In Celestial realms where knowledge hath no end.
HARRY HOWARD,
STUDENT.
"Blessed are the pure in heart."
POEMS
BY
HATTIE HOWARD.
AUTHOR OF "POVERTY VS. PAUPERISM," "OUR GIRLS," "VIVE LA
REPUBLIQUE," "KEEPING A SECRET," "LITTLE JO,"
AND OTHER STORIES.
Vol. IV.
| Happy whoever writes a book |
| On which the world shall kindly look, |
| And who, when many a year has flown— |
| The volume worn, the author gone— |
| Revere, admire, and still read on. |
HARTFORD PRESS:
The Case, Lockwood & Brainard Company.
1904.
EXTRACTS FROM PRESS NOTICES OF A FORMER
VOLUME.
"We find these poems of sentiment by Hattie Howard entirely
natural, spontaneous, direct, rhythmical, and free from ambitious
pretense. Many of the fanciful verses have a laugh at the end; and
the collection has altogether a sunny, hopeful spirit and will be
welcome in this time of generally morbid expression."
"This author's verse shows a hearty, wholesome, human spirit,
sometimes overflowing into downright fun, and a straightforward
directness always. It is a pleasant book, sure to be welcomed by
all."
"These garnered gems reveal a genuine poetic faculty, and are
worthy their attractive setting. We give the book a hearty
welcome."
"Many of the poems abound in playful humor or tender touches of
sympathy which appeal to a refined feeling, and love for the good,
the true, and the beautiful."
"This poet's ear is so attuned to metric harmony that she must have
been born within sound of some osier-fringed brook leaping and
hurrying over its pebbly bed. There is a variety of subject and
treatment, sufficient for all tastes, and these are poems which
should be cherished."
"Lovers of good poetry will herald with pleasure this new and
attractive volume by the well-known authoress of Hartford. A wooing
sentiment and genial spirit seem to guide her in every train of
thought. Her book has received, and deserves, warm commendations of
the press."
Copyright, 1904, by Hattie Howard.
Contents.
FRONTISPIECE.
|
Page. |
| Extracts From Press Notices, |
2 |
| "The Salt of the Earth," |
7 |
| Not Gone, |
9 |
| Let Us Give Thanks, |
10 |
| Sonnet, |
11 |
| A Rainy Day, |
12 |
| The Subway, |
16 |
| The Apple Tree, |
18 |
| Two Roses, |
21 |
| The Taxidermist, |
23 |
| Epithalamium, |
25 |
| A Fowl Affair, |
28 |
| Holiday Home, |
31 |
| Rutha, |
34 |
| The Student Gone, |
36 |
| The Tourist, |
38 |
| The Antiquarian, |
40 |
| Poor Housekeeping, |
45 |
| Going to Tobog, |
47 |
| "Passer Le Temps," |
49 |
| The Torpedo, |
50 |
| Margaret, |
51 |
| Christmas Bells, |
53 |
| By the Sea, |
54 |
| A Song, |
55 |
| "Is It April?" |
56 |
| Christmas-Tide, |
57 |
| January, 1885, |
59 |
| Sweet Peas, |
61 |
| The Summer House, |
62 |
| To Die in Autumn, |
65 |
| Apple Blossoms, |
67 |
| Without a Minister, |
68 |
| Indian Summer, |
70 |
| Autumn-Time, |
72 |
| The Beauty of Nature |
74 |
| "All the Rage," |
76 |
| My Mother's Hand, |
79 |
| A Leap Year Episode, |
80 |
| If, |
83 |
| Perfect Character, |
84 |
| The Miracle of Spring, |
85 |
| Bermuda, |
86 |
| The Charter Oak, |
88 |
| Blossom-time, |
90 |
| "One of the Least of These," |
92 |
| Lightning-bugs, |
94 |
| Of Her who Died, |
96 |
| Thanksgiving, |
98 |
| Receiving Sight, |
100 |
| Revenge, |
102 |
| On the Common, |
104 |
| Woman's Help, |
106 |
| Tobogganing, |
108 |
| The Woods, |
110 |
| Like Summer, |
112 |
| Sheridan's Last Ride, |
114 |
| A Bit of Gladness, |
116 |
| The Charity Ball, |
118 |
| The Bell(e) of Baltimore, |
120 |
| Christmas at Church, |
122 |
| Mysterious, |
124 |
| "Be not Anxious," |
126 |
| Mount Vernon, |
128 |
| A Prisoner, |
130 |
| Cuba, |
131 |
| The Sangamon River, |
133 |
| Syringas, |
135 |
| Storm-bound, |
137 |
| The Master of the Grange, |
139 |
| A Friend Indeed, |
142 |
| The Needed One, |
143 |
| "Thy Will Be Done," |
145 |
| Snowflakes, |
147 |
| Monadnock, |
149 |
| Never Had a Chance |
151 |
| Sorrow and Joy, |
153 |
| Watch Hill, |
155 |
| Supplicating, |
157 |
| "Honest John," |
159 |
| Bushnell Park, |
161 |
| At General Grant's Tomb, |
164 |
| "Be Courteous," |
166 |
| A New Suit |
168 |
| The Little Clock, |
170 |
| Improvement, |
173 |
| On Bancroft Height, |
175 |
| A Reformer, |
178 |
Poems.
"The Salt of the Earth."
The salt of the earth—what a meaningful phrase
From the lips of the Saviour, and one that conveys
A sense of the need of a substance saline
This pestilent sphere to refresh and refine,
And a healthful and happy condition secure
By making it pure as the ocean is pure.
In all the nomenclature known to the race,
In all appellations of people or place,
Was ever a name so befitting, so true
Of those who are seeking the wrong to undo,
With naught of the Pharisee's arrogant air
Their badge of discipleship humbly who wear?
Do beings, forsooth, fashioned out of the mold,
So secretly, strangely, those elements hold
That may be developed in goodness and grace
To shine in demeanor, in form and in face
Till they, by renewal of heavenly birth,
Shall merit their title—the salt of the earth?
To the landsman at home or the sailor at sea,
With nausea, scurvy, or canker maybe,
'Tis never in language to overexalt
The potent preservative virtue of salt—
A crystal commodity wholesome and good,
A cure for disease, and a savor for food.
Ah, the beasts of the wood and the fowls of the air
Know all of the need of this condiment rare,
Know well where the springs and the "salt-licks" abound,
Where streams salinaceous flow out of the ground;
And their cravings appease by sipping the brine
With more than the relish of topers at wine.
Our wants may be legion, our needs are but few,
And every known ill hath its remedy true;
'Tis ours to discover and give to mankind
Of hidden essentials the best that we find;
'Tis ours to eradicate error and sin,
And help to make better the place we are in.
If ever this world from corruption is free,
And righteousness reign in the kingdom to be,
Like salt in its simple and soluble way
Infusing malodor, preventing decay.
So human endeavor in action sublime
Must never relax till the finale of time.
To thousands discouraged this comforting truth
Appeals like the promise of infinite youth:
To know, as they labor like bees in the hive,
Yet do little more than keep goodness alive—
To know that the Master accredits their worth
As blessed disciples—"the salt of the earth."
Not Gone.
They are not gone whose lives in beauty so unfolding
Have left their own sweet impress everywhere;
Like flowers, while we linger in beholding,
Diffusing fragrance on the summer air.
They are not gone, for grace and goodness can not perish,
But must develop in immortal bloom;
The viewless soul, the real self we love and cherish,
Shall live and flourish still beyond the tomb.
They are not gone though lost to observation,
And dispossessed of those dear forms of clay,
Though dust and ashes speak of desolation;
The spirit-presence—this is ours alway.
Let Us Give Thanks.
If we have lived another year
And, counting friends by regiments
Who share our love and confidence,
Find no more broken ranks,
For this let us give thanks.
If, since the last Thanksgiving-time,
Have we been blessed with strength and health,
And added to our honest wealth,
Nor lost by broken banks,
For this would we give thanks.
If through adversity we trod,
Yet with serene and smiling face,
And trusted more to saving grace
Than charlatans and cranks,
For this let us give thanks.
If we have somehow worried through
The ups and downs along life's track,
And still undaunted can look back
And smile at Fortune's pranks,
For this would we give thanks.
If every page in our account
With God and man is fairly writ,
We care not who examines it,
With no suspicious blanks,
For this let us give thanks.
Sonnet.
Upon my smile let none pass compliment
If it but gleam like an enchanting ray
Of sunshine caught from some sweet summer day,
In atmosphere of rose and jasmine scent
And breath of honeysuckles redolent,
When, with the birds that sing their lives away
In harmony, the treetops bend and sway,
And all the world with joy is eloquent.
But in that day of gloom when skies severe
Portend the tempest gathering overhead,
If by my face some token shall appear
Inspiring hope, dispelling darksome dread,
Oh, be the rapture mine that it be said,
"Her smile is like the rainbow, full of cheer."
A Rainy Day.
Oh, what a blessed interval
A rainy day may be!
No lightning flash nor tempest roar,
But one incessant, steady pour
Of dripping melody;
When from their sheltering retreat
Go not with voluntary feet
The storm-beleaguered family,
Nor bird nor animal.
When business takes a little lull,
And gives the merchantman
A chance to seek domestic scenes,
To interview the magazines,
Convoke his growing clan,
The boys and girls almost unknown,
And get acquainted with his own;
As well the household budget scan,
Or write a canticle.
When farmer John ransacks the barn,
Hunts up the harness old—
Nigh twenty years since it was new—
Puts in an extra thong or two,
And hopes the thing will hold
Without that missing martingale
That bothered Dobbin, head and tail,
He, gentle equine, safe controlled
But by a twist of yarn.
When busy fingers may provide
A savory repast
To whet the languid appetite,
And give to eating a delight
Unknown since seasons past;
Avaunt, ill-cookery! whose ranks
Develop dull dyspeptic cranks
Who, forced to diet or to fast,
Ergo, have dined and died.
It is a day of rummaging,
The closets to explore;
To take down from the dusty shelves
The books—that never read themselves—
And turning pages o'er
Discover therein safely laid
The bills forgot and never paid—
Somehow that of the corner store
Such dunning memories bring.
It gives a chance to liquidate
Epistolary debts;
To write in humble penitence
Acknowledging the negligence,
The sin that so besets,
And cheer the hearts that hold us dear,
Who've known and loved us many a year—
Back to the days of pantalets
And swinging on the gate.
It gives occasion to repair
Unlucky circumstance;
To intercept the ragged ends,
And for arrears to make amends
By mending hose and pants;
The romping young ones to re-dress
Without those signs of hole-y-ness
That so bespeak the mendicants
By every rip and tear.
It is a time to gather round
The old piano grand,
Its dulcet harmonies unstirred
Since Lucy sang so like a bird,
And played with graceful hand;
Like Lucy's voice in pathos sweet
Repeating softly "Shall we meet?"
Is only in the heavenly land
Such clear soprano sound.
It is a time for happy chat
En cercle tête-à-tête;
Discuss the doings of the day,
The club, the sermon, or the play,
Affairs of church and state;
Fond reminiscence to explore
The pleasant episodes of yore,
And so till raindrops all abate
As erst on Ararat.
Ah, yes, a rainy day may be
A blessed interval!
A little halt for introspect,
A little moment to reflect
On life's discrepancy—
Our puny stint so poorly done,
The larger duties scarce begun—
And so may conscience culpable
Suggest a remedy.
The Subway.
Oh, who in creation would fail to descend
That wonderful hole in the ground?—
That, feeling its way like a hypocrite-friend
In sinuous fashion, seems never to end;
While thunder and lightning abound.
Oh, who in creation would dare to go down
That great subterranean hole—
The tunnel, the terror, the talk of the town,
That gives to the city a mighty renown
And a shaking as never before?
A serpent, a spider, its mouth at the top
Where the flies are all buzzing about;
Down into its maw where the populace drop,
Who never know where they are going to stop,
Or whether they'll ever get out.
Why is it, with millions of acres untrod
Where never the ploughshare hath been,
That man must needs burrow miles under the sod,
As if to get farther and farther from God,
And deeper and deeper in sin?
O Dagos and diggers, who can't understand
That the planet you'll never get through—
Why, there is three times as much water as land,
And but for the least little seam in the sand
Your life is worth less than a sou.
Come up out of Erebus into the day,
There's plenty of room overhead;
No boring or blasting of rocks in the way,
No stratum of sticky, impervious clay—
All vacuous vapor instead.
Oh, give us a transit, a tube or an "el—",
Not leagues from the surface below;
As if we were never in Heaven to dwell,
As if we were all being fired to—well,
The place where we don't want to go!
The Apple Tree.
Has ever a tree from the earth upsprung
Around whose body have children clung,
Whose bounteous branches the birds among
Have pecked the fruit, and chirped and sung—
Was ever a tree, or shall there be,
So hardy, so sturdy, so good to see,
So welcome a boon to the family,
Like the pride of the farmer, the apple tree?
How he loves to be digging about its root,
Or grafting the bud in the tender shoot,
The daintiest palate that he may suit
With the fairest and finest selected fruit.
How he boasts of his Sweetings, so big for size;
His delicate Greenings—made for pies;
His Golden Pippins that take the prize,
The Astrachans tempting, that tell no lies.
How he learns of the squirrel a thing or two
That the wise little rodents always knew,
And never forget or fail to do,
Of laying up store for the winter through;
So he hollows a space in the mellow ground
Where leaves for lining and straw abound,
And well remembers his apple mound
When a day of scarcity comes around.
By many a token may we suppose
That the knowledge apple no longer grows,
That broke up Adam and Eve's repose
And set the fashion of fig-leaf clothes;
The story's simple and terse and crude,
But still with a morsel of truth imbued:
For of trees and trees by the multitude
Are some that are evil, and some that are good.
The more I muse on those stories old
The more philosophy they unfold
Of husbands docile and women bold,
And Satan's purposes manifold;
Ah, many a couple halve their fare
With that mistaken and misfit air
That the world and all are ready to swear
To a mighty unapple-y mated pair.
The apple's an old-fashioned tree I know,
All gnarled and bored by the curculio,
And loves to stand in a zigzag row;
And doesn't make half so much of a show
As the lovely almond that blooms like a ball,
And spreads out wide like a pink parasol
Set on its stem by the garden-wall;
But I love the apple tree, after all.
"A little more cider"—sings the bard;
And who this juiciness would discard,
Though holding the apple in high regard,
Must be like the cider itself—very hard;
For the spirit within it, as all must know,
Is utterly harmless—unless we go
Like the fool in his folly, and overflow
By drinking a couple of barrels or so.
What of that apple beyond the seas,
Fruit of the famed Hesperides?
But dust and ashes compared to these
That grow on Columbia's apple trees;
And I sigh for the apples of years agone:
For Rambos streaked like the morning dawn,
For Russets brown with their jackets on,
And aromatic as cinnamon.
Oh, the peach and cherry may have their place,
And the pear is fine in its stately grace;
The plum belongs to a puckery race
And maketh awry the mouth and face;
But I long to roam in the orchard free,
The dear old orchard that used to be,
And gather the beauties that dropped for me
From the bending boughs of the apple tree.
Two Roses.
I've a friend beyond the ocean
So regardful, so sincere,
And he sends me in a letter
Such a pretty souvenir.
It is crushed to death and withered,
Out of shape and very flat,
But its pure, delicious odor
Is the richer for all that.
'Tis a rose from Honolulu,
And it bears the tropic brand,
Sandwiched in this friendly missive
From that far-off flower-land.
It shall mingle pot-à-pourri
With the scents I love and keep;
Some of them so very precious
That remembrance makes me weep.
While I dream I hear the music
That of happiness foretells,
Like the flourishing of trumpets
And the sound of marriage bells.
There's a rose upon the prairie,
Chosen his by happy fate,
He shall gather when he cometh
Sailing through the Golden Gate.
Mine, a public posy, growing
Somewhere by the garden wall,
Might have gone to any stranger,
May have been admired by all.
But the rose in beauty blushing,
Tenderly and sweetly grown
In the home and its affections,
Blooms for him, and him alone.
Speed the voyager returning;
His shall be a welcome warm,
With the Rose of Minnesota
Gently resting on his arm.
Love embraces in his kingdom
Earth and sea and sky and air.
Hail, Columbia! hail, Hawaii!
It is Heaven everywhere.
The Taxidermist.