For the gentle voice and the eye of blueWill sometimes tell of a heart less trueThan the rough, cold voice and manner stern—And you some day this truth will learn:—That often, yes, often that the man who swearsIs a man who dares and a man who cares.
When you are sick with fever and pain,Who comes to ease your weary brain?Is it the friend with the eyes of blueAnd gentle voice that comes to you,Or, is it the one with manner coldAnd voice so stern and ways so bold,That presses a hand on your fevered browAnd soothes your troubled spirits now.When you are down and your friends are few,Who is it comes to comfort you?Is it the one with eyes so mildAnd voice as sweet as a little child—Is it the one with gentle wayThat comes to you and dares to say:—So sorry, friend; say, here's my hand,I'll do your bidding; now just command?
When in misfortune you need a friendWho will fight for you to the bitter end—Is it always the one who speaks quite lowAnd fears to say what he knows, is so,Or is it the man who speaks his mindAnd shows some mettle—and hardly kindWhose heart is cold until your woeMelts an entrance as the sun melts snow?
I would not say that swearing is rightBut I say some men are willing to fight—It is wrong indeed for a man to swear,And I envy no one's weakness there—Still I believe, with me you would sayWhile one will swear and another prayYou would follow the man who is willing to dareTho one might pray and the other swear.
Here Nature's nice adjusted toolHath cut a chasm; and each poolReflects a narrow, rocky roomWhere sun-born flowers seldom bloom,But where the ledging, level shelvesBetray the dance hall of the elves.
And overhead the tasseled treesFrown from the wall, and with each breezeAwake the solemn avenue,But hide from sight the upward view,When with a hundred harps they singTo Boreas their mighty king.
Here Echo dwells in lonely mood,And answers to the dying wood;Unsuited to a varying rhymeShe hath no voice for tuneful TimeContent to speak as she hath heardThe lyric wind, the singing bird.
Here these same falls awoke the glenLong, long before the march of men;Long, long before yon broken soilBrought forth the fruit of human toilAnd here these falls will dance and playWhen feeling man has passed away.
Sing little Falls; and echo Glen,Till silent are the songs of menAnd they that dwell upon the earthHave disappeared as at thy birthAnd senseless Rock—if think ye can,Think ye—how short the life of man!
Kind guardian of the Lonely Shore,And Sorrow's true and only friend,Comforting angel of the poor—What heavenly spirit did descendWith passive voice, with ways unknown,Within thy very self complete?O Hope, when left at last aloneWe fall a suppliant at thy feetAnd worship there, with heart forlornFrom childhood's land of make-believe,Through early youth, the brightening morn,Till tottering age, the fading eve.
And who could walk without thee, friend?Who walk dim paths without thy hand?From out the world shouldst thou ascendBlind Poverty would stalk the land;Despair would seize some simple knaveAnd Hatred every evil one,—O Hope, for more would seek the graveWithout thy timely vision shown:—The sick upon the lowly bed;The blind a-begging as of yore;The weeping child who works unfed;The prisoner by the fatal door,All, led along, still cling belowTo feel thy subtle charms so free,As wearily, drearily on they go,Following, following after thee.
And when upon Life's field they fall,When Disappointment reigns supreme,Thy voice, omnipotent, would callE'en from the dust their fondest dream;Would call and wake the slumbering thought,And point it to some great idealWhile adding all, but taking naughtFrom out the present, living real.Then, Hope, thou sentinel of lightBy Disappointment's lonely shore,Speak out amid the depth of nightAnd guide us safely evermore.
Let lawyers harp about the law,And all its majesty and might;They find in every case a flawAnd think they're right.
Let politicians praisethetruthAnd laud its virtue to the sky—They practice from their very youthTo give the lie.
Let prophets send the saints to heavenAnd damn poor sinners e'en to hell—How such authority is givenThey cannot tell.
Let doctors prate of human painAlleviated by their skill,When Death's dull sickness comes, in vainIs every pill.
Let poets pipe of bloody warAnd claim its carnal method right;They're only piping cowards, forNot one will fight.
And so it seems we mortals boastOf knowledge where we know the leastAnd show our ignorance the mostLike any beast.
He was a lad—a tender boy,And she—she held him as her toy,And when she wearied of his wayAnd would with other playthings play,I heard him say beneath his breath:—A fool am I; it is my death—She jilted me—the little lass,—I will not let such fooling passBut shift at once some bitter dartBack—back again into her heart,But then thought he—All those who playWith fools are fools as well as they,And so he made a living rule:—It takes a fool to fool a fool.