Poems (Chitwood)/The Two Poems

by Mary Louisa Chitwood

For works with similar titles, see Two Poems.

THE TWO POEMS.

"I will sing," thus said a poet;
 "I will weave a lay for fame;"
And his dark eye flashed and sparkled,
 And his pale cheek flushed with flame;
While with quick, impatient fingers,
 And with pale lips half apart,
Did he wake the lyre to wailings,
 Groanings from a tortured heart.

Then he sang a gorgeous poem,
 Like a kingly diadem;
Every line was like a jewel,
 Every word was like a gem;
And he cast it, smiling proudly,
 On the world's deceitful sea,
Saying, as it floated onward,
 "Fame, Oh! bring fame back to me."

On it went, that gorgeous poem,
 As the blue waves swept apart.
Captivating but the fancy—
 Never speaking to the heart;
For to those who paused to listen,
 The low dirge within its breast
Gave it nothing but wild yearnings,
 Sadness, bitterness, unrest.

But it twined the poet's forehead
 With a laurel wreath of flame;
He did reap what he had planted,
 A rich harvesting of fame.

"I will sing," thus said a poet;
 "I will sing a lay for Love."
Meekly were her dark eyes lifted
 To the quiet stars above;
Then there came a dear good angel,
 And her white wings o'er her pressed,
Tuning to a low, sweet music
 Every pulse within her breast.

Then with dreamy eyes, and misty,
 And with red lips half apart,
Wove she into words and stanzas
 The emotions of her heart.
"Go," she said, "thou little poem,
 Go abroad like Noah's dove—
Breathe to every heart a blessing,
 Bring me love! oh, bring me love!"

Lightly went the little poem,
 Gladly on its mission sweet,
Like a wave of wond'rous beauty,
 Singing at the sailor's feet.
Like a green tree in the desert,
 Like a cooling water-brook,
Like a lily by a river,
 Like a violet in a nook.

Oh! like all things bright and joyous,
 Was that simple, earnest lay,
And of love a plenteous harvest
 Shed about the poet's way.
Knelt she in the golden twilight,
 With the dews upon her hair,
And with tearful eyes to heaven,
 Breathed her thankfulness in prayer.

If a pilgrim hath been shadowed
 By a tree that I have nursed;
If a cup of clear cold water
 I have raised to lips athirst;
If I've planted one sweet flower
 By an else too barren way;
If I've whispered in the midnight
 One sweet word to tell of day;

If in one poor bleeding bosom
 I a woe-swept chord have stilled;
If a dark and restless spirit
 I with hope of heaven have filled;
If I've made for life's hard battle
 One faint heart grow brave and strong;—
Then, my God, I thank thee, bless thee,
 For the precious gift of song.