Orson F. Whitney Poetry
The Mountain and the Vale
There's a mountain named Stern Justice,
Tall and towering, gloomy, grand.
Frowning o'er a vale called Mercy,
Loveliest in all the land.
Great and mighty is the mountain,
But its snowy crags are cold,
And in vain the sunlight lingers
On the summit proud and bold.
There is warmth within the valley,
And I love to wander there,
'Mid the fountains and the flowers,
Breathing fragrance on the air.
Much I love the solemn mountain.
It doth meet my somber mood.
When, amid the muttering thunders,
O'er my soul the storm-clouds brood.
But when tears, like rain, have fallen
From the fountain of my woe,
And my soul has lost its fierceness,
Straight unto the vale I go;
Where the landscape, gently smiling,
O'er my heart pours healing balm,
And, as oil on troubled waters.
Brings from out its storm a calm.
Yes, I love both vale and mountain.
Ne'er from either would I part;
Each unto my life is needful.
Both are dear unto my heart.
For the smiling vale doth soften
All the rugged steep makes sad,
And from icy rocks meander
Hills that make the valley glad.
The Messenger of Morn
Earth rose from wintry sleep, baptized and cleansed,
And on her tranquil brow, that seemed to feel
The holy and confirming hand of Heaven,
The warm light in a wealth of glory streamed.
Deep in the calm of woodland solitudes,
Nature, deft handmaid of Divinity,
With skill incomparable had set the scene
For some glad change, some joyful happening,
Told in the countless caroling of birds,
Darting their mingled hues like tongues of flame,
Gilding the springtime foliage and flowers.
Glad happening, in sooth, for ne'er before,
Since burst the heavens when Judah's star-lit hills
Heard angel choristers peal joy's refrain
Above the mangered Babe of Bethlehem,
Had Earth such scene beheld, as now within
The bosom of that sylvan solitude,
Hard by the borders of a humble home,
Upon a fair and fateful morn was played.
Players — Immortal Twain and mortal one,
A rustic lad, unschooled and lowly-born,
Standing but fourteen steps upon life's stair;
Boy and yet man, thinker of thoughts profound;
Boy and yet man, dreamer of lofty dreams.
Not solemn, save betimes, when hovered near
Some winged inspiration from far worlds —
Some master thought, sent down from mightier spheres
Some master thought, sent down from mightier spheres
To lay on human hearts a spell divine;
Not melancholy — mirthful, loving life,
Brimming with health, and glad with wholesome glee.
Bowing to God, yet bending to no creed,
Adoring not a man-made deity,
That saved or damned regardless of desert,
Ne'er reckoning the good or evil done;
Loving and worshiping the God of old,
The God of Enoch and of Abraham,
The Christian God when Christian faith was pure,
The gracious God of reason, truth and right,
Longsuffering and just and merciful,
Meting to every work fit recompense,
Yet giving more, far more, than merit's claim;
Bowing to Him, but not to idols vain,
And shunning shameful strife where peace should dwell,
He holds aloof from those degenerate sects,
Bewildering Babel of conflicting creeds,
And pondering that promise of the past —
"To him who wisdom seeks, is wisdom given,"
Trusts the good word and puts it to the test.
What pen can paint the marvel that befell?
What tongue the wondrous miracle portray?
Whose dual Presence dimmed the noon-day beam,
Communing with him there, as friend with friend,
And giving to that prayer reply of peace?
E'en as when Moses, on the unknown Mount,
Strove 'gainst the rage of baffled Lucifer,
Who fain had guised him as the Glorious One,
To win the worship of that prophet pure, —
E'en so with Gloom he strove ere Glory dawned,
And black despair met bright deliverance.
Within the silent grove, sequestered shade,
While spirit hosts unseen spectators stood,
Watching the simple scene's sublimity,
Eternity high converse held with Time;
Heaven's sovereign Sire, through him both Sire and Son,
Forespeaking the Beginning of the End.
"No church the Christ's" — 'twas thus the answer came —
"All sects and creeds have wandered from The Way.
Priestcraft in lieu of Priesthood sits enthroned;
Dead forms deny the power of godliness.
Men worship with their lips, their hearts afar,
None serve acceptably in sight of Heaven.
Wherefore, a Work of Wonder shall be wrought,
And perish all the wisdom of the wise."
So dawned the Dispensation of the End,
That foldeth all of Christ's, and maketh one.
Wherefore came down this chosen messenger —
Chosen on Earth, but chosen first in Heaven;
The martyred Seer who gave up life to lift
The Ensign unto Ephraim, God's first-born?
Hark to that call, whose clear, familiar tone
Was heard in ages, dispensations, past,
Was told to times and worlds that went before!
Call of the Spirit, answered by the Blood,
Voice of the Shepherd, by the sheep well known.
Now, Israel, to the Rock whence ye were hewn !
Roll, rills and rivers, to your Origin!
For He that scattered, gathereth his flock,
His ancient flock, and sets their pilgrim feet
On Joseph's mountain-tops and Judah's plains.
Time, mighty daughter of Eternity!
Mother of ages and of aeons past!
Assemble now thy children at thy side,
And ere thou diest, teach them to be one.
Link to its link, rebind the broken chain
Of dispensations, glories, keys and powers,
From Adam's fall unto Messiah's reign.
Six days thou, Earth, hast labored, and the seventh,
Thy Sabbath, comes apace! Night's sceptre wanes,
And in the East the silvery Messenger
Gives silent token of the golden Dawn.
Once more the Ancient Tidings among men;
Once more the Preparation and the Power:
Repent! repent! the Kingdom is at hand —
Make ready for the coming of the King!
His burden: hear it, nations! hear it, isles!
Ere falls that hour— Night's darkest ere the Dawn.
The Trial ends; the Judgment now begins;
Out, out of her, My people, saith your God!
Lehi
The ocean rolls upon my raptured gaze,
A wilderness of waves; and now the land
, The land of Joseph's promise, freedom's fame,
Its glorious crest uprears. Lo ! and behold,
Where, on the mighty waters, doth appear
A barge, storm-driven to the distant shore.
From far Jerusalem, destruction-doomed,
By faith upborne, impelled by power divine,
Goes Lehi forth, a prophet pioneer;
As erst Mahonri, Jared, and their band —
In later time Columbus — to unveil
The hidden hemisphere. His lot to reap,
And plant for future years, hope's golden grain —
The promise of his fathers.
Ere the hour
Which summons his return from earthly toil,
To realms that bide the coming of their king.
He calls his kindred near — their hearts the while
Aglow beneath his burning words — and tells
Of glorious things to be ; of Ephraim's fame,
Manasseh's destiny. Of Joseph speaks.
Their great progenitor ; of chosen seer,
Who comes anon that ancient name to bear,
And wondrous work perform in latter days;
Of records that shall whisper from the dust,
Revealing mysteries, unseen, unheard,
And mightier than mortal tongue may tell.
This done, the dying seer his benison
On all doth seal and sinks in death's repose.
Past angels, Gods, and sentinels, who guard
The gates celestial, challengeless and free.
That sovereign spirit soars unto Its own;
By shouting millions welcomed back again,
With all his new-won laurels on his brow —
The meed of valor and of victory —
To exaltations endless as the lives.
Poems and Trees
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
– Kilmer.
Are poets, then, but clownish tools,
And poesy the sport of fools?
Surely you did not mean it, friend.
Forgive me, if your thought I mend.
The God who made that lovely tree
Made poets, too, and poetry.
Who fashioned the majestic oak,
Through Shakespeare and through Wordsworth spoke.
Who planted the uptowering pine,
Gave form and force to Milton’s line.
Folly’s creations! Are they so?
A million voices answer. No.
And none among them will decree
Kilmer was less than Kilmer’s tree.
"What Hath God Wrought!"
Who among the shouting millions
That great Lindbergh's act acclaim,
Equal praise and homage render
To the Author of his fame?
Who among them credit Master
With what man was sent to do,
Ere the Eagle of the Ocean
O'er the wide Atlantic flew?
Morse, the first to launch the lightning
On an errand of good cheer,
Glorified, not gift, but Giver.
Why not all that Name revere?
He it was flashed inspiration —
Sped the arrow to its goal;
He the Pilot of the airplane,
Genius of its mystic soul.
Clothed He, too, the world-crowned hero
In the armor that availed,
When the lure of things commercial
His integrity assailed.
Not to swell old Mammon's coffers,
Carved this youth a deathless name.
Nourished he a nobler passion —
God's "big business" his high aim.
"WE," indeed, wrought out the marvel —
He above through him below.
Had there been no God in Heaven,
What would Earth of Lindbergh know?
Comments
Post a Comment