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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/33553-8.txt b/33553-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..92aba5e --- /dev/null +++ b/33553-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1255 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of In a Belgian Garden, by F. O. Call + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: In a Belgian Garden + and Other Poems + +Author: F. O. Call + +Release Date: August 27, 2010 [EBook #33553] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN A BELGIAN GARDEN *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + + + + + +IN A BELGIAN GARDEN + +AND OTHER POEMS + + +BY + +F. O. CALL + + + + + +LONDON + +ERSKINE MACDONALD, LTD. + +MCMXVII + + + + +TO + +E. H. G. + +THE BEST OF FRIENDS + +THIS LITTLE BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED + + + + +Author's Note + +Many of the poems in this volume have appeared before in various +publications and I wish to thank the editors of the "Canadian +Magazine," the "University Magazine," the "Westminster," the "Canada +West," and other periodicals for permission to reprint these verses. + +F. O. C. + +BISHOP'S COLLEGE, + LENNOXVILLE, CANADA. + + + + +Contents + + INTRODUCTION + IN A BELGIAN GARDEN + A LINCOLNSHIRE MAIDEN + HIDDEN TREASURE + A RIVER SUNSET + THE MADONNA + AN IDOL IN A SHOP WINDOW + THROUGH A LONG CLOISTER + THE CHAMBLY RAPID + THE SNOWDRIFT + ON MOUNT ROYAL + THE VISION + A YEAR AGO + ETERNITY + THE OLD SCHOOL BELL + ON A SWISS MOUNTAIN + RHEIMS + THE MYSTIC + A SONG OF THE HOMELAND + THE FROZEN BROOK + THE INDIFFERENT ONES + IN A FOREST + THE SHIPS OF MEMORY + THE OBELISK + THE PARTING WAYS + CALVARY + THE GOLDEN BOWL + THE LACE-MAKER OF BRUGES + + + + +Introduction + +Most of the poems contained in this collection are of recent date, +though their author--who is at present Professor of Modern Languages at +Bishop's College, Quebec--has written verse from his childhood. He is +the first Canadian writer to be included in this series, and is as +affectionately loyal to the Motherland as to his native country, as may +be gathered from his "Song of the Homeland." His verse has already +earned a considerable reputation in Canada, in whose Press much of it +has appeared. Educated at Stanstead College, he took his degree at the +University where he now lectures, and has also studied in Paris, +Marburg and Switzerland. Several of his poems are concerned with the +sorrow and the ravished beauty of Belgium: a circumstance not +surprising, as he has travelled much in that country, as well as in +France, Switzerland and Italy. A lover of country life and a disciple +of the cult of the open road, he revels in the joys of camping and +canoeing, as one of his poems, "Hidden Treasure," bears witness. In +this little book, and more especially in the "Song of the Homeland," he +shows us the maple leaf entwined, strongly as ever, with the English +rose of the Mother country. + +S. GERTRUDE FORD. + + + + + In a Belgian Garden + + Once in a Belgian garden, + (Ah, many months ago!) + I saw like pale Madonnas + The tall white lilies blow. + + Great poplars swayed and trembled + Afar against the sky, + And green with flags and rushes + The river wandered by. + + Amid the waving wheatfields + Glowed poppies blazing red, + And showering strange wild music + A lark rose overhead. + + * * * * * + + The lark has ceased his singing, + The wheat is trodden low, + And in the blood-stained garden + No more the lilies blow. + + And where green poplars trembled + Stand shattered trunks instead, + And lines of small white crosses + Keep guard above the dead. + + For here brave lads and noble, + From lands beyond the deep, + Beneath the small white crosses + Have laid them down to sleep. + + They laid them down with gladness + Upon the alien plain, + That this same Belgian garden + Might bud and bloom again. + + + + + A Lincolnshire Maiden + + Long the eastern beaches, + Where brown the seaweed grows, + And over broad salt meadows, + The green tide ebbs and flows. + + Above the low-roofed houses, + Two ancient towers rise, + And stand like giant druids, + Against the wind-swept skies. + + Through mist or rain or sunshine, + Their prows festooned with foam, + The fishing-boats go outward + Or laden, turn them home. + + She watches by the window, + And tearless are her eyes; + She sees not church or tower, + Or sea or wind-swept skies. + + She sees not tide or tempest, + Or sun or mist or rain; + Afar her spirit wanders + Upon the Belgian plain. + + Where over shell-scarred cities + The mad, red tempest raves, + And poplars sigh and shudder + Above unnumbered graves. + + + + + Hidden Treasure + + Sun-browned boy with the wondering eyes, + Do you see the blue of the summer skies? + Do you hear the song of the drowsy stream, + As it winds by the shore where the birches gleam? + Then come, come away + From the shadowy bay, + And we'll drift with the stream where the rapids play; + For we are two pirates, fierce and bold, + And we'll capture the hoard of the morning's gold. + + A roving craft is our red canoe, + O pirate chief with the eyes of blue; + So hoist your flag with the skull on high, + And out we'll sail where the treasures lie. + For in days of old + Came pirates bold, + a Spanish galleon's captured gold; + And their boat was wrecked on the river strand + And its treasures strewn on the silver sand. + + Now steady all as we dash along, + The rapids are swift but our paddles are strong; + And soon we'll drift with the water's flow + Where the treasure lies hid in the shallows below, + Oh, cool and dim, + 'Neath its foam-flecked brim, + Is the pool where the swallows dip and skim; + So we'll plunge by the prow of our red canoe + For the treasure that lies in the quivering blue. + + Now home once more to the shadowy bay, + For we've captured the gold of the summer's day, + And emeralds green from the banks along, + And the silver bars of the white-throat's song. + No pirates bore + Such a glittering store + From the treasure ships of the days of yore, + As the spoils we have won on the shining stream, + While we drifted along in a golden dream. + + + + + A River Sunset + + Red sunlight fades from wood and town, + The western sky is crimson-dyed, + Gaunt shadow-ships drift silent down + Upon the river's gleaming tide. + + The hills' clear outlines melt away + Or veil themselves in purple light, + And burning thoughts that vexed the day + Become fair visions of the night. + + + + + The Madonna + + She shivered and crouched in the immigrant shed + In the midst of the surging crowd; + Her hands were warped with the years of toil, + And her young form bent and bowed. + + Her eyes looked forth with a frightened glance + At the throng that round her pressed; + But her face was the face of the Mother of God + As she looked at the babe on her breast. + + + + + An Idol in a Shop Window + + Old Lohan peers through the dusty glass, + From a jumble of curios quaint and rare; + And he watches the hurrying crowds that pass + The whole day long, through the ancient square. + + Wrapped in his robe of gold and jade, + Here by the window he patiently waits + For the sound that the gongs and the conches made, + In the days of old at the temple gates. + + He heaves no sighs and he sheds no tears, + For his heart is bronze, and he does not know + That his temple has been for a thousand years + But a mound of dust where the bamboos grow. + + So here he sits through the nights and days, + And the sun goes up and down the sky; + But he often looks with a wistful gaze + At the crowds that always pass him by. + + And his eyes half closed in a mystic dream + Of his poppy-land of long ago, + Turn back to the shores of the sacred stream + And the kneeling throng he used to know. + + But he sometimes smiles as he sees the crowd + Of human folk that pass him by; + Then he wraps himself in his mystic shroud,-- + And the sun once more goes down the sky. + + + + + Through a Long Cloister + + Through a long cloister where the gloom of night + Lingers in sombre silence all the day, + Across worn pavements crumbling to decay + We wandered, blindly groping for the light. + A door swung wide, and splendour infinite + Streamed through the painted glass, and drove away + The lingering gloom from choir, nave and bay, + And a great minster's glory met our sight. + + Blindly along life's cloister do we grope, + We seek a gate that leads to life immortal, + We see it loom before us dim and vast, + And doubt's dark shadows veil the light of hope: + When lo, Death's hand flings wide the sombre portal, + And light unfading meets our gaze at last. + + + + + The Chambly Rapid + + There's a spirit in the rapid, calling, calling through the night, + There's a gleam upon the water, burning pale and burning bright. + Woe to him who hears the calling! Woe to him who sees the light! + + + My son and I had left St. Jean, + Our paddles dipping in the blue, + And many miles to north had gone + Along the silent Richelieu; + The night came down, we thought of rest; + A threatening cloud hung in the west. + + No warning sound the river made + Save for the rapid's muffled roar, + As 'neath the pine-trees' deepening shade + We camped upon that luckless shore; + No sound the night-wind bore to me + Save one weird echo from Chambly. + + The night grew dark and darker still, + The pale-faced moon was hid from sight, + When o'er the waters black and chill + We saw a ghastly, gleaming light,--- + A fitful fire, pale and blue, + That burned my inmost spirit through. + + And like some baleful gleaming eye + It shone beneath night's heavy pall; + Then high above the loon's lone cry + Afar we heard the spirit call; + It called us from the other shore. + Ah, Jean will never hear it more! + + I could not seize or hold him back, + For while the light burned pale and blue, + A heavy hand from out the black + Held me beside my own canoe, + And ere I stirred, the other barque + Had silent sped into the dark. + + Adown the river's drifting tide + To where the wild, mad rapids run, + Past pine-trees towering on each side + His frail canoe had drifted on; + He did not look to left or right + But gazed upon that hell-born light. + + And ever swifter with the flow + He drifted where the rapids play, + His eyes still on that awful glow; + Ah, God! my life seemed snatched away! + I saw a gleam far up the sky + And heard the echo of a cry. + + + There's a spirit in the rapid, calling, calling through the night, + There's a gleam upon the water, burning pale and burning bright. + Woe to him who hears the calling! Woe to him who sees the light! + + + + + The Snowdrift + + The snowflakes fell on a mountain peak, + Where the rocks were bare and the winds were bleak, + And at first they clung to the mountain's breast, + But soon they fell from its lofty crest, + And stained and soiled was the new-born snow + When it reached the valley far down below. + + But up on the height one drift alone + Still firmly clung to the rugged stone, + And men in the gloomy vale below + Looked up and gazed on the shining snow, + And their darkened souls drank in the light + From the gleaming snow on the mountain height. + + Unstained by the grime of the earthly vale, + Its white breast firm in the strongest gale, + It bravely clung to its lofty height + And gleamed afar with its glorious light, + Till kissed by the sun and the summer rain, + It rose in mist to the skies again. + + + + + On Mount Royal + + I climb its sides when the day grows old + And its mighty shadow falls deep and wide, + And over the gleam of the sunset's gold + The darkness creeps like a rising tide; + And higher and higher up rocky height, + Past oaks that are gnarled by the winter's blast, + I climb till a marvellous vision of light + Breaks forth on my wondering sight at last. + + Dome and spire of house of prayer, + Convent cloister gloomy and gray, + Street and market and bridge lie there + In the golden gleam of the dying day. + Yet here on the silent mountain crest + There echoes a moan and a smothered roar + From the tide of life in its strange unrest, + As it beats below on a barren shore. + + + + + The Vision + + A vision came unto a saint of old + Of a fair city by a crystal stream, + Its gates of pearl, its streets of shining gold,-- + Barbaric splendours of a mystic's dream. + There upon floating wings the white-robed throng + No man can number chant in endless song; + Across the tideless sea no shadow falls + To dim the glory of the sapphire walls, + Or mar the splendour of the throne-crowned height. + + Ah love, the mystic's vision wakes to-night, + With all its glittering show and kingly pride, + No longing in a heart unsatisfied. + But oh, to walk with thee the river shore + As in the days gone by, the gold strewn o'er + The strand of primrose bloom, the water's flow, + Mingled with thy sweet voice in music low, + The angel song; to touch my lips to thine, + To hear the whispering of thy heart to mine, + And burning with a fire that never dies, + To see once more the love-light in thine eyes. + + Ah, dim those far celestial splendours burn, + Gray grow the sapphire walls and gold-strewn ways + Before the vision of thy love's return + With all the unuttered joys of bygone days. + + + + + A Year Ago + + The waters of the river gleamed as brightly + And murmured with the same untiring flow, + The branches of the birches tossed as lightly, + Among them sang the breeze as soft and low, + A year ago. + + We sat beneath the white-stemmed birches bending + To reach the gurgling waters of the bay, + We saw the boats their courses seaward wending, + And earth seemed fair,--before us life's long day, + Night far away. + + But often clouds would veil the sunlight over, + A moment cast a shadow and float by; + So stealthily above our hearts would hover + Sad thoughts to pause a moment, pass and die, + We knew not why. + + We heeded not the moaning of the river, + Nor did the wind a whispered message bring; + Ah, now I know they murmured--part forever! + For that dull gloom above us hovering, + Was Death's dark wing. + + + + + Eternity + + Eternity thou dark unbounded sea, + Upon whose tide we drift into the night, + One moment let us with our mortal sight + Pierce through the fogs and know thy mystery. + Voiceless thou art and voiceless wilt thou be, + Across thy still, cold deeps there comes no light, + While age and æon or a moment's flight + Pass on as one and vanish lost in thee. + + Yet onward driven must our frail barques go, + Though through the night no beacon gleams afar, + And storm-clouds hide the steadfast guiding-star; + The purpose of our wandering and our woe, + A tide that wafts to some safe harbour bar, + O God, that we might know, might only know! + + + + + The Old School Bell + + I can hear it calling, calling, sounding on the morning breeze, + As so often I have heard it call before, + And its ringing thrills my spirit as the wind the whispering trees, + But alas, I know for me it calls no more. + Ah, how sweet the memory lingers! + Though old Time's relentless fingers + Oft have turned the glass while flowed the sands away, + Yet I'd give the dearest treasure + Hardly gained from Fortune's measure, + Could I be a boy again for one short day. + + I can see the gleaming river 'mid the willows winding blue, + I can hear the schoolboys shouting by the shore, + Then the bell begins its calling, echoing the valley through, + And the schoolboys turn toward the chapel door: + Laggard footsteps, scarcely creeping, + To the bell's low tolling keeping + Measured tread, as oft before my own have done; + Ah, the longing ceasing never + For a part in life's endeavour, + And to-day I count the gains that I have won! + + I can hear it calling, calling, though its tongue no longer swings, + For within my heart its notes are ringing free, + As with silent step before me, Memory the old scene brings + And I think the old bell's voice is calling me. + Then I see the old loved faces + Grouped about their wonted places, + As the boyish voices chant their song of praise; + Gone all thought of joy or sorrow, + Loss to-day or gain to-morrow, + And I live again the life of other days. + + + + + On a Swiss Mountain + + Lad, the mighty hills are calling, + Hills of promise gleaming bright, + And the floods of sunshine falling + Fill their deepest vales with light. + + There the young dawn's golden fire + Beckons to a brighter day, + Untrod paths of youths' desire, + Heights unconquered far away. + + Steep and dark and spectre-haunted + Winds the pathway to the height; + Sturdy youth with heart undaunted + Deems the toiling short and light. + + Short or long, an easy Master, + Gives each tired toiler rest, + Counts not failure or disaster + If the striving be the best. + + Go lad, go, 'tis Life that calls you, + Mates of old must soothe their pain, + Mindless of whate'er befalls you + If but honour still remain. + + + + + Rheims + + In royal splendour rose the house of prayer, + Its mystic gloom arched over by the flight + Of soaring vault; above the nave's dim night + Rich gleamed the painted windows wondrous fair. + Sweet chimes and chanting mingled in the air; + Blue clouds of incense dimmed the vaulted height; + And on the altar, like a beacon light, + The gold cross glittered in the candles' glare. + + To-day no bells, no choirs, no incense cloud, + For thou, O Rheims, art prey of evil powers; + But with a voice a thousand times more loud + Than siege-guns echoing round thy shattered towers, + Do thy mute bells to all the world proclaim + Thy martyred glory and thy foeman's shame. + + + + + The Mystic + + The mystic sits by the sacred stream + Watching the sun as it mounts the sky; + And life to him is a haunting dream + Or a dim, weird pageant passing by. + + Sorrow and joy go on their way, + Passion and lust and love and hate; + Only a band of mummers they, + Blindly led by the hand of fate. + + Though the pageant is real, himself the dream, + Though men are born and strive and die, + Yet the mystic sits by the sacred stream + Watching the sun go down the sky. + + + + + A Song of the Homeland + + I'll sing you a song of the Homeland, + Though the strains be of little worth, + A song of our own loved Homeland, + Of the noblest land upon earth; + Where the tide of the sea from oceans three + Beats high in its triple might, + Where the winds are born in a southern morn + And die in a polar night. + + I'll sing you a song of the Eastland, + Of the land where our fathers died, + Where Saxon and Frank, their feuds long dead, + Are sleeping side by side; + Where their sons still toil on the hard-won soil + Of the mighty river plain, + Where the censer swings and the Angelus rings, + And the old faith lives again. + + I'll sing you a song of the Westland + Where the magic cities rise, + And the prairies clothed with their golden grain + Stretch under the azure skies; + Where the mountains grim in the clouds grow dim + Far north in the arctic land, + And the northern light in its mystic flight + Flares over the golden strand. + + And I'll sing of the _men_ of the Homeland + From the north and east and west, + The men that go to the Homeland's call, + (Ah, God we have given our best!) + But not in vain are our heroes slain + If under the darkened skies, + All hand in hand from strand to strand + A sin-purged nation rise. + + + + + The Frozen Brook + + The winter woods lie gray and still + Beneath the dreary sunless skies, + The brook that rippled down the hill + In summer hours, all silent lies. + + And though its breast by ice is bound, + By bending low and listening long, + I hear a faint and far-off sound-- + The echo of a summer song. + + O weary heart, though cold and drear + The days along thy pathway seem, + To Nature's breast bend low thine ear + And listen to its pulsing stream. + + + + + The Indifferent Ones + + Unmoved they sit by the stream of life + And its blood-red tide to the sea goes down, + While the hosts are borne through the surging strife + To a hero's death and a martyr's crown. + + They pay no toll of their gold or blood; + For them 'tis a pageant and naught beside; + So they calmly dream by the reeking flood, + While the sun goes down in the crimson tide. + + + + + In a Forest + + Silver birch and dusky pine, + Reaching up to find the light + From the forest's gloomy night, + From the thicket where entwine + Stunted shrub and creeping vine, + From the damp where witch-fire glows + And the poison fungus grows, + High you lift your heads, O trees, + To the kisses of the breeze, + To the far-off sapphire sky, + To the clouds that pass you by, + To the sun that shines on high. + + From the dusk of earthly night + Strive, O soul, to reach the light. + + + + + The Ships of Memory + + The silent ships of memory creep + Across the seas of long ago; + Like phantoms, on a tideless deep, + Their pale prows wander to and fro. + + Some bear the dreams of happy years + Or bring a cargo all of gold; + Some bear a freight of useless tears, + For love and sorrow long untold. + + And each man takes the proffered dower + For golden grain or bitter loss; + O, happy he that hath the power + To take the gold and leave the dross. + + + + + The Obelisk + + (Place de la Concorde, Paris) + + There rise the palace walls as fair to-day, + As when with arms and banners gleaming bright, + The pageantry of royal pomp and might + Passed through the guarded gates and went its way. + The blue, translucent beams of morning play + On arch triumphal, veiled in silver light; + And here, where blind, red fury reached its height, + An ancient column rises grim and gray. + + Slumbering in mystic sleep it seems to be, + And dreaming dreams of Egypt long ago, + Unmindful of the ceaseless ebb and flow + About its feet of life's unresting sea; + But 'mid the roar, I hear it murmur low: + Poor fools, they know not all is vanity! + + + + + The Parting Ways + + We trod together pleasant ways; + The earth was fair and blue the sky; + Clear were the nights and bright the days + And life was joy, for you were nigh. + + To-day the road looks steep and grim, + And shadows fall on every side, + The sun grows strangely blurred and dim-- + For in this place our paths divide. + + + + + Calvary + + The women stood and watched while thick, black night + Enclosed the awful tragedy. Afar + Three crosses stood, against a single bar + Of crimson-glowing, black-encircled light. + No hint of Easter dawn. In all the height + Of that dark heaven, not a single star + To whisper;--Love and Life the victors are. + It seemed to them that wrong had conquered right. + + O ye who watch and wait, the night is long. + A curtain of spun fire and woven gloom + Across the mighty tragedy is drawn. + But soon your ears shall hear a triumph song, + And golden light shall touch each sacred tomb, + And voices shout at last--The Dawn! The Dawn! + + + + + The Golden Bowl + + On seeing a picture of a boy gazing at a golden bowl, + which, among Eastern nations, was a symbol of life. + + In a dream he seems to lie + Gazing at the golden bowl, + Where dim visions passing by + Whisper vaguely to his soul. + + Restless phantoms come and go + Crowned with cypress or with bays; + Sad or merry, swift or slow, + Tread they through the mystic maze. + + Still the pageant winds along, + Youth and age and love and lust, + Till at last the motley throng + Fades and crumbles into dust. + + All in vain upon the bowl + Gaze the wondering, boyish eyes; + He shall read its hidden scroll + Only when it shattered lies. + + For a wondrous light shall gleam + From the scattered fragments born. + Boy, dream on, for life's a dream, + Followed by a golden morn. + + + + + The Lace-Maker of Bruges + + Her age-worn hands upon her apron lie + Idle and still. Against the sunset glow + Tall poplars stand and silent barges go + Along the green canal that wanders by. + A lean, red finger pointing to the sky, + The spire of Notre Dame. Above a row + Of dim, gray arches where the sunbeams die, + The ancient belfry guards the square below. + + One August eve she stood in that same square + And gazed and listened, proud beneath her tears, + To see her soldier passing down the street. + To-night the beat of drums and trumpets' blare + With bursts of fiendish music smite her ears, + And mingle with the tread of trampling feet. + + + + +W. BRENDON AND SON, LTD., PRINTERS, PLYMOUTH, ENGLAND + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of In a Belgian Garden, by F. O. 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Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + https://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/33553-8.zip b/33553-8.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..582336e --- /dev/null +++ b/33553-8.zip diff --git a/33553-h.zip b/33553-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..940f49f --- /dev/null +++ b/33553-h.zip diff --git a/33553-h/33553-h.htm b/33553-h/33553-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..50ebea5 --- /dev/null +++ b/33553-h/33553-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1592 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> +<HTML> +<HEAD> + +<META HTTP-EQUIV="Content-Type" CONTENT="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"> + +<TITLE> +The Project Gutenberg E-text of In a Belgian Garden, by F. O. Call +</TITLE> + +<STYLE TYPE="text/css"> +BODY { color: Black; + background: White; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; + text-align: justify } + +P {text-indent: 4% } + +P.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +P.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; } + +P.letter {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +P.finis { font-size: larger ; + text-align: center ; + text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +</STYLE> + +</HEAD> + +<BODY> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of In a Belgian Garden, by F. O. Call + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: In a Belgian Garden + and Other Poems + +Author: F. O. Call + +Release Date: August 27, 2010 [EBook #33553] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN A BELGIAN GARDEN *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + +</pre> + + +<BR><BR> + +<H1 ALIGN="center"> +IN A BELGIAN GARDEN +</H1> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +AND OTHER POEMS +</H2> + +<BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +BY +</H4> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +F. O. CALL +</H3> + +<BR><BR><BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +LONDON +<BR> +ERSKINE MACDONALD, LTD. +<BR> +MCMXVII +</H3> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +TO +</H4> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +E. H. G. +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +THE BEST OF FRIENDS +<BR> +THIS LITTLE BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED +</H4> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Author's Note +</H3> + +<P CLASS="noindent" STYLE="margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%"> +Many of the poems in this volume have appeared before in various +publications and I wish to thank the editors of the "Canadian +Magazine," the "University Magazine," the "Westminster," the "Canada +West," and other periodicals for permission to reprint these verses. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent" STYLE="margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%"> +F. O. C. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent" STYLE="margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%"> +BISHOP'S COLLEGE,<BR> + LENNOXVILLE, CANADA.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +Contents +</H2> + +<P CLASS="noindent" STYLE="margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%"> +<A HREF="#introduction">INTRODUCTION</A><BR> +<A HREF="#garden">IN A BELGIAN GARDEN</A><BR> +<A HREF="#maiden">A LINCOLNSHIRE MAIDEN</A><BR> +<A HREF="#treasure">HIDDEN TREASURE</A><BR> +<A HREF="#sunset">A RIVER SUNSET</A><BR> +<A HREF="#madonna">THE MADONNA</A><BR> +<A HREF="#idol">AN IDOL IN A SHOP WINDOW</A><BR> +<A HREF="#cloister">THROUGH A LONG CLOISTER</A><BR> +<A HREF="#chambly">THE CHAMBLY RAPID</A><BR> +<A HREF="#snowdrift">THE SNOWDRIFT</A><BR> +<A HREF="#royal">ON MOUNT ROYAL</A><BR> +<A HREF="#vision">THE VISION</A><BR> +<A HREF="#year">A YEAR AGO</A><BR> +<A HREF="#eternity">ETERNITY</A><BR> +<A HREF="#bell">THE OLD SCHOOL BELL</A><BR> +<A HREF="#swiss">ON A SWISS MOUNTAIN</A><BR> +<A HREF="#rheims">RHEIMS</A><BR> +<A HREF="#mystic">THE MYSTIC</A><BR> +<A HREF="#homeland">A SONG OF THE HOMELAND</A><BR> +<A HREF="#brook">THE FROZEN BROOK</A><BR> +<A HREF="#ones">THE INDIFFERENT ONES</A><BR> +<A HREF="#forest">IN A FOREST</A><BR> +<A HREF="#ships">THE SHIPS OF MEMORY</A><BR> +<A HREF="#obelisk">THE OBELISK</A><BR> +<A HREF="#ways">THE PARTING WAYS</A><BR> +<A HREF="#calvary">CALVARY</A><BR> +<A HREF="#bowl">THE GOLDEN BOWL</A><BR> +<A HREF="#bruges">THE LACE-MAKER OF BRUGES</A><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="introduction"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Introduction +</H3> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +Most of the poems contained in this collection are of recent date, +though their author—who is at present Professor of Modern Languages at +Bishop's College, Quebec—has written verse from his childhood. He is +the first Canadian writer to be included in this series, and is as +affectionately loyal to the Motherland as to his native country, as may +be gathered from his "Song of the Homeland." His verse has already +earned a considerable reputation in Canada, in whose Press much of it +has appeared. Educated at Stanstead College, he took his degree at the +University where he now lectures, and has also studied in Paris, +Marburg and Switzerland. Several of his poems are concerned with the +sorrow and the ravished beauty of Belgium: a circumstance not +surprising, as he has travelled much in that country, as well as in +France, Switzerland and Italy. A lover of country life and a disciple +of the cult of the open road, he revels in the joys of camping and +canoeing, as one of his poems, "Hidden Treasure," bears witness. In +this little book, and more especially in the "Song of the Homeland," he +shows us the maple leaf entwined, strongly as ever, with the English +rose of the Mother country. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +S. GERTRUDE FORD. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="garden"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> + In a Belgian Garden +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Once in a Belgian garden,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">(Ah, many months ago!)</SPAN><BR> +I saw like pale Madonnas<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">The tall white lilies blow.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Great poplars swayed and trembled<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Afar against the sky,</SPAN><BR> +And green with flags and rushes<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">The river wandered by.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Amid the waving wheatfields<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Glowed poppies blazing red,</SPAN><BR> +And showering strange wild music<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">A lark rose overhead.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 10%; letter-spacing: 2em">*****</SPAN><BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The lark has ceased his singing,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">The wheat is trodden low,</SPAN><BR> +And in the blood-stained garden<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">No more the lilies blow.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And where green poplars trembled<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Stand shattered trunks instead,</SPAN><BR> +And lines of small white crosses<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Keep guard above the dead.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +For here brave lads and noble,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">From lands beyond the deep,</SPAN><BR> +Beneath the small white crosses<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Have laid them down to sleep.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +They laid them down with gladness<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Upon the alien plain,</SPAN><BR> +That this same Belgian garden<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Might bud and bloom again.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="maiden"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A Lincolnshire Maiden +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Long the eastern beaches,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Where brown the seaweed grows,</SPAN><BR> +And over broad salt meadows,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">The green tide ebbs and flows.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Above the low-roofed houses,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Two ancient towers rise,</SPAN><BR> +And stand like giant druids,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Against the wind-swept skies.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Through mist or rain or sunshine,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Their prows festooned with foam,</SPAN><BR> +The fishing-boats go outward<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Or laden, turn them home.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +She watches by the window,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And tearless are her eyes;</SPAN><BR> +She sees not church or tower,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Or sea or wind-swept skies.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +She sees not tide or tempest,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Or sun or mist or rain;</SPAN><BR> +Afar her spirit wanders<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Upon the Belgian plain.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Where over shell-scarred cities<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">The mad, red tempest raves,</SPAN><BR> +And poplars sigh and shudder<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Above unnumbered graves.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="treasure"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Hidden Treasure<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Sun-browned boy with the wondering eyes,<BR> +Do you see the blue of the summer skies?<BR> +Do you hear the song of the drowsy stream,<BR> +As it winds by the shore where the birches gleam?<BR> +Then come, come away<BR> +From the shadowy bay,<BR> +And we'll drift with the stream where the rapids play;<BR> +For we are two pirates, fierce and bold,<BR> +And we'll capture the hoard of the morning's gold.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +A roving craft is our red canoe,<BR> +O pirate chief with the eyes of blue;<BR> +So hoist your flag with the skull on high,<BR> +And out we'll sail where the treasures lie.<BR> +For in days of old<BR> +Came pirates bold,<BR> +a Spanish galleon's captured gold;<BR> +And their boat was wrecked on the river strand<BR> +And its treasures strewn on the silver sand.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Now steady all as we dash along,<BR> +The rapids are swift but our paddles are strong;<BR> +And soon we'll drift with the water's flow<BR> +Where the treasure lies hid in the shallows below,<BR> +Oh, cool and dim,<BR> +'Neath its foam-flecked brim,<BR> +Is the pool where the swallows dip and skim;<BR> +So we'll plunge by the prow of our red canoe<BR> +For the treasure that lies in the quivering blue.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Now home once more to the shadowy bay,<BR> +For we've captured the gold of the summer's day,<BR> +And emeralds green from the banks along,<BR> +And the silver bars of the white-throat's song.<BR> +No pirates bore<BR> +Such a glittering store<BR> +From the treasure ships of the days of yore,<BR> +As the spoils we have won on the shining stream,<BR> +While we drifted along in a golden dream.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="sunset"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A River Sunset<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Red sunlight fades from wood and town,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">The western sky is crimson-dyed,</SPAN><BR> +Gaunt shadow-ships drift silent down<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Upon the river's gleaming tide.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The hills' clear outlines melt away<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Or veil themselves in purple light,</SPAN><BR> +And burning thoughts that vexed the day<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Become fair visions of the night.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="madonna"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Madonna<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +She shivered and crouched in the immigrant shed<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">In the midst of the surging crowd;</SPAN><BR> +Her hands were warped with the years of toil,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And her young form bent and bowed.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Her eyes looked forth with a frightened glance<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">At the throng that round her pressed;</SPAN><BR> +But her face was the face of the Mother of God<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">As she looked at the babe on her breast.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="idol"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +An Idol in a Shop Window<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Old Lohan peers through the dusty glass,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">From a jumble of curios quaint and rare;</SPAN><BR> +And he watches the hurrying crowds that pass<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">The whole day long, through the ancient square.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Wrapped in his robe of gold and jade,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Here by the window he patiently waits</SPAN><BR> +For the sound that the gongs and the conches made,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">In the days of old at the temple gates.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +He heaves no sighs and he sheds no tears,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">For his heart is bronze, and he does not know</SPAN><BR> +That his temple has been for a thousand years<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">But a mound of dust where the bamboos grow.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +So here he sits through the nights and days,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And the sun goes up and down the sky;</SPAN><BR> +But he often looks with a wistful gaze<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">At the crowds that always pass him by.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And his eyes half closed in a mystic dream<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Of his poppy-land of long ago,</SPAN><BR> +Turn back to the shores of the sacred stream<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And the kneeling throng he used to know.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +But he sometimes smiles as he sees the crowd<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Of human folk that pass him by;</SPAN><BR> +Then he wraps himself in his mystic shroud,—<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And the sun once more goes down the sky.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="cloister"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Through a Long Cloister<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Through a long cloister where the gloom of night<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Lingers in sombre silence all the day,</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Across worn pavements crumbling to decay</SPAN><BR> +We wandered, blindly groping for the light.<BR> +A door swung wide, and splendour infinite<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Streamed through the painted glass, and drove away</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">The lingering gloom from choir, nave and bay,</SPAN><BR> +And a great minster's glory met our sight.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Blindly along life's cloister do we grope,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">We seek a gate that leads to life immortal,</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">We see it loom before us dim and vast,</SPAN><BR> +And doubt's dark shadows veil the light of hope:<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">When lo, Death's hand flings wide the sombre portal,</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">And light unfading meets our gaze at last.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chambly"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Chambly Rapid<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +There's a spirit in the rapid, calling, calling through the night,<BR> +There's a gleam upon the water, burning pale and burning bright.<BR> +Woe to him who hears the calling! Woe to him who sees the light!<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">My son and I had left St. Jean,</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">Our paddles dipping in the blue,</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And many miles to north had gone</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">Along the silent Richelieu;</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">The night came down, we thought of rest;</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">A threatening cloud hung in the west.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">No warning sound the river made</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">Save for the rapid's muffled roar,</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">As 'neath the pine-trees' deepening shade</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">We camped upon that luckless shore;</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">No sound the night-wind bore to me</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Save one weird echo from Chambly.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">The night grew dark and darker still,</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">The pale-faced moon was hid from sight,</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">When o'er the waters black and chill</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">We saw a ghastly, gleaming light,—-</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">A fitful fire, pale and blue,</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">That burned my inmost spirit through.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And like some baleful gleaming eye</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">It shone beneath night's heavy pall;</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Then high above the loon's lone cry</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">Afar we heard the spirit call;</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">It called us from the other shore.</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Ah, Jean will never hear it more!</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">I could not seize or hold him back,</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">For while the light burned pale and blue,</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">A heavy hand from out the black</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">Held me beside my own canoe,</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And ere I stirred, the other barque</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Had silent sped into the dark.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Adown the river's drifting tide</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">To where the wild, mad rapids run,</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Past pine-trees towering on each side</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">His frail canoe had drifted on;</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">He did not look to left or right</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">But gazed upon that hell-born light.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And ever swifter with the flow</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">He drifted where the rapids play,</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">His eyes still on that awful glow;</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Ah, God! my life seemed snatched away!</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">I saw a gleam far up the sky</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And heard the echo of a cry.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +There's a spirit in the rapid, calling, calling through the night,<BR> +There's a gleam upon the water, burning pale and burning bright.<BR> +Woe to him who hears the calling! Woe to him who sees the light!<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="snowdrift"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Snowdrift<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The snowflakes fell on a mountain peak,<BR> +Where the rocks were bare and the winds were bleak,<BR> +And at first they clung to the mountain's breast,<BR> +But soon they fell from its lofty crest,<BR> +And stained and soiled was the new-born snow<BR> +When it reached the valley far down below.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +But up on the height one drift alone<BR> +Still firmly clung to the rugged stone,<BR> +And men in the gloomy vale below<BR> +Looked up and gazed on the shining snow,<BR> +And their darkened souls drank in the light<BR> +From the gleaming snow on the mountain height.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Unstained by the grime of the earthly vale,<BR> +Its white breast firm in the strongest gale,<BR> +It bravely clung to its lofty height<BR> +And gleamed afar with its glorious light,<BR> +Till kissed by the sun and the summer rain,<BR> +It rose in mist to the skies again.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="royal"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +On Mount Royal<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I climb its sides when the day grows old<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And its mighty shadow falls deep and wide,</SPAN><BR> +And over the gleam of the sunset's gold<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">The darkness creeps like a rising tide;</SPAN><BR> +And higher and higher up rocky height,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Past oaks that are gnarled by the winter's blast,</SPAN><BR> +I climb till a marvellous vision of light<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Breaks forth on my wondering sight at last.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Dome and spire of house of prayer,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Convent cloister gloomy and gray,</SPAN><BR> +Street and market and bridge lie there<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">In the golden gleam of the dying day.</SPAN><BR> +Yet here on the silent mountain crest<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">There echoes a moan and a smothered roar</SPAN><BR> +From the tide of life in its strange unrest,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">As it beats below on a barren shore.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="vision"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Vision<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +A vision came unto a saint of old<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Of a fair city by a crystal stream,</SPAN><BR> +Its gates of pearl, its streets of shining gold,—<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Barbaric splendours of a mystic's dream.</SPAN><BR> +There upon floating wings the white-robed throng<BR> +No man can number chant in endless song;<BR> +Across the tideless sea no shadow falls<BR> +To dim the glory of the sapphire walls,<BR> +Or mar the splendour of the throne-crowned height.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Ah love, the mystic's vision wakes to-night,<BR> +With all its glittering show and kingly pride,<BR> +No longing in a heart unsatisfied.<BR> +But oh, to walk with thee the river shore<BR> +As in the days gone by, the gold strewn o'er<BR> +The strand of primrose bloom, the water's flow,<BR> +Mingled with thy sweet voice in music low,<BR> +The angel song; to touch my lips to thine,<BR> +To hear the whispering of thy heart to mine,<BR> +And burning with a fire that never dies,<BR> +To see once more the love-light in thine eyes.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Ah, dim those far celestial splendours burn,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Gray grow the sapphire walls and gold-strewn ways</SPAN><BR> +Before the vision of thy love's return<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">With all the unuttered joys of bygone days.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="year"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A Year Ago<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The waters of the river gleamed as brightly<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And murmured with the same untiring flow,</SPAN><BR> +The branches of the birches tossed as lightly,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Among them sang the breeze as soft and low,</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 4em">A year ago.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +We sat beneath the white-stemmed birches bending<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">To reach the gurgling waters of the bay,</SPAN><BR> +We saw the boats their courses seaward wending,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And earth seemed fair,—before us life's long day,</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 4em">Night far away.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +But often clouds would veil the sunlight over,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">A moment cast a shadow and float by;</SPAN><BR> +So stealthily above our hearts would hover<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Sad thoughts to pause a moment, pass and die,</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 4em">We knew not why.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +We heeded not the moaning of the river,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Nor did the wind a whispered message bring;</SPAN><BR> +Ah, now I know they murmured—part forever!<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">For that dull gloom above us hovering,</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 4em">Was Death's dark wing.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="eternity"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Eternity<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Eternity thou dark unbounded sea,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Upon whose tide we drift into the night,</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">One moment let us with our mortal sight</SPAN><BR> +Pierce through the fogs and know thy mystery.<BR> +Voiceless thou art and voiceless wilt thou be,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Across thy still, cold deeps there comes no light,</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">While age and æon or a moment's flight</SPAN><BR> +Pass on as one and vanish lost in thee.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Yet onward driven must our frail barques go,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Though through the night no beacon gleams afar,</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And storm-clouds hide the steadfast guiding-star;</SPAN><BR> +The purpose of our wandering and our woe,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">A tide that wafts to some safe harbour bar,</SPAN><BR> +O God, that we might know, might only know!<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="bell"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Old School Bell<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I can hear it calling, calling, sounding on the morning breeze,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">As so often I have heard it call before,</SPAN><BR> +And its ringing thrills my spirit as the wind the whispering trees,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">But alas, I know for me it calls no more.</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">Ah, how sweet the memory lingers!</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">Though old Time's relentless fingers</SPAN><BR> +Oft have turned the glass while flowed the sands away,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Yet I'd give the dearest treasure</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Hardly gained from Fortune's measure,</SPAN><BR> +Could I be a boy again for one short day.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I can see the gleaming river 'mid the willows winding blue,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">I can hear the schoolboys shouting by the shore,</SPAN><BR> +Then the bell begins its calling, echoing the valley through,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And the schoolboys turn toward the chapel door:</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">Laggard footsteps, scarcely creeping,</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">To the bell's low tolling keeping</SPAN><BR> +Measured tread, as oft before my own have done;<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Ah, the longing ceasing never</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">For a part in life's endeavour,</SPAN><BR> +And to-day I count the gains that I have won!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I can hear it calling, calling, though its tongue no longer swings,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">For within my heart its notes are ringing free,</SPAN><BR> +As with silent step before me, Memory the old scene brings<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And I think the old bell's voice is calling me.</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">Then I see the old loved faces</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">Grouped about their wonted places,</SPAN><BR> +As the boyish voices chant their song of praise;<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Gone all thought of joy or sorrow,</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Loss to-day or gain to-morrow,</SPAN><BR> +And I live again the life of other days.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="swiss"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +On a Swiss Mountain<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Lad, the mighty hills are calling,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Hills of promise gleaming bright,</SPAN><BR> +And the floods of sunshine falling<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Fill their deepest vales with light.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +There the young dawn's golden fire<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Beckons to a brighter day,</SPAN><BR> +Untrod paths of youths' desire,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Heights unconquered far away.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Steep and dark and spectre-haunted<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Winds the pathway to the height;</SPAN><BR> +Sturdy youth with heart undaunted<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Deems the toiling short and light.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Short or long, an easy Master,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Gives each tired toiler rest,</SPAN><BR> +Counts not failure or disaster<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">If the striving be the best.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Go lad, go, 'tis Life that calls you,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Mates of old must soothe their pain,</SPAN><BR> +Mindless of whate'er befalls you<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">If but honour still remain.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="rheims"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Rheims<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +In royal splendour rose the house of prayer,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Its mystic gloom arched over by the flight</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Of soaring vault; above the nave's dim night</SPAN><BR> +Rich gleamed the painted windows wondrous fair.<BR> +Sweet chimes and chanting mingled in the air;<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Blue clouds of incense dimmed the vaulted height;</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And on the altar, like a beacon light,</SPAN><BR> +The gold cross glittered in the candles' glare.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +To-day no bells, no choirs, no incense cloud,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">For thou, O Rheims, art prey of evil powers;</SPAN><BR> +But with a voice a thousand times more loud<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Than siege-guns echoing round thy shattered towers,</SPAN><BR> +Do thy mute bells to all the world proclaim<BR> +Thy martyred glory and thy foeman's shame.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="mystic"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Mystic<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The mystic sits by the sacred stream<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Watching the sun as it mounts the sky;</SPAN><BR> +And life to him is a haunting dream<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Or a dim, weird pageant passing by.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Sorrow and joy go on their way,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Passion and lust and love and hate;</SPAN><BR> +Only a band of mummers they,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Blindly led by the hand of fate.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Though the pageant is real, himself the dream,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Though men are born and strive and die,</SPAN><BR> +Yet the mystic sits by the sacred stream<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Watching the sun go down the sky.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="homeland"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A Song of the Homeland<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I'll sing you a song of the Homeland,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Though the strains be of little worth,</SPAN><BR> +A song of our own loved Homeland,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Of the noblest land upon earth;</SPAN><BR> +Where the tide of the sea from oceans three<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Beats high in its triple might,</SPAN><BR> +Where the winds are born in a southern morn<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And die in a polar night.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I'll sing you a song of the Eastland,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Of the land where our fathers died,</SPAN><BR> +Where Saxon and Frank, their feuds long dead,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Are sleeping side by side;</SPAN><BR> +Where their sons still toil on the hard-won soil<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Of the mighty river plain,</SPAN><BR> +Where the censer swings and the Angelus rings,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And the old faith lives again.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I'll sing you a song of the Westland<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Where the magic cities rise,</SPAN><BR> +And the prairies clothed with their golden grain<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Stretch under the azure skies;</SPAN><BR> +Where the mountains grim in the clouds grow dim<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Far north in the arctic land,</SPAN><BR> +And the northern light in its mystic flight<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Flares over the golden strand.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And I'll sing of the <I>men</I> of the Homeland<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">From the north and east and west,</SPAN><BR> +The men that go to the Homeland's call,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">(Ah, God we have given our best!)</SPAN><BR> +But not in vain are our heroes slain<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">If under the darkened skies,</SPAN><BR> +All hand in hand from strand to strand<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">A sin-purged nation rise.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="brook"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Frozen Brook<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The winter woods lie gray and still<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Beneath the dreary sunless skies,</SPAN><BR> +The brook that rippled down the hill<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">In summer hours, all silent lies.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And though its breast by ice is bound,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">By bending low and listening long,</SPAN><BR> +I hear a faint and far-off sound—<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">The echo of a summer song.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +O weary heart, though cold and drear<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">The days along thy pathway seem,</SPAN><BR> +To Nature's breast bend low thine ear<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And listen to its pulsing stream.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="ones"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Indifferent Ones<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Unmoved they sit by the stream of life<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And its blood-red tide to the sea goes down,</SPAN><BR> +While the hosts are borne through the surging strife<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">To a hero's death and a martyr's crown.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +They pay no toll of their gold or blood;<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">For them 'tis a pageant and naught beside;</SPAN><BR> +So they calmly dream by the reeking flood,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">While the sun goes down in the crimson tide.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="forest"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +In a Forest<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Silver birch and dusky pine,<BR> +Reaching up to find the light<BR> +From the forest's gloomy night,<BR> +From the thicket where entwine<BR> +Stunted shrub and creeping vine,<BR> +From the damp where witch-fire glows<BR> +And the poison fungus grows,<BR> +High you lift your heads, O trees,<BR> +To the kisses of the breeze,<BR> +To the far-off sapphire sky,<BR> +To the clouds that pass you by,<BR> +To the sun that shines on high.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +From the dusk of earthly night<BR> +Strive, O soul, to reach the light.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="ships"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Ships of Memory<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The silent ships of memory creep<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Across the seas of long ago;</SPAN><BR> +Like phantoms, on a tideless deep,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Their pale prows wander to and fro.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Some bear the dreams of happy years<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Or bring a cargo all of gold;</SPAN><BR> +Some bear a freight of useless tears,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">For love and sorrow long untold.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And each man takes the proffered dower<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">For golden grain or bitter loss;</SPAN><BR> +O, happy he that hath the power<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">To take the gold and leave the dross.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="obelisk"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Obelisk<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center"> +(Place de la Concorde, Paris)<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +There rise the palace walls as fair to-day,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">As when with arms and banners gleaming bright,</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">The pageantry of royal pomp and might</SPAN><BR> +Passed through the guarded gates and went its way.<BR> +The blue, translucent beams of morning play<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">On arch triumphal, veiled in silver light;</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And here, where blind, red fury reached its height,</SPAN><BR> +An ancient column rises grim and gray.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Slumbering in mystic sleep it seems to be,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And dreaming dreams of Egypt long ago,</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Unmindful of the ceaseless ebb and flow</SPAN><BR> +About its feet of life's unresting sea;<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">But 'mid the roar, I hear it murmur low:</SPAN><BR> +Poor fools, they know not all is vanity!<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="ways"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Parting Ways<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +We trod together pleasant ways;<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">The earth was fair and blue the sky;</SPAN><BR> +Clear were the nights and bright the days<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And life was joy, for you were nigh.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +To-day the road looks steep and grim,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And shadows fall on every side,</SPAN><BR> +The sun grows strangely blurred and dim—<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">For in this place our paths divide.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="calvary"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Calvary<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The women stood and watched while thick, black night<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Enclosed the awful tragedy. Afar</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Three crosses stood, against a single bar</SPAN><BR> +Of crimson-glowing, black-encircled light.<BR> +No hint of Easter dawn. In all the height<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Of that dark heaven, not a single star</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">To whisper;—Love and Life the victors are.</SPAN><BR> +It seemed to them that wrong had conquered right.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +O ye who watch and wait, the night is long.<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">A curtain of spun fire and woven gloom</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">Across the mighty tragedy is drawn.</SPAN><BR> +But soon your ears shall hear a triumph song,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And golden light shall touch each sacred tomb,</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">And voices shout at last—The Dawn! The Dawn!</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="bowl"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Golden Bowl<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +On seeing a picture of a boy gazing at a golden bowl,<BR> +which, among Eastern nations, was a symbol of life.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +In a dream he seems to lie<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Gazing at the golden bowl,</SPAN><BR> +Where dim visions passing by<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Whisper vaguely to his soul.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Restless phantoms come and go<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Crowned with cypress or with bays;</SPAN><BR> +Sad or merry, swift or slow,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Tread they through the mystic maze.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Still the pageant winds along,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Youth and age and love and lust,</SPAN><BR> +Till at last the motley throng<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Fades and crumbles into dust.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +All in vain upon the bowl<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Gaze the wondering, boyish eyes;</SPAN><BR> +He shall read its hidden scroll<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Only when it shattered lies.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +For a wondrous light shall gleam<BR> +From the scattered fragments born.<BR> +Boy, dream on, for life's a dream,<BR> +Followed by a golden morn.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="bruges"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Lace-Maker of Bruges<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Her age-worn hands upon her apron lie<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Idle and still. Against the sunset glow</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Tall poplars stand and silent barges go</SPAN><BR> +Along the green canal that wanders by.<BR> +A lean, red finger pointing to the sky,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">The spire of Notre Dame. Above a row</SPAN><BR> +Of dim, gray arches where the sunbeams die,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">The ancient belfry guards the square below.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +One August eve she stood in that same square<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And gazed and listened, proud beneath her tears,</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">To see her soldier passing down the street.</SPAN><BR> +To-night the beat of drums and trumpets' blare<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">With bursts of fiendish music smite her ears,</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">And mingle with the tread of trampling feet.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H5 ALIGN="center"> +W. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: In a Belgian Garden + and Other Poems + +Author: F. O. Call + +Release Date: August 27, 2010 [EBook #33553] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN A BELGIAN GARDEN *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + + + + + +IN A BELGIAN GARDEN + +AND OTHER POEMS + + +BY + +F. O. CALL + + + + + +LONDON + +ERSKINE MACDONALD, LTD. + +MCMXVII + + + + +TO + +E. H. G. + +THE BEST OF FRIENDS + +THIS LITTLE BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED + + + + +Author's Note + +Many of the poems in this volume have appeared before in various +publications and I wish to thank the editors of the "Canadian +Magazine," the "University Magazine," the "Westminster," the "Canada +West," and other periodicals for permission to reprint these verses. + +F. O. C. + +BISHOP'S COLLEGE, + LENNOXVILLE, CANADA. + + + + +Contents + + INTRODUCTION + IN A BELGIAN GARDEN + A LINCOLNSHIRE MAIDEN + HIDDEN TREASURE + A RIVER SUNSET + THE MADONNA + AN IDOL IN A SHOP WINDOW + THROUGH A LONG CLOISTER + THE CHAMBLY RAPID + THE SNOWDRIFT + ON MOUNT ROYAL + THE VISION + A YEAR AGO + ETERNITY + THE OLD SCHOOL BELL + ON A SWISS MOUNTAIN + RHEIMS + THE MYSTIC + A SONG OF THE HOMELAND + THE FROZEN BROOK + THE INDIFFERENT ONES + IN A FOREST + THE SHIPS OF MEMORY + THE OBELISK + THE PARTING WAYS + CALVARY + THE GOLDEN BOWL + THE LACE-MAKER OF BRUGES + + + + +Introduction + +Most of the poems contained in this collection are of recent date, +though their author--who is at present Professor of Modern Languages at +Bishop's College, Quebec--has written verse from his childhood. He is +the first Canadian writer to be included in this series, and is as +affectionately loyal to the Motherland as to his native country, as may +be gathered from his "Song of the Homeland." His verse has already +earned a considerable reputation in Canada, in whose Press much of it +has appeared. Educated at Stanstead College, he took his degree at the +University where he now lectures, and has also studied in Paris, +Marburg and Switzerland. Several of his poems are concerned with the +sorrow and the ravished beauty of Belgium: a circumstance not +surprising, as he has travelled much in that country, as well as in +France, Switzerland and Italy. A lover of country life and a disciple +of the cult of the open road, he revels in the joys of camping and +canoeing, as one of his poems, "Hidden Treasure," bears witness. In +this little book, and more especially in the "Song of the Homeland," he +shows us the maple leaf entwined, strongly as ever, with the English +rose of the Mother country. + +S. GERTRUDE FORD. + + + + + In a Belgian Garden + + Once in a Belgian garden, + (Ah, many months ago!) + I saw like pale Madonnas + The tall white lilies blow. + + Great poplars swayed and trembled + Afar against the sky, + And green with flags and rushes + The river wandered by. + + Amid the waving wheatfields + Glowed poppies blazing red, + And showering strange wild music + A lark rose overhead. + + * * * * * + + The lark has ceased his singing, + The wheat is trodden low, + And in the blood-stained garden + No more the lilies blow. + + And where green poplars trembled + Stand shattered trunks instead, + And lines of small white crosses + Keep guard above the dead. + + For here brave lads and noble, + From lands beyond the deep, + Beneath the small white crosses + Have laid them down to sleep. + + They laid them down with gladness + Upon the alien plain, + That this same Belgian garden + Might bud and bloom again. + + + + + A Lincolnshire Maiden + + Long the eastern beaches, + Where brown the seaweed grows, + And over broad salt meadows, + The green tide ebbs and flows. + + Above the low-roofed houses, + Two ancient towers rise, + And stand like giant druids, + Against the wind-swept skies. + + Through mist or rain or sunshine, + Their prows festooned with foam, + The fishing-boats go outward + Or laden, turn them home. + + She watches by the window, + And tearless are her eyes; + She sees not church or tower, + Or sea or wind-swept skies. + + She sees not tide or tempest, + Or sun or mist or rain; + Afar her spirit wanders + Upon the Belgian plain. + + Where over shell-scarred cities + The mad, red tempest raves, + And poplars sigh and shudder + Above unnumbered graves. + + + + + Hidden Treasure + + Sun-browned boy with the wondering eyes, + Do you see the blue of the summer skies? + Do you hear the song of the drowsy stream, + As it winds by the shore where the birches gleam? + Then come, come away + From the shadowy bay, + And we'll drift with the stream where the rapids play; + For we are two pirates, fierce and bold, + And we'll capture the hoard of the morning's gold. + + A roving craft is our red canoe, + O pirate chief with the eyes of blue; + So hoist your flag with the skull on high, + And out we'll sail where the treasures lie. + For in days of old + Came pirates bold, + a Spanish galleon's captured gold; + And their boat was wrecked on the river strand + And its treasures strewn on the silver sand. + + Now steady all as we dash along, + The rapids are swift but our paddles are strong; + And soon we'll drift with the water's flow + Where the treasure lies hid in the shallows below, + Oh, cool and dim, + 'Neath its foam-flecked brim, + Is the pool where the swallows dip and skim; + So we'll plunge by the prow of our red canoe + For the treasure that lies in the quivering blue. + + Now home once more to the shadowy bay, + For we've captured the gold of the summer's day, + And emeralds green from the banks along, + And the silver bars of the white-throat's song. + No pirates bore + Such a glittering store + From the treasure ships of the days of yore, + As the spoils we have won on the shining stream, + While we drifted along in a golden dream. + + + + + A River Sunset + + Red sunlight fades from wood and town, + The western sky is crimson-dyed, + Gaunt shadow-ships drift silent down + Upon the river's gleaming tide. + + The hills' clear outlines melt away + Or veil themselves in purple light, + And burning thoughts that vexed the day + Become fair visions of the night. + + + + + The Madonna + + She shivered and crouched in the immigrant shed + In the midst of the surging crowd; + Her hands were warped with the years of toil, + And her young form bent and bowed. + + Her eyes looked forth with a frightened glance + At the throng that round her pressed; + But her face was the face of the Mother of God + As she looked at the babe on her breast. + + + + + An Idol in a Shop Window + + Old Lohan peers through the dusty glass, + From a jumble of curios quaint and rare; + And he watches the hurrying crowds that pass + The whole day long, through the ancient square. + + Wrapped in his robe of gold and jade, + Here by the window he patiently waits + For the sound that the gongs and the conches made, + In the days of old at the temple gates. + + He heaves no sighs and he sheds no tears, + For his heart is bronze, and he does not know + That his temple has been for a thousand years + But a mound of dust where the bamboos grow. + + So here he sits through the nights and days, + And the sun goes up and down the sky; + But he often looks with a wistful gaze + At the crowds that always pass him by. + + And his eyes half closed in a mystic dream + Of his poppy-land of long ago, + Turn back to the shores of the sacred stream + And the kneeling throng he used to know. + + But he sometimes smiles as he sees the crowd + Of human folk that pass him by; + Then he wraps himself in his mystic shroud,-- + And the sun once more goes down the sky. + + + + + Through a Long Cloister + + Through a long cloister where the gloom of night + Lingers in sombre silence all the day, + Across worn pavements crumbling to decay + We wandered, blindly groping for the light. + A door swung wide, and splendour infinite + Streamed through the painted glass, and drove away + The lingering gloom from choir, nave and bay, + And a great minster's glory met our sight. + + Blindly along life's cloister do we grope, + We seek a gate that leads to life immortal, + We see it loom before us dim and vast, + And doubt's dark shadows veil the light of hope: + When lo, Death's hand flings wide the sombre portal, + And light unfading meets our gaze at last. + + + + + The Chambly Rapid + + There's a spirit in the rapid, calling, calling through the night, + There's a gleam upon the water, burning pale and burning bright. + Woe to him who hears the calling! Woe to him who sees the light! + + + My son and I had left St. Jean, + Our paddles dipping in the blue, + And many miles to north had gone + Along the silent Richelieu; + The night came down, we thought of rest; + A threatening cloud hung in the west. + + No warning sound the river made + Save for the rapid's muffled roar, + As 'neath the pine-trees' deepening shade + We camped upon that luckless shore; + No sound the night-wind bore to me + Save one weird echo from Chambly. + + The night grew dark and darker still, + The pale-faced moon was hid from sight, + When o'er the waters black and chill + We saw a ghastly, gleaming light,--- + A fitful fire, pale and blue, + That burned my inmost spirit through. + + And like some baleful gleaming eye + It shone beneath night's heavy pall; + Then high above the loon's lone cry + Afar we heard the spirit call; + It called us from the other shore. + Ah, Jean will never hear it more! + + I could not seize or hold him back, + For while the light burned pale and blue, + A heavy hand from out the black + Held me beside my own canoe, + And ere I stirred, the other barque + Had silent sped into the dark. + + Adown the river's drifting tide + To where the wild, mad rapids run, + Past pine-trees towering on each side + His frail canoe had drifted on; + He did not look to left or right + But gazed upon that hell-born light. + + And ever swifter with the flow + He drifted where the rapids play, + His eyes still on that awful glow; + Ah, God! my life seemed snatched away! + I saw a gleam far up the sky + And heard the echo of a cry. + + + There's a spirit in the rapid, calling, calling through the night, + There's a gleam upon the water, burning pale and burning bright. + Woe to him who hears the calling! Woe to him who sees the light! + + + + + The Snowdrift + + The snowflakes fell on a mountain peak, + Where the rocks were bare and the winds were bleak, + And at first they clung to the mountain's breast, + But soon they fell from its lofty crest, + And stained and soiled was the new-born snow + When it reached the valley far down below. + + But up on the height one drift alone + Still firmly clung to the rugged stone, + And men in the gloomy vale below + Looked up and gazed on the shining snow, + And their darkened souls drank in the light + From the gleaming snow on the mountain height. + + Unstained by the grime of the earthly vale, + Its white breast firm in the strongest gale, + It bravely clung to its lofty height + And gleamed afar with its glorious light, + Till kissed by the sun and the summer rain, + It rose in mist to the skies again. + + + + + On Mount Royal + + I climb its sides when the day grows old + And its mighty shadow falls deep and wide, + And over the gleam of the sunset's gold + The darkness creeps like a rising tide; + And higher and higher up rocky height, + Past oaks that are gnarled by the winter's blast, + I climb till a marvellous vision of light + Breaks forth on my wondering sight at last. + + Dome and spire of house of prayer, + Convent cloister gloomy and gray, + Street and market and bridge lie there + In the golden gleam of the dying day. + Yet here on the silent mountain crest + There echoes a moan and a smothered roar + From the tide of life in its strange unrest, + As it beats below on a barren shore. + + + + + The Vision + + A vision came unto a saint of old + Of a fair city by a crystal stream, + Its gates of pearl, its streets of shining gold,-- + Barbaric splendours of a mystic's dream. + There upon floating wings the white-robed throng + No man can number chant in endless song; + Across the tideless sea no shadow falls + To dim the glory of the sapphire walls, + Or mar the splendour of the throne-crowned height. + + Ah love, the mystic's vision wakes to-night, + With all its glittering show and kingly pride, + No longing in a heart unsatisfied. + But oh, to walk with thee the river shore + As in the days gone by, the gold strewn o'er + The strand of primrose bloom, the water's flow, + Mingled with thy sweet voice in music low, + The angel song; to touch my lips to thine, + To hear the whispering of thy heart to mine, + And burning with a fire that never dies, + To see once more the love-light in thine eyes. + + Ah, dim those far celestial splendours burn, + Gray grow the sapphire walls and gold-strewn ways + Before the vision of thy love's return + With all the unuttered joys of bygone days. + + + + + A Year Ago + + The waters of the river gleamed as brightly + And murmured with the same untiring flow, + The branches of the birches tossed as lightly, + Among them sang the breeze as soft and low, + A year ago. + + We sat beneath the white-stemmed birches bending + To reach the gurgling waters of the bay, + We saw the boats their courses seaward wending, + And earth seemed fair,--before us life's long day, + Night far away. + + But often clouds would veil the sunlight over, + A moment cast a shadow and float by; + So stealthily above our hearts would hover + Sad thoughts to pause a moment, pass and die, + We knew not why. + + We heeded not the moaning of the river, + Nor did the wind a whispered message bring; + Ah, now I know they murmured--part forever! + For that dull gloom above us hovering, + Was Death's dark wing. + + + + + Eternity + + Eternity thou dark unbounded sea, + Upon whose tide we drift into the night, + One moment let us with our mortal sight + Pierce through the fogs and know thy mystery. + Voiceless thou art and voiceless wilt thou be, + Across thy still, cold deeps there comes no light, + While age and aeon or a moment's flight + Pass on as one and vanish lost in thee. + + Yet onward driven must our frail barques go, + Though through the night no beacon gleams afar, + And storm-clouds hide the steadfast guiding-star; + The purpose of our wandering and our woe, + A tide that wafts to some safe harbour bar, + O God, that we might know, might only know! + + + + + The Old School Bell + + I can hear it calling, calling, sounding on the morning breeze, + As so often I have heard it call before, + And its ringing thrills my spirit as the wind the whispering trees, + But alas, I know for me it calls no more. + Ah, how sweet the memory lingers! + Though old Time's relentless fingers + Oft have turned the glass while flowed the sands away, + Yet I'd give the dearest treasure + Hardly gained from Fortune's measure, + Could I be a boy again for one short day. + + I can see the gleaming river 'mid the willows winding blue, + I can hear the schoolboys shouting by the shore, + Then the bell begins its calling, echoing the valley through, + And the schoolboys turn toward the chapel door: + Laggard footsteps, scarcely creeping, + To the bell's low tolling keeping + Measured tread, as oft before my own have done; + Ah, the longing ceasing never + For a part in life's endeavour, + And to-day I count the gains that I have won! + + I can hear it calling, calling, though its tongue no longer swings, + For within my heart its notes are ringing free, + As with silent step before me, Memory the old scene brings + And I think the old bell's voice is calling me. + Then I see the old loved faces + Grouped about their wonted places, + As the boyish voices chant their song of praise; + Gone all thought of joy or sorrow, + Loss to-day or gain to-morrow, + And I live again the life of other days. + + + + + On a Swiss Mountain + + Lad, the mighty hills are calling, + Hills of promise gleaming bright, + And the floods of sunshine falling + Fill their deepest vales with light. + + There the young dawn's golden fire + Beckons to a brighter day, + Untrod paths of youths' desire, + Heights unconquered far away. + + Steep and dark and spectre-haunted + Winds the pathway to the height; + Sturdy youth with heart undaunted + Deems the toiling short and light. + + Short or long, an easy Master, + Gives each tired toiler rest, + Counts not failure or disaster + If the striving be the best. + + Go lad, go, 'tis Life that calls you, + Mates of old must soothe their pain, + Mindless of whate'er befalls you + If but honour still remain. + + + + + Rheims + + In royal splendour rose the house of prayer, + Its mystic gloom arched over by the flight + Of soaring vault; above the nave's dim night + Rich gleamed the painted windows wondrous fair. + Sweet chimes and chanting mingled in the air; + Blue clouds of incense dimmed the vaulted height; + And on the altar, like a beacon light, + The gold cross glittered in the candles' glare. + + To-day no bells, no choirs, no incense cloud, + For thou, O Rheims, art prey of evil powers; + But with a voice a thousand times more loud + Than siege-guns echoing round thy shattered towers, + Do thy mute bells to all the world proclaim + Thy martyred glory and thy foeman's shame. + + + + + The Mystic + + The mystic sits by the sacred stream + Watching the sun as it mounts the sky; + And life to him is a haunting dream + Or a dim, weird pageant passing by. + + Sorrow and joy go on their way, + Passion and lust and love and hate; + Only a band of mummers they, + Blindly led by the hand of fate. + + Though the pageant is real, himself the dream, + Though men are born and strive and die, + Yet the mystic sits by the sacred stream + Watching the sun go down the sky. + + + + + A Song of the Homeland + + I'll sing you a song of the Homeland, + Though the strains be of little worth, + A song of our own loved Homeland, + Of the noblest land upon earth; + Where the tide of the sea from oceans three + Beats high in its triple might, + Where the winds are born in a southern morn + And die in a polar night. + + I'll sing you a song of the Eastland, + Of the land where our fathers died, + Where Saxon and Frank, their feuds long dead, + Are sleeping side by side; + Where their sons still toil on the hard-won soil + Of the mighty river plain, + Where the censer swings and the Angelus rings, + And the old faith lives again. + + I'll sing you a song of the Westland + Where the magic cities rise, + And the prairies clothed with their golden grain + Stretch under the azure skies; + Where the mountains grim in the clouds grow dim + Far north in the arctic land, + And the northern light in its mystic flight + Flares over the golden strand. + + And I'll sing of the _men_ of the Homeland + From the north and east and west, + The men that go to the Homeland's call, + (Ah, God we have given our best!) + But not in vain are our heroes slain + If under the darkened skies, + All hand in hand from strand to strand + A sin-purged nation rise. + + + + + The Frozen Brook + + The winter woods lie gray and still + Beneath the dreary sunless skies, + The brook that rippled down the hill + In summer hours, all silent lies. + + And though its breast by ice is bound, + By bending low and listening long, + I hear a faint and far-off sound-- + The echo of a summer song. + + O weary heart, though cold and drear + The days along thy pathway seem, + To Nature's breast bend low thine ear + And listen to its pulsing stream. + + + + + The Indifferent Ones + + Unmoved they sit by the stream of life + And its blood-red tide to the sea goes down, + While the hosts are borne through the surging strife + To a hero's death and a martyr's crown. + + They pay no toll of their gold or blood; + For them 'tis a pageant and naught beside; + So they calmly dream by the reeking flood, + While the sun goes down in the crimson tide. + + + + + In a Forest + + Silver birch and dusky pine, + Reaching up to find the light + From the forest's gloomy night, + From the thicket where entwine + Stunted shrub and creeping vine, + From the damp where witch-fire glows + And the poison fungus grows, + High you lift your heads, O trees, + To the kisses of the breeze, + To the far-off sapphire sky, + To the clouds that pass you by, + To the sun that shines on high. + + From the dusk of earthly night + Strive, O soul, to reach the light. + + + + + The Ships of Memory + + The silent ships of memory creep + Across the seas of long ago; + Like phantoms, on a tideless deep, + Their pale prows wander to and fro. + + Some bear the dreams of happy years + Or bring a cargo all of gold; + Some bear a freight of useless tears, + For love and sorrow long untold. + + And each man takes the proffered dower + For golden grain or bitter loss; + O, happy he that hath the power + To take the gold and leave the dross. + + + + + The Obelisk + + (Place de la Concorde, Paris) + + There rise the palace walls as fair to-day, + As when with arms and banners gleaming bright, + The pageantry of royal pomp and might + Passed through the guarded gates and went its way. + The blue, translucent beams of morning play + On arch triumphal, veiled in silver light; + And here, where blind, red fury reached its height, + An ancient column rises grim and gray. + + Slumbering in mystic sleep it seems to be, + And dreaming dreams of Egypt long ago, + Unmindful of the ceaseless ebb and flow + About its feet of life's unresting sea; + But 'mid the roar, I hear it murmur low: + Poor fools, they know not all is vanity! + + + + + The Parting Ways + + We trod together pleasant ways; + The earth was fair and blue the sky; + Clear were the nights and bright the days + And life was joy, for you were nigh. + + To-day the road looks steep and grim, + And shadows fall on every side, + The sun grows strangely blurred and dim-- + For in this place our paths divide. + + + + + Calvary + + The women stood and watched while thick, black night + Enclosed the awful tragedy. Afar + Three crosses stood, against a single bar + Of crimson-glowing, black-encircled light. + No hint of Easter dawn. In all the height + Of that dark heaven, not a single star + To whisper;--Love and Life the victors are. + It seemed to them that wrong had conquered right. + + O ye who watch and wait, the night is long. + A curtain of spun fire and woven gloom + Across the mighty tragedy is drawn. + But soon your ears shall hear a triumph song, + And golden light shall touch each sacred tomb, + And voices shout at last--The Dawn! The Dawn! + + + + + The Golden Bowl + + On seeing a picture of a boy gazing at a golden bowl, + which, among Eastern nations, was a symbol of life. + + In a dream he seems to lie + Gazing at the golden bowl, + Where dim visions passing by + Whisper vaguely to his soul. + + Restless phantoms come and go + Crowned with cypress or with bays; + Sad or merry, swift or slow, + Tread they through the mystic maze. + + Still the pageant winds along, + Youth and age and love and lust, + Till at last the motley throng + Fades and crumbles into dust. + + All in vain upon the bowl + Gaze the wondering, boyish eyes; + He shall read its hidden scroll + Only when it shattered lies. + + For a wondrous light shall gleam + From the scattered fragments born. + Boy, dream on, for life's a dream, + Followed by a golden morn. + + + + + The Lace-Maker of Bruges + + Her age-worn hands upon her apron lie + Idle and still. Against the sunset glow + Tall poplars stand and silent barges go + Along the green canal that wanders by. + A lean, red finger pointing to the sky, + The spire of Notre Dame. Above a row + Of dim, gray arches where the sunbeams die, + The ancient belfry guards the square below. + + One August eve she stood in that same square + And gazed and listened, proud beneath her tears, + To see her soldier passing down the street. + To-night the beat of drums and trumpets' blare + With bursts of fiendish music smite her ears, + And mingle with the tread of trampling feet. + + + + +W. BRENDON AND SON, LTD., PRINTERS, PLYMOUTH, ENGLAND + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of In a Belgian Garden, by F. O. 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