A MOUNTAIN TOP VIEW
Escaping the town with its dust and din,
A wayfarer was asked to come within
A lovely home on a mountain height,
To rest awhile and be sated with sight
Of the beauties within and glories without,
That ever encircle far-famed Lookout.
From city to summit the walk was far,
But gliding along in the trolley car,
Forsaking the valley and climbing the side,
The city was distanced in a two-fold stride;
Its smoke rolled beneath, its din died away,
With toilers’ tramp at the closing day.
Part of Chattanooga and Lookout Mountain.
This home was “La Brisa;” for pure mountain air
Played around its sides and its frontage fair,
Uplifting yet higher the travel-worn guest,
As he feasted to the full, and enjoyed sweet rest;
While music came forth and fellowship flowed—
With lofty delights the company glowed.
The low-lying city became all ablaze
With myriad lights and their countless rays,
The moon and the stars were reigning above,
While far-twinkling lights threw kisses of love
To wayfarer and friends, caught up between
The city of light and the heavens serene.
Ah, ’tis mountain top views that enrich the dull earth,
Where high hopes and deeds have divinest birth;
Where Abram and Moses and prophets of old
The evil and good, yea the best foretold.
And men even now must mount the high hills
To inspire them beneath with conquering wills.
Here the church up-rose and “the old ship of State,”
Here angels meet men that listen and wait;
The King from his throne will deign to come down
To acclaim his own, and with glory crown
The soul sincere, who cries from his heart
For some new song—some high born art.
At last the dust and the din of earth’s way
Will shine in rapture of our toiling day;
The narrow path trod, the rugged way too,
Will glow with a beauty we never knew,
In the coming new Morn on the Mountain fair,
Translated with Christ in his glorified air.
ONE AGED JOHN SMITH AND
HIS YOUTHFUL CONFESSIONS
Your smiles and love you freely lend—
How old are you, my jolly friend?
“Just seventy-three; but pray don’t tell;
A widower I, out for a spell.
The pretty girls, I love them all;
They bounce my heart like a rubber ball;
One moment I rise and the next I fall—
I cannot help it.”
“I loved my wife who’s dead and gone,
In the distant days my paragon—
She used to say, ‘O quit your looking,’
But in spite of her, my neck kept crooking
Around to feast upon the lovely face,
The perfect figure full of grace—
It never seemed to me so base—
I told my wife, sir;
I couldn’t help it.”
“If God himself told me to quit it,
I’d say, O slay me! or else permit it.
The smiling face, the enchanting eye,
The rosy cheek of the maiden shy—
They grip me, sir, with hooks of steel;
My eyes run fast; my brain will reel,
And my heart will feel—
Frankly, sir, I cannot help it.”
“’Tis true, my teeth went long ago;
Now painless ones I have, you know.
Yet I visit oft in my tar-heel town
A store and a girl in a showy gown,
To buy her gum and soothing smile;
You scarce believe me, it’s many a mile
I thus have trod with loving guile—
And one day laughing my teeth fell down,
In her presence, sir,
I could not help it.”
“That winsome girl who serves our table—
I vow that I am quite unable
To keep my eyes from following her,
As tail doth horse, ’neath whip and spur;
I’m honest sir;
I cannot help it.
“My little dog—he’s just a fice—
Returns my love, his paradise.
I brought him down to Florida;
But the finest dog in all America
Can’t take the place of a girl so sweet—
From crown to sole of her dainty feet,
My love’s complete—
And, it’s all the truth, sir,
I cannot help it.”
“Just seventy-three—
’Tis plenty for me,
I wish it were less,
But nevertheless this girl of eighteen
Could rule me as queen;
And have all I possess,
For her sweetest caress—
Sir, by the Lord and His goodness,
I cannot help it!”