Читать книгу Our Profession and Other Poems - Jared Barhite - Страница 7

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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 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.