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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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