OUR PROFESSION.

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.

To skim the surface of knowledge, And seldom its root to reach, Is a recipe one may offer To direct "How Not To Teach."