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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/37365-8.txt b/37365-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f7ad316 --- /dev/null +++ b/37365-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2131 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Sonnets and Other Verse, by W. M. MacKeracher + +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: Sonnets and Other Verse + +Author: W. M. MacKeracher + +Release Date: September 9, 2011 [EBook #37365] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONNETS AND OTHER VERSE *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + + + + + + +SONNETS + +AND OTHER VERSE + + +BY + +W. M. MacKERACHER + +Author of "Canada, My Land" + + + + +TORONTO + +WILLIAM BRIGGS + +1909 + + + + +Copyright, Canada, 1909, by + +W. M. MacKERACHER. + + + + + CONTENTS. + + The Old and The New + How Many a Man! + The Saddest Thought + The House-Hunter + On Moving Into a New House + Literature + A Library + On Charles Lamb's Sonnet, "Work." + Work + The Joy of Creation + Adam + A Shallow Stream + A Faithful Preacher + A Wish Rebuked + The Sabbath + Milton + The Three Hundredth Anniversary of Milton's Birth + Burns + A Late Spring + Autumn + An Autumn Walk + November + November Sunshine + Short Days + The Beginning of Winter + The Winter and the Wilderness + The Immigrants + Wolfe + Montcalm + The Coming of Champlain + The Montagnais at Tadoussac + Champlain's First Winter and Spring in Quebec + Idleness + Success + The Exclusion of Asiatics + The People's Response to Heroism + An Aristocrat + In Warehouse and Office + H.M.S. "Dreadnought" + The Revolution in Russia + Tea's Apologia + A Wish + Alone with Nature + The Works of Man and the Works of Nature + A Day Redeemed + Outremont + The New Old Story + Recreation + Paestum + Rondeau: An April Day + Autumn + My Two Boys + My Old Classical Master + The Gold-Miners of British Columbia + War-ships in Port + On Finding a Copy of Burns's Poems in the House of an Ontario Farmer + The Ideal Preacher + The Wheel of Misfortune + Tim O'Gallagher + + + + + SONNETS AND OTHER VERSE. + + + + THE OLD AND THE NEW. + + Scorn not the Old; 'twas sacred in its day, + A truth overpowering error with its might, + A light dispelling darkness with its ray, + A victory won, an intermediate height, + Which seers untrammel'd by their creeds of yore, + Heroes and saints, triumphantly attained + With hard assail and tribulation sore, + That we might use the vantage-ground they gain'd. + + Scorn not the Old; but hail and seize the New + With thrill'd intelligences, hearts that burn, + And such truth-seeking spirits that it, too, + May soon be superseded in its turn, + And men may ever, as the ages roll, + March onward toward the still receding goal. + + + + + HOW MANY A MAN! + + How many a man of those I see around + Has cherished fair ideals in his youth, + And heard the spirit's call, and stood spellbound + Before the shrine of Beauty or of Truth, + And lived to see his fair ideals fade, + And feel a numbness creep upon his soul, + And sadly know himself no longer swayed + By rigorous Truth or Beauty's sweet control! + + For some, alas! life's thread is almost spun; + Few, few and poor, the fibres that remain; + But yet, while life lasts, something may be done + To make the heavenly vision not in vain; + Yet, even yet, some triumph may be won, + Yea, loss itself be turned to precious gain. + + + + + THE SADDEST THOUGHT. + + Sad is the wane of beauty to the fair, + Sad is the flux of fortune to the proud, + Sad is the look dejected lovers wear, + And sad is worth beneath detraction's cloud. + Sad is our youth's inexorable end, + Sad is the bankruptcy of fancy's wealth, + Sad is the last departure of a friend, + And sadder than most things is loss of health. + + And yet more sad than these to think upon + Is this--the saddest thought beneath the sun-- + Life, flowing like a river, almost gone + Into eternity, and nothing done. + Let me be spared that bootless last regret: + Let me work now; I may do something yet. + + + + + THE HOUSE-HUNTER. + + As one who finds his house no longer fit, + Too narrow for his needs, in nothing right, + Wanting in every homelike requisite, + Devoid of beauty, barren of delight, + Goes forth from door to door and street to street, + With eager-eyed expectancy to find + A new abode for his convenience meet, + Spacious, commodious, fair, and to his mind; + + So living souls recurrently outgrow + Their mental tenements; their tastes appear + Too sordid, and their aims too cramped and low. + And they keep moving onward year by year, + Each dwelling in its turn prepared to leave + For one more like the mansion they conceive. + + + + + ON MOVING INTO A NEW HOUSE. + + Heaven bless this new abode; defend its doors + Against the entry of malignant sprites-- + Gaunt Poverty, pale Sickness, Care that blights; + And o'er its thresholds, like the enchanted shores + Of faery isles, serene amid the roars + Of baffled seas, let in all fair delights + (Such as make happy days and restful nights) + To tread familiarly its charmèd floors. + + Within its walls let moderate Plenty reign, + And gracious Industry, and cheerful Health: + Plenish its chambers with Contentment's wealth, + Nor let high Joy its humble roof disdain; + Here let us make renewal of Love's lease, + And dwell with Piety, who dwells with Peace. + + + + + LITERATURE. + + Here is a banquet-table of delights, + A sumptuous feast of true ambrosial food; + Here is a journey among goodly sights, + In choice society or solitude; + Here is a treasury of gems and gold-- + Of purest gold and gems of brightest sheen; + Here is a landscape gloriously unroll'd, + Of heights sublime and pleasant vales between. + + Here is the realm of Thought, diverse and wide, + To Genius and her sovereign sons assign'd; + The universal church, o'er which preside + The heaven-anointed hierarchy of mind + And spirit; the imperishable pride + And testament and promise of mankind. + + + + + A LIBRARY. + + As one, who, from an antechamber dim, + Is ushered suddenly to his surprise + Before a gathering of the great and wise, + Feels for the moment all his senses swim, + Then looks around him like a veteran grim + When peerless armies pass before his eyes, + Or Michael when he marshals in the skies + The embattled legions of the cherubim; + + So shall the scholar pause within this door + With startled reverence, and proudly stand, + And feel that though the ages' flags are furled + By Time's rude breath, their spoils are here in store, + The riches of the race are at his hand, + And well-nigh all the glory of the world. + + + + + ON CHARLES LAMB'S SONNET, "WORK." + + "Who first invented work?" asks Elia, he + Whose life to an ungenial task was wed, + And answers, "Satan"; but it could not be-- + On idleness his foul ambition fed; + By idleness the heavenly domiciles + Were lost to him and all his idle crew; + In idleness he hatches all his wiles, + And mischief finds for idle hands to do. + + His business ever was to scamp and shirk, + And scout the task that too ignoble seemed, + And in snug corners serpentlike to lurk + Where no one of his presence ever dreamed; + He never knew the zest of honest work, + Nor ever shall, or he would be redeemed. + + + + + WORK. + + Not to the Arch-Idler be the honor given + Of first inventing work, but to his Lord, + Who made the light, the firmament of heaven, + And sun and moon and planets in accord, + The land and cattle on it, and the sea + And fish therein, and flying fowl in air, + And grass and herb and fair fruit-yielding tree, + And man, His own similitude to wear; + + Whose works are old and yet for ever new, + Who all sustains with providential sway, + Whose Son, "My Father worketh hitherto + And I work," said, and ere He went away, + "Finished the work thou gavest me to do," + And unto us, "Work ye while it is day." + + + + + THE JOY OF CREATION. + + How must have thrilled the great Creator's mind + With radiant, glad and satisfying joy, + Ever new self-expressive forms to find + In those six days of rapturous employ! + How must He have delighted when He made + The stars, and meted ocean with His span, + And formed the insect and the tender blade, + And fashioned, after His own image, man! + + And unto man such joy in his degree + He hath appointed, work of mind and hand, + To mould in forms of useful symmetry + Words, hues, wood, iron, stone, at his command + To toil upon the navigable sea + And ply his industry upon the land. + + + + + ADAM. + + God made him, like the angels, innocent, + And made a garden marvellously fair, + With arbors green, sun-kissed and dew-besprent, + And fruits and flowers whose fragrance filled the air; + Where rivers four meandered with delight, + And in the soil were gleaming treasures laid, + Good gold and bdellium and the onyx bright; + And set therein the man whom He had made; + + And proved to him by sad experience + That not in bowers of indolence, supine + On beds of ease, could ev'n Omnipotence + Work out in man His last and best design; + And in great love and wisdom drove him thence, + And cursed him with a blessing most benign. + + + + + A SHALLOW STREAM. + + There is a stream to northward, thinly spread + Over a shelving, many-fissured shale, + That brawls and blusters in its shallow bed, + And ends its course inglorious in a swale. + Its babble stirs the laughter of the hills; + The rooted mountains mock its fume and fret; + And all the summer long the idle mills + Wait wearily with water-wheel unwet. + + Let us not waste our lives in froth and foam + And unavailing vanity of noise; + "Still waters deepest run"--the ancient gnome + Pricks well our sham, conceited bubble-toys; + Who serve best here in God's great halidome + Have volume, depth, serenity and poise. + + + + + A FAITHFUL PREACHER. + + Let no one say of Christ's Church, "Ichabod," + Or deem her strength partaker of decay, + Or think her trumpet voices fail. To-day + I saw a man who was a man of God, + His feet with gospel preparation shod, + The Spirit's quick and mighty weapon sway; + I heard him faithfully point out the way, + To him familiar, which the Master trod. + + Intrepid, patient follower of the Lord, + While such as thou, obedient to His call, + Living epistles, known and read of all, + Proclaim the wonders of His sacred Word, + No sound of lamentation should be heard, + No shade of apprehension should appal. + + + + + A WISH REBUKED. + + If one could have a hundred years to live, + After the settlement of youth's unrest, + A hundred years of vigorous life to give + To the pursuit of what he counted best, + A hundred summers, autumns, winters, springs, + To train and use the forces of his mind, + He might fulfil his fond imaginings, + And lift himself and benefit his kind. + + O faint of heart, to whom this life appears + Too short for thy ambitious projects, He + Who plied His task in weakness and in tears + Along the countrysides of Galilee, + And blest the world for these two thousand years, + Did His incomparable work in three. + + + + + THE SABBATH. + + Who, careless, would behold a goodly tree + Or noble palace stricken to decay? + Who would drop precious jewels in the sea + Or cast rare heirlooms on the trodden way? + Who, but a prodigal in wantonness, + Would waste his patrimony for swine's food? + Who would his birthright sell for pottage-mess + But a dull, sensual Esau, blind to good? + + Our tree o'ershadowing the sons of care, + Our palace welcoming the weary guest, + Our precious jewel and our heirloom rare, + Our birthright and our patrimony blest, + Art thou, to guard and keep for ever fair, + Sweet Christian Sabbath-day of joy and rest. + + + + + MILTON. + + Say not that England ever kingless was: + 'Twixt Charles and Charles two royal men appear,-- + Cromwell, to give her health with arms and laws, + And Milton, thou, to speak out loud and clear + For freedom of man's conscience and the state, + For England and her deeds before the world, + And for the victims of religious hate + From Alpine summits pitilessly hurl'd. + + Thou wast a Champion of Liberty: + In fair Italian cities thou had'st heard + Her voice upon the north wind summon thee, + And, like another Moses, had'st preferr'd + Affliction with thy brethren to the lure + Of beauty, art and cultur'd ease secure. + + + + + THE THREE HUNDREDTH ANNIVERSARY OF MILTON'S BIRTH. + + (December 9th, 1908.) + + "There was a man sent from God, whose name was John." + + Three hundred years have left their telltale rings + Upon the tree of Time since he appeared-- + Milton (to be remembered and revered); + Whose spirit mounted on seraphic wings; + Who saw, though blind, extraordinary things; + Who wrought in obloquy, and persevered, + And, Orpheus-like, with his great music reared + A monument surpassing those of kings. + + Three hundred years, courageous, lofty soul, + Hast thou by precept and example taught + Thy lesson. Have we learned it as we ought? + Have we moved upward, nearer to the goal? + Yea, somewhat have we learned; be with us still, + And teach us Man's high function to fulfil. + + + + + BURNS. + + We read his life of poverty and bane, + From weakness, folly, error, not exempt, + And turn aside with a depressing pain-- + Compassion tinged with something like contempt. + We read his work, and see his human heart, + His manly mind, his true, if thwarted, will, + And all that's noblest in us takes his part, + And shames our former verdict, will or nill. + + His was a fiery spirit that unbound + Men's fetters, sometimes leading him astray; + He was a seed that fell into the ground + And brought forth fruit; he cast himself away + Like bread upon the waters, and was found + To nourish worth in many an after day. + + + + + A LATE SPRING. + + Twelve weeks had passed--how slowly!--day by day, + Since formal, dull Sir Calendar had bowed + Old Winter from the scene, and cried, "Make way! + The Spring, the Spring!" and still a sullen cloud + Obscured the sky, and the north wind blew chill; + When lo, one morn the miracle began; + A Presence brooded over vale and hill, + And through all life a quickening impulse ran. + + Long-hushed, forgotten melodies awoke + Within my soul; the rapture of the boy + Refilled me; o'er my arid being broke + A brimming tide of elemental joy + From primal deeps; and all my happy springs + Came back to me--I was the peer of kings! + + + + + AUTUMN. + + From shy expectancy to burgeoning, + From burgeoning to ripeness and decline, + The seasons run their various course and bring + Again at last the sober days benign. + And spring's pied garland, worn for Beauty's sake, + And summer's crown of pride, less fair appear + Than the subdued, enchanted tints that make + The aureole of the senescent year. + + So grows the good man old--meek, glad, sublime; + More lovely than in all his youthful bloom, + Grander than in the vigor of his prime, + He lights with radiance life's autumnal gloom, + And through the fading avenue of Time + Walks in triumphal glory to his tomb. + + + + + AN AUTUMN WALK. + + Adown the track that skirts the shallow stream + I wandered with blank mind; a bypath drew + My aimless steps aside, and, ere I knew, + The forest closed around me like a dream. + The gold-strewn sward, the horizontal gleam + Of the low sun, pouring its splendors through + The far-withdrawing vistas, filled the view, + And everlasting beauty was supreme. + + I knew not past or future; 'twas a mood + Transcending time and taking in the whole. + I was both young and old; my lost childhood, + Years yet unlived, were gathered round one goal; + And death was there familiar. Long I stood, + And in eternity renewed my soul. + + + + + NOVEMBER. + + Sombre November, least belov'd of all + The months that make the pleasurable year, + Too late for the resplendence of the fall, + Too soon for Christmas-bringing winter's cheer; + Ignoble interregnum following + The golden cycle of a good queen's reign, + Before her heir, proclaimed already king, + Has come of age to rule in her domain; + + We do not praise you; many a dreary day + Impatiently we chide your laggard pace; + Backward we look, and forward, and we say: + The queen was kind and fair of form and face; + The king is stern, but clad in brave array: + God save His Majesty and send him grace. + + + + + NOVEMBER SUNSHINE. + + O affluent Sun, unwilling to abate + Thy bounteous hospitality benign, + Whenas we deemed the banquet o'er, thy great + Gold flagon brims again with amber wine; + Whenas we thought t' have seen on plain and hill + Thy euthanasia in October's haze, + The blessing of thy light, unstinted still, + Irradiates the drear November days. + + Naught can discourage thee, O thurifer + Of gladness to the else benighted face + Of the misfeatured earth; fit minister + Of Him whose love illumines every place, + Who pours His mercy forth without demur + Over the sins and sorrows of our race. + + + + + SHORT DAYS. + + Now is the Sun, erst spendthrift of his rays + And lavish of his largesses of light, + Become a miser in his latter days, + An avaricious dotard, alter'd quite. + Is he the same that all the summer long + Strew'd with ungrudging hand his gleaming gold? + Can such ill grace to high estate belong? + Can bright be dim? can warm so soon be cold? + + Ay, but he goes his parsimonious way, + And hoards his shining treasures from the view, + And garners up his riches 'gainst the day + When Earth, the prodigal, shall beg anew; + Then to her need he'll give no niggard dole, + But wealth incalculable, heart and soul. + + + + + THE BEGINNING OF WINTER. + + Now are the trees all ruefully bereft + Of their brave liveries of green and gold, + No shred of all their pleasant raiment left + To shield them from the wind and nipping cold. + Now is the grass all withered up and dead, + And shrouded in its cerement of the snow; + Now the enfeebled Sun goes soon to bed, + And rises late and carries his head low. + + Now is the night magnificent to view + When the Queen Moon appears with cloudless brow; + Now are our spirits cleans'd and born anew + In the clear, quickening atmosphere; and now + We re-make home, and find our hearts' desire + In common talk before the cheerful fire. + + + + + THE WINTER AND THE WILDERNESS. + + When we who dwell within this province old, + Cloven in twain by the great river's tide, + Gird at inhospitable winter's cold, + And rue the downfall of fair summer's pride; + Or turn our eyes from gazing on the vales + Of lavish verdure and abundant fruit, + To those rough wastes where Nature ever fails, + And tillage spurns a profitless pursuit; + + Let us recall that sentence from the hand + Of history's father, laying down his pen,-- + Those words of Cyrus, which he made to stand + To all his work as moral and amen; + 'Tis not the richest and most fertile land + That always bears the noblest breed of men.[1] + + +[1] "Although the work seems unfinished, it concludes with a sentence +which cannot have been placed casually at the end, viz., that, as the +great Cyrus was supposed to have said, 'It is not always the richest +and most fertile country which produces the most valiant +men.'"--_Commentary on the Work of Herodotus_. + + + + + THE IMMIGRANTS. + + From lands where old abuses sit entrenched + And stern restriction thwarts aspiring merit, + And by gaunt men a meagre dole is wrenched + From the unkind conditions they inherit; + From teeming cities where the ceaseless moan + Of want is burthen to the traffic's hum, + From shrouded mills, and fields they ne'er might own, + From servitude and blank despair, they come. + + And every ship that sails across the foam, + And every train that rushes from the sea, + And every sun that brightens heaven's dome, + And every breeze that stirs the leafing tree, + Sings to the pilgrims a glad song of home, + With freedom, joy and opportunity. + + + + + WOLFE. + +"I would rather have written those lines than take Quebec +to-morrow."--_Wolfe, on hearing Gray's "Elegy" read the night before +the capture of Quebec_. + + Thou need'st no marble monuments to keep + Thy fame immortal and thy memory + An inspiration to make pulses leap + And resolution spring to mastery. + Thou need'st no gilded tablets on the walls + Of cities, no imposing sepulchre, + Imperishable Wolfe, whose name recalls + The flower of kings, who bore Excalibur. + + The ultimate dispensers of renown, + The poets, shall accord thee honor fit, + And add fresh laurels ever to thy crown, + High-minded hero, who hadst rather writ + Those lines of one to every poet dear + Than take the fortress of a hemisphere. + + + + + MONTCALM. + +"Ce n'est rien, ce n'est rien; ne vous affligez pas pour moi, mes +bonnes amies." + + Montcalm, calm mount, thou didst not faint nor fail + At that fierce volley from thy foemen near, + Nor at the charge's deafening prelude quail,-- + The Highland slogan and the Saxon cheer. + But thou, even thou, couldst not withstand the shock + That broke and bore precipitately on + Tried regiments, La Sarre and Languedoc, + Béarn, Guienne and Royal Roussillon. + + Thou couldst but fight as heroes e'er have fought, + With that high self-devotion which transcends + Vain-glorious victory: "'Tis naught, 'tis naught; + Fret not yourselves on my account, good friends," + Yet 'twas thy mortal wound. Such words express + True chivalry and Christlike nobleness. + + + + + THE COMING OF CHAMPLAIN. + + (From the prose of Parkman.) + + Up the St. Lawrence with well-weather'd sails + A lonely vessel clove its foaming track. + None hail'd its coming; the white floundering whales + Disported in the Bay of Tadoussac; + The wild duck div'd before its figured prow; + The painted savage spied it from the shore, + And dream'd not that his reign was ended now,-- + That that strange ship a new Aeneas bore, + + Whose pale-fac'd inconsiderable band + Were pioneers of an aggressive host + Of thousands, millions, filling all the land, + And 'stablishing therein from coast to coast + This civil state, with cities, temples, marts, + Schools, laws and peaceful industries and arts. + + + + + THE MONTAGNAIS AT TADOUSSAC. + + (From the prose of Parkman.) + + The lodges of the Montagnais were there, + Who reaped the harvest of the woods and rocks-- + Skins of the moose and cariboo and bear, + Fur of the beaver, marten, otter, fox. + From where the shivering nomad lurks among + The stunted forests south of Hudson's Bay + They piloted their frail canoes along + By many a tributary's devious way; + + Then between mountains stern as Teneriffe + Their confluent flotillas glided down + The Saguenay, and pass'd beneath the cliff + Whose shaggy brows athwart the zenith frown, + And reach'd the Bay of Trinity, dark, lone, + And silent as the tide of Acheron. + + + + + CHAMPLAIN'S FIRST WINTER AND SPRING IN QUEBEC. + + (From the prose of Parkman.) + + I. THE WINTER. + + September bade the sail of Pontgravé + Godspeed, and smil'd upon the infant nation; + October deckt the shores and hills with "gay + Prognostics of approaching desolation." + Ere long the forest, steep'd in golden gloom, + Dropt rustling down its shrivel'd festal dress, + And chill November, sombre as the tomb, + Sank on the vast primeval wilderness. + + Inexorable winter's iron vice + Gript hard the land, funereal with snow; + The stream was fill'd with grinding drifts of ice; + A fell disease laid twenty Frenchmen low + In death, and left the dauntless leader eight + With whom to hold the New World's fortress gate. + + + II. THE SPRING. + + The purgatory pass'd--the stalactites + That fring'd the cliffs fell crashing to the earth; + With clamor shrill the wild geese skimm'd the heights, + In airy navies sailing to the north; + The bluebirds chirrup'd in the naked woods, + The water-willows donn'd their downy blooms, + The trim swamp-maple blush'd with ruddy buds, + The forest-ash hung out its sable plumes. + + The shad-bush gleam'd a wreath of purest snow, + The white stars of the bloodroot peep'd from folds + Of rotting leaves, and in the meadows low + Shone saffron spots, the gay marsh-marigolds. + May made all green, and on the fifth of June + A sail appeared, with succor none too soon. + + + + + IDLENESS. + + The street was brisk, an animated scene, + And every man was on some business bent, + Absorbed in some employment or intent, + Pre-occupied, intelligent and keen. + True, some were dwarf'd and some were pale and lean. + But to the sorriest visage Labor lent + A light, transfiguring with her sacrament + The abject countenance and slavish mien. + + But one--he shambled aimlessly along + Asham'd, and shrunk from the abstracted ken + Of passers-by with conscience-struck recoil, + A pariah, a leper in the throng, + An alien from the commonwealth of men, + A stranger to the covenant of toil. + + + + + SUCCESS. + + What is success? In mad soul-suicide + The world's vain spoils rapaciously to seize, + To pamper the base appetite of pride, + And live a lord in luxury and ease? + Is this success, whereof so many prate?-- + To have the Midas-touch that turns to gold + Earth's common blessings? to accumulate, + And in accumulation to grow old? + + Nay, but to see and undertake with zest + The good most in agreement with our powers, + To strive, if need be, for the second best, + But still to strive, and glean the golden hours, + With eyes for nature, and a mind for truth, + And the brave, loving, joyous heart of youth. + + + + + THE EXCLUSION OF ASIATICS. + + Is our renown'd Dominion then so small + As not to hold this new inhabitant? + Or are her means so pitiably scant + As not to yield a livelihood to all? + Or are we lesser men, foredoom'd to thrall? + Or so much better than the immigrant + That we should make our hearts as adamant + And guard against defilement with a wall? + + Nay, but our land is large and rich enough + For us and ours and millions more--her need + Is working men; she cries to let them in. + Nor can we fear; our race is not the stuff + Servants are made of, but a royal seed, + And Christian, owning all mankind as kin. + + + + + THE PEOPLE'S RESPONSE TO HEROISM. + + Our hearts are set on pleasure and on gain. + Fine clothes, fair houses, more and daintier bread; + We have no strivings, and no hunger-pain + For spiritual food; our souls are dead. + So judged I till the day when news was rife + Of fire besieging scholars and their dames, + And bravely one gave up her own fair life + In saving the most helpless from the flames. + + Then when I heard the instantaneous cheer + That broke with sobbing undertones from all + The multitude, and watched them drawing near, + Stricken and mute, around her funeral pall + In grief and exultation, I confest + My judgment erred,--we know and love the best. + + + + + AN ARISTOCRAT. + + Her fair companions she outshone, + As this or that transcendent star + Makes all its sister orbs look wan + And dim and lustreless and far. + + Her charm impressed the fleeting glance, + But chiefly the reflective mind; + A century's inheritance, + By carefull'st nurture still refined. + + Devotions, manners, hopes that were, + Ideals high, traditions fine, + Were felt to culminate in her, + The efflorescence of her line. + + What time and cost conspired to trace + Her lineaments of perfect grace! + + + + + IN WAREHOUSE AND OFFICE. + + How can the man whose uneventful days, + Each like the other, are obscurely spent + Amid the mill's dead products, keep his gaze + Upon a lofty goal serenely bent? + Or he who sedulously tells and groups + Their minted shadows with deft finger-tips? + Or who above the shadow's shadow stoops, + And dips his pen and writes, and writes and dips? + + How can he? Yet some such have been and are, + Prophets and seers in deed, if not in word, + And poets of a faery land afar, + By incommunicable music stirred; + Feasting the soul apart with what it craves, + Their occupation's masters, not its slaves. + + + + + H. M. S. "DREADNOUGHT." + + Titanic craft of many thousand tons, + A smaller Britain free to come and go, + Relying on thy ten terrific guns + To daunt afar the most presumptuous foe; + Thick-panoplied with plates of hardened steel, + Equipped with all the engin'ry of death, + Unrivalled swiftness in thy massive keel, + Annihilation latent in thy breath. + + "Dreadnought" thy name. And yet, for all thy size + And strength, the ocean might engulf thy prow, + Or the swift red torpedo of the skies, + The lightning, blast thy boast-emblazoned brow; + Thou hast thy use, but Britain's sons were wise + To put their trust in better things than thou. + + + + + THE REVOLUTION IN RUSSIA. + + From Lapland to the land of Tamerlane, + Kamchatka to the confines of the Turk, + The spirit tyrants never can restrain + When once awake is mightily at work. + Liberty, frantic with a fearful hope, + Out of long darkness suddenly arisen, + Maddens the dull half-human herds who grope + And rend the bars of their ancestral prison. + + Over the wan lone steppe her couriers speed, + The secret forest echoes her command, + She smites the sword that made her children bleed, + And Death and Havoc hold the famished land. + But God overrules, and oft man's greatest good + Is won through nights of dread and days of blood. + + + + + TEA'S APOLOGIA. + + Loved by a host from Noah's days till now, + Extolled by bards in many a glowing line, + My purple rival of the mantling brow + May laugh to scorn this swarthy face of mine. + I care not: many a weary pain I cure; + Cold, heat and thirst I harmlessly abate; + I bless the weak, the aged and the poor; + And I have known the favor of the great. + + I've cheered the minds of mighty poets gone; + Philosophers have owned my solace true; + Shy Cowper was my sweet Anacreon; + Keen Hazlitt craved "whole goblets" of my brew; + De Quincey praised my stimulating draught; + What cups of me old Doctor Johnson quaffed! + + + + + A WISH. + + When my time comes to quit this pleasing scene, + And drop from out the busy life of men; + When I shall cease to be where I have been + So willingly, and ne'er may be again; + When my abandoned tabernacle's dust + With dust is laid, and I am counted dead; + Ere I am quite forgotten, as I must + Be in a little while, let this be said: + + He loved this good God's world, the night and day, + Men, women, children (these he loved the best); + Pictures and books he loved, and work and play, + Music and silence, soberness and jest; + His mind was open, and his heart was gay; + Green be his grave, and peaceful be his rest! + + + + + ALONE WITH NATURE. + + The rain came suddenly, and to the shore + I paddled, and took refuge in the wood, + And, leaning on my paddle, there I stood + In mild contentment watching the downpour, + Feeling as oft I have felt heretofore, + Rooted in nature, that supremest mood + When all the strength, the peace, of solitude, + Sink into and pervade the being's core. + + And I have thought, if man could but abate + His need of human fellowship, and find + Himself through Nature, healing with her balm + The world's sharp wounds, and growing in her state, + What might and greatness, majesty of mind, + Sublimity of soul and Godlike calm! + + + + + THE WORKS OF MAN AND OF NATURE. + + Man's works grow stale to man: the years destroy + The charm they once possessed; the city tires; + The terraces, the domes, the dazzling spires + Are in the main but an attractive toy-- + They please the man not as they pleased the boy; + And he returns to Nature, and requires + To warm his soul at her old altar fires, + To drink from her perpetual fount of joy. + + It is that man and all the works of man + Prepare to pass away; he may depend + On naught but what he found her stores among; + But she, she changes not, nor ever can; + He knows she will be faithful to the end, + For ever beautiful, for ever young. + + + + + A DAY REDEEMED. + + I rose, and idly sauntered to the pane, + And on the March-bleak mountain bent my look; + And standing there a sad review I took + Of what the day had brought me. What the gain + To Wisdom's store? What holds had Knowledge ta'en? + I mused upon the lightly-handled book, + The erring thought, and felt a stern rebuke: + "Alas, alas! the day hath been in vain!" + + But as I gazed upon the upper blue, + With many a twining jasper ridge up-ploughed, + Sudden, up-soaring, swung upon my view + A molten, rolling, sunset-laden cloud: + My spirit stood, and caught its glorious hue-- + "Not lost the day!" it, leaping, cried aloud. + + + + + OUTREMONT. + + Far stretched the landscape, fair, without a flaw, + Down to one silver sheet, some stream or cloud, + Through glamorous mists. Midway, an engine ploughed + Across the scene. In meditative awe + I stood and gazed, absorbed in what I saw, + Till sweet-breathed Evening came, the pensive-browed, + And creeping from the city, spread her shroud + Over the sunlit slopes of Outremont. + + Soon the mild Indian summer will be past, + November's mists soon flee December's snows; + The trees may perish, and the winter's blast + Wreck the tall windmills; these weak eyes may close; + But ever will that scene continue fast + Fixed in my soul, where richer still it grows. + + + + + THE NEW OLD STORY. + + Hard by an ancient mansion stood an oak; + For centuries, 'twas said, it had been there: + The old towers crumbled 'neath decay's slow stroke, + While, hall by hall, upgrew a palace fair; + Lives and momentous eras waxed and waned, + Old barons died, and barons young and gay + Ruled in their stead, and still the oak remained, + And each new spring seemed older not a day. + + The vesture of the spirit of mankind,-- + Forms and beliefs, like meteors, rise and set; + The spirit too doth change; but o'er the mind + This old Evangel holds young lordship yet; + And here among Canadian snows we bring + Each Christmastide our tribute to the King. + + + + + RECREATION. + + Give me a cottage embower'd in trees, + Far from the press and the din of the town; + There let me loiter and live at my ease, + Happier far than the King with his crown. + + There let the music that's sweeter than words + Waken my soul's inarticulate song, + Murmur of zephyrs and warbling of birds, + Babble of waters that hurry along. + + Under the shade of the maple and beech + Let me in tranquil contentment recline, + Learning what nature and solitude teach, + Charming philosophy, human, divine; + + Finding how trivial the myriad things + Life is concern'd with, to seek or to shun; + Seeing the sources whence blessedness springs, + Gathering strength for the work to be done. + + + + + PAESTUM. + + Paestum, your temples and your streets + Have been restored to view; + Your fadeless Grecian beauty greets + The eyes of men anew. + + But where are all your roses now-- + Those wonderful delights + That made such garlands for the brow + Of your fair Sybarites? + + They in your time were more renown'd, + And dearer to your heart, + Than these fine works which mark the bound + And highest reach of art. + + We'd see you as you look'd of old; + Though column, arch and wall + Were worth a kingdom to behold, + One rose would shame them all. + + + + + RONDEAU: AN APRIL DAY. + + An April day, when skies are blue, + And earth rejoices to renew + Her vernal youth by lawn and lea, + And sap mounts upward in the tree, + And ruddy buds come bursting through; + + When violets of tender hue + And trilliums keep the morning dew + Through all the sweet forenoon--give me + An April day; + + When surly Winter's roystering crew + Have said the last of their adieux, + And left the fettered river free, + And buoyant hope and ecstasy + Of life awake, my wants are few-- + An April day. + + + + + AUTUMN. + + The Year, an aged holy priest, + In gorgeous vestments clad, + Now celebrates the solemn feast + Of Autumn, sweet and sad. + + The Sun, a contrite thurifer + After his garish days, + Through lessening arch, a wavy blur, + His burnish'd censer sways. + + The Earth,--an altar all afire + Her hecatombs to claim, + Shoots upward many a golden spire + And crimson tongue of flame. + + Like Jethro's shepherd, when he turn'd + In Midian's land to view + The bush that unconsuming burn'd, + I pause--and worship, too. + + + + + MY TWO BOYS. + + To some the heavenly Father good + Has given raiment rich and fine, + And tables spread with dainty food, + And jewels rare that brightly shine. + + To some He's given gold that buys + Immunity from petty care, + Freedom and leisure and the prize + Of pleasing books and pictures fair. + + To some He's given wide domains + And high estate and tranquil ease, + And homes where all refinement reigns + And everything combines to please. + + To some He's given minds to know + The what and how, the where and when; + To some, a genius that can throw + A light upon the hearts of men. + + To some He's given fortunes free + From sorrows and replete with joys; + To some, a thousand friends; to me + He's given my two little boys. + + + + + MY OLD CLASSICAL MASTER. + + Ever hail'd with delight when my memory strays + O'er the various scenes of my juvenile days, + Do you mind if I sing a poor song in your praise, + My jolly old classical master? + + You were kind--over-lenient, 'twas rumor'd, to rule-- + And so learn'd, though the blithest of all in the school, + 'Twas your pupil's own fault if he left you a fool, + My jolly old classical master. + + "Polumetis Odusseus" you brought back to life, + "Xanthos Menelaos" recalled to the strife: + You knew more about Homer than Homer's own wife, + My jolly old classical master. + + You could sever each classical Gordian knot, + Each "crux criticorum" explain on the spot; + We preferr'd your opinion to Liddell and Scott, + My jolly old classical master. + + To you "Arma virumque," "All Gaul" and the rest + Were a snap of the fingers, a plaything, a jest, + Even Horace mere English--you lik'd Horace best, + My jolly old classical master. + + We esteemed you a marvel in Latin and Greek, + An Erasmus, a Bentley, a Person, a freak; + And for all sorts of knowledge we held you unique, + My jolly old classical master. + + You brought forth from your treasury things new and old, + Philosophical gems, oratorical gold; + And how many a capital story you told, + My jolly old classical master! + + Your devotion to learning, whole-hearted and pure, + Your fine critical relish of literature, + And your gay disposition, had charms to allure, + My jolly old classical master. + + Here's a health to you, sir, from a thousand old boys, + Who once plagu'd you with nonsense and tried you with noise, + But who learn'd from you, lov'd you, and wish you all joys, + My jolly old classical master. + + May your mien be still jovial, your mind be still bright, + May your wit be still sprightly, your heart be still light, + And long, long may it be ere your spirit takes flight, + My jolly old classical master. + + + + + THE GOLD-MINERS OF BRITISH COLUMBIA. + + They come not from the sunny, sunny south, + Nor from the Arctic region, + Nor from the east, the busy, busy east, + The where man's name is legion; + But they come from the west, the rugged, rugged west, + From the world's remotest edges; + And their pockets they are filled with the yellow, yellow gold + That they mined in the mountain ledges. + + CHORUS-- + + Then, hey, lads, hey, for the mining man so bold, + Who comes from the world's far edges! + And hey for the gold, the yellow, yellow gold, + That is stored in the mountain ledges! + + They basked not, they, in balmy tropic shade, + 'Neath orange tree and banyan; + But braved the bush, the torrent and the steep, + By gorge and gulch and canyon. + They would not be held back in cities over desks, + Or among the homestead hedges; + So their pockets now are filled with the yellow, yellow gold + That they mined in the mountain ledges. + + They left their homes, their loved ones all behind, + Forsook kind friend and neighbor, + And went to seek the thing of greatest worth, + For gold, rare gold, to labor. + Oh! they bled the old earth--they opened up her veins + With their picks and drills and sledges; + And their pockets now are filled with the yellow, yellow gold + That they mined in the mountain ledges. + + + + + WAR-SHIPS IN PORT. + + The tread of armèd mariners is in our streets to-day, + An Empire's pulse is beating in the march of this array. + From western woods, and Celtic hills, and homely Saxon shires, + They sailed beneath the "meteor flag," the emblem of our sires; + And for the glory that has been, the pride that yet may be, + We hail them in the sacred names of home and liberty, + And know that not on sea or land more dauntless hearts there are + Than the hearts of these bold seamen from the English men-of-war. + + Trafalgar's fame-crowned hero stands, encarved in storied stone, + And from his place of honor looks in silence and alone: + But no, to-day his spirit lives, and walks the crowded way; + For us Drake, Hawkins, Frobisher and Howard live to-day; + For us from many a page of eld, 'mid war and tempest blast, + A thousand thousand valiant forms come trooping from the past, + And say, "Forget not us to-day, we have a part with these, + The 'sea-dogs' of old England, the 'Mistress of the Seas.'" + + No, no, ye gruff old heroes, ye can never be forgot; + The memory of your prowess will outlive the storm, the shot + Destruction pours impartially on common and sublime, + And scorn the volleying years that mount the battery of time; + For far above this tide of war your worth is written clear + On fame's bright rock of adamant, imperishable here; + Your names may be recorded not, your graves be 'neath the keel, + But many a million English hearts some love for you shall feel. + + Five grim old ocean-buffeters, stern ploughshares of the deep, + Have come to visit us of those whose duty 'tis to keep, + With the old lion's courage and the young eagle's ken, + Their sleepless watch upon the sea that skirts this world of men: + And if again in stately pride their lordly forms they bear + Upon the ample bosom of our noble stream, whene'er + From massive prow impregnable their peaceful anchor falls, + We'll hail old England's hearts of steel who man her iron walls. + + + + + ON FINDING A COPY OF BURNS'S POEMS IN + THE HOUSE OF AN ONTARIO FARMER. + + Large Book, with heavy covers worn and old, + Bearing clear proof of usage and of years, + Thine edges yellow with their faded gold, + Thy leaves with fingers stained--perchance with tears; + + How oft thy venerable page has felt + The hardened hands of honorable toil! + How oft thy simple song had power to melt + The hearts of the rude tillers of the soil! + + How oft has fancy borne them back to see + The Scottish peasant at his work, and thou + Hast made them feel the grandeur of the free + And independent follower of the plough! + + What careth he that his proud name hath peal'd + From shore to shore since his new race began, + In humble cot and "histie stibble field" + Who doth "preserve the dignity of man"? + + With reverent hands I lay aside the tome, + And to my longing heart content returns, + And in the stranger's house I am at home, + For thou dost make us brothers, Robert Burns. + + And thou, old Book, go down from sire to son; + Repeat the pathos of the poet's life; + Sing the sweet song of him who fought and won + The outward struggle and the inward strife. + + Go down, grand Book, from hoary sire to son; + Keep by the Book of books thy wonted place; + Tell what a son of man hath felt and done, + And make of us and ours a noble race,-- + + A race to scorn the sordid greed of gold, + To spurn the spurious and contemn the base, + Despise the shams that may be bought and sold,-- + A race of brothers and of men,--a race + + To usher in the long-expected time + Good men have sought and prophets have foretold, + When this bright world shall be the happy clime + Of brotherhood and peace, when men shall mould + + Their lives like His who walked in Palestine; + The truly human manhood thou dost show, + Leading them upward to the pure divine + Nature of God made manifest below. + + + + + THE IDEAL PREACHER. + + It was back in Renfrew County, near the Opeongo line, + Where the land's all hills and hollows and the hills are clothed + with pine, + And in the wooded valleys little lakes shine here and there + Like jewels in the masses of a lovely woman's hair; + Where the York branch, by a channel ripped through rugged rocks + and sand, + Sweeps to join the Madawaska, speeding downward to the Grand; + Where the landscape glows with beauty, like a halo shed abroad, + And the face of nature mirrors back the unseen face of God. + + I was weary with my journey, and with difficulty strove + To keep myself awake at first, as, sitting by the stove + In old William Rankin's shanty, I attended as I might + To the pioneer backwoodsman's tales far on into the night; + But William talked until the need of sleep one quite forgot, + Not stopping but to stir the fire, which kept the stove red-hot; + For the wind was raw and cold without, although the month of May: + Up north the winter struggles hard before it yields its sway; + And the snow is in the forests, and the ice is in the lakes, + And the frost is in the seedland oft when sunny June awakes. + + He talked of camps in winter time, of river drives in spring, + Of discords in the settlement,--in fact, of everything; + He told of one good elder who'd been eaten by a bear, + And wondered that a beast of prey should eat a man of pray'r; + Of beast, from wolf to porcupine, killed with gun, axe and fork, + And, finally, of college men who did not pine for pork. + "But yet among them students," said the bushman, "there wuz one + As hit me an' the settlement as fair as any gun. + + "O' course, he wa'nt no buster, hed no shinin' gifts o' speech; + But jis' as reg'lar he could give some pointers how to preach. + He talked straight on like tellin' yarns--more heart, I'd say, 'an head; + But somehow people felt he meant 'bout every word he said. + He wa'n't chuck full o' larnin' from the peelin' to the core;-- + Leastwise, he wa'n't the kind they call a college batch-o'-lore; + He'd no degree, the schoolma'am said,--though soon he let 'em see + That o' certain sterlin' qualities he had a great degree,-- + Leastwise he hed no letters till the hind end o' his name,-- + But, preacher, say, you don't set much importance by them same?-- + Y' may hev titles o' y'r own, an' think I'm speakin' bold; + But there's that bob-tailed nag o' mine, the chestnut three-year-old; + It's true she can't make such a swish, to scare away the flies, + But if y'd see her cover ground, y'd scarce believe y'r eyes. + + "O' course, he hed his enemies,--you preachers alluz hez,-- + But 'twa'n't no use their tellin' us he wa'n't the stuff, I gez; + An' after while they closed right up an' looked like,--it wuz fun,-- + When they seed the way he 'sisted out ol' Game-leg Templeton. + O' course, y' knows ol' Templeton,--twuz him as druv y' in; + Y' noticed, maybe, how he limped, and sort o' saved his shin. + He's run the mail through fair and foul 'tween this and Cumbermere, + And faithful served Her Majesty fur nigh on twenty year. + + "The preacher stayed with Templeton, the same's you're stay'n' with me, + On a new clearance back o' this, which, course, y' didn't see. + An' one day on a visit tour the chap wuz startin' out + In the way o' Little Carlow,--twuz good twelve mile round about,-- + An' in the bush he'd lose hisself, as everybody knowed: + 'I'll take the axe,' says Templeton, 'an' go an' blaze a road. + It's only three mile through the bush.' An' so they started in, + Quite happy like,--men never knows when troubles will begin. + 'Bout noon,--the folks was in the house a eatin' o' their snack,-- + The chap comes home with Templeton a-hangin' on his back. + + "The call wuz close fur Templeton, who'd somehow missed his stroke; + He alluz swung a heavy blow, an' the bone wuz well-nigh broke; + An' wust of all, 'twuz two whole days afore the doctor came; + He was up the Long Lake section, seein'--what's that fellow's name?-- + Well, never mind.--An' when he did examine of the wound, + He said 'twould take all summer fur the man to git around. + + "Well, what y' think thet preacher done, but turn right out an' mow + The meadow down an' put it in, and th' harvest, too, although + The ol' man worried and complained as how he'd orter stop; + An' there wa'nt no binders in them days, and work wuz work, sure pop. + + "Well, when the people heerd about the way that preacher done, + All on 'em growed religious straight, sir, every mother's son; + The meetin'-house wuz crowded from the pulpit to the door-- + Some on 'em hadn't showed face there fur twenty year or more; + An' them as sot out on the fence an' gossiped all the while, + Jis' brought the fence planks in and sot down on 'em in the aisle, + An' listened,--sir, no orator as ever spoke aloud + Worked on his audience the way as that chap on our crowd. + + We aint no shakes o' people; we aint up to nothin' new; + But we knows a man what's shammin' and we knows a man what's true. + An' when we heerd that preacher talk 'bout Christian sacrifice + And bearin' burdens for the weak, we valued his advice; + An' we showed it--there wuz nothin' as we thought too good for him; + We poured our cup o' gratitude an' filled it to the brim. + + "He aint been near so fort'nate 'n the city where he's went; + Some folks as didn't like him set them sticklers on his scent; + An' the presbytery giv him fits fur trimmin' of his lamp + The way it shined the brightest, an' he jined another camp. + But most men,--leastwise such as him,--I take it, fur my part, + Aint got much devil in their brains when God is in their heart; + An' I'll allow it yet, although they puts me in the stocks, + That religion what is practical's sufficient orthodox. + + "Well, thet's the finest preacher as hez struck back here to spout, + An' there never wuz another we cared very much about. + I've heerd o' Beecher's meetings an' such men as John B. Gough; + But fourteen waggon loads druv down to see that preacher off. + We sent him back to college with a fresh supply o' socks,-- + Nigh everything a student needs wuz jammed intill that box; + An', preacher, spite of what yourself with all your parts may feel, + Fur me an' Game-leg Templeton that man is our ideel." + + + + + THE WHEEL OF MISFORTUNE. + + O m'sieu, doan you hask me ma story, doan hask me how dis was happenn; + Dat's one beeg black hole on ma life, w'ere I doan want to look on + some more.... + Well, he's coom joos' so well for to tole you, all tak' beet tabac + firs' and den + A'll tole you what cep' to de pries' a have nevare tole no one before. + + Bien, M'sieu; he's come pass joos like dis way; a go out wit' de boys + to make lark; + Dare was Armand and Joseph and Louiee, an' we drink on de deefront + saloon. + An' we feenish in plac' wit' de music, like one of dose garden or park, + W'ere he's play dose curse wheel for de monee--in Hingleesh dat's wheel + of fortune. + + He was Saturday night on de week, M'sieu, an' a have ma week's pay on + my bourse, + Wit'out w'at we pay for de whiskey--'bout one dollar feefty or less; + An' a'm t'ink a can win me lots monee, and eef a doan win some, of + coorse, + A can stop 'fore a lose much, a tell me, but a've pooty beeg hope + for success. + + Well, Louiee, he's be careful, risk notting, he's laugh w'en a'm buy + some paddell, + Armand he's buy some for obligement, he's not half so careful's Louiee. + An' we play dare teel half pas' eleven, an' de meantime she's go + pooty well, + Teel Armand he's lose all she's monee, an' shortly 's de same ting + wit' me. + + But Louiee he's got plaintee of monee, an' he's got plaintee fr'en' + on de plac', + An' a'm hask heem for lend me ten dollar, a'm pay wit' good interes', + be sure; + He'll tol me he's got more as feefty an' he's give me plusieurs jours + de grace, + For Louiee he was know a was hones' for all a was poor of de poor. + + Well, I not was require all dat monee teel de wheel she was tak' few + more whirl, + For a keep on to lose pooty steady, and Armand he say, "Doan play + some more," + But Louiee he say, "Win yet posseeble," and Joseph he was off wit' + his girl, + An' de croupier say, "Bettre luck nex' time, dare is good luck an' + bad luck in store." + + And de wheel she was turn on de peevot and shine in de light electrique, + She seem like beeg star to be turning, an' sing tune like she doan + care notting; + But she turn like de pool on de river dat's tak' everyt'ing down + pooty queek, + An' she shine like de snake w'en he's body is roll' up--de snake + wit' de sting. + + An' a'm play teel a lose all dat monee, an' de wicked roulette she + go roun', + An' a'm play also feefty more dollar, an' ma head she commence for + to reel; + An' oh, M'sieu, de hard time dat was follow teel a lay ma good wife + in de groun', + An' hoffen a hask me forgiveness, as dare by dat grave a go kneel. + + + + + TIM O'GALLAGHER. + + My name is Tim O'Gallagher,--there's Oirish in that same; + My parients from the Imerald Oisle beyant the ocean came; + My father came from Donegal, my mother came from Clare; + But oi was born in Pontiac, besoide the Belle Rivière. + Oi spint my choildhood tamin' bears, and fellin' timber trays, + And catchin' salmon tin fate long--and doin' what oi plaze. + Oi got my iddication from the Riverind Father Blake; + He taught me Latin grammar, and he after taught me Grake, + Till oi could rade the classics in a distint sort of way-- + 'Twas the sadetoime of the harvist that oi'm rapin' ivery day. + + My parients thought me monsthrous shmart--of thim 'twas awful koind, + And where oi'd go to college now was what perplixed their moind; + So they axed the Riverind Father Blake what varsity was bist + To make a docthor, bachelor and lawyer and the rist. + Said Father Blake, "If oi must make decision, faith! oi will: + Sure, sind the boy to Munthreal, there's none loike Ould McGill." + + So oi came to Munthreal and found McGill one afternoon, + And saw a great excoited crowd all shoutin' out of tune; + And in the cintre thorty min was foightin' jist loike mad, + And two big fellows on the top of one poor little lad. + Oi turned indignant to the crowd, and tould them to their face: + "Ye pack of coward savages, onciviloized and base, + To stand and see two stalwart min abusin' one that way! + Oi loike a gladiatorial show, but loike to see fair play." + So oi jumped at those two bullies and oi caught thim by the shirt, + And oi knocked their hids together and consoigned thim to the dirt. + Oi was removed and they were carried home, but all the same, + Though Ould McGill was two min short, she won that football game. + They thought oi was a tough gussoon, and whin they played agin, + They put me in the scrimmage--we got thorty-foive to tin. + + Oi thin wint up to college whin the lictures would begin; + Oi attinded ivery licture--when oi happened to be in; + Got my work up, kipt my note-books in the illigantist shape; + Oi took notes of ivery licture--barrin' whin oi was ashlape. + But, och! oi try to do my bist, for sure it's Father Blake + As says the foinist faculty is Arts, and no mistake; + For there they tache philosophy and English literature, + The mathematics also, and the classic authors, sure. + Oi larned the Gracian poethry, oi larned the Latin prose; + Oi know as much about thim both as my profissor knows: + How Troy, that had for noine long years defoied the Graycian force, + Was "hors de combat" put at last by jist a wooden horse; + How Xerxes wipt because his army soon would pass away, + And Alexander wipt because there were no more to shlay; + How Cato from his toga plucked the Carthaginian fruit; + How Brutus murdered Saysar, and how Saysar called him "Brute." + + Oi'd the honor of a mornin' with an influential Med, + And he took me to the room in which they mutilate the dead. + Oi don't objict to crack a skull or spoil a purty face, + But to hack a man who's dead is what oi called extramely base. + But all pursonal convictions, he explained, should be resoigned + For the binifit of scoience and the good of humankoind; + And though oi don't at all admoire their ways o' goin' on, + Oi'll take a course in Medicine, oi will, before oi'm gone. + + Oi saw the Scoience workshops, too, and thought whin oi was made, + These little hands were niver mint to larn the blacksmith trade; + And for that illictricity, the thing what gives the shock, + They collared old Promaytheus and chained him to a rock + For a-playin' with the loightnin' and a-raychin to the skoies, + And the vultures gnawed his vittles, and the crows picked out his oyes. + But toimes has changed, and larnin' gives us power--don't you see?-- + And whin oi'm done with Arts oi'll take that shplindid faculty; + For, sure, it's from their workshops that the solar system's run; + Besoides, they make the wither, too, and rigilate the sun. + + Oi troied exams at Christmas, and oi didn't pass at all; + But oi can have another whack at thim nixt spring and fall. + In toime oi'll pass in iverything, and masther all they taiche; + Oi'll go through ivery faculty, and come out hid in aiche. + And whin oi've conquered all, loike Alexander oi will soigh + There is no more to conquer, and oi'll lay me down and doie. + They'll birry me with honors, and erict in my behalf + A monimint which shall disphlay the followin' epitaph: + + "Here loies shwate Tim O'Gallagher,--sure he had wits to shpare,-- + His father came from Donegal, his mother came from Clare. + He was a shplindid scholar, for he studied at McGill; + He drank the well of larnin' dhroy (and, faith! he got his fill). + Was niver mortal craythur larned to such a great degree,-- + B.A.M.A.M.D.C.M.B.SC.LL.D." + + + + + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Sonnets and Other Verse, by W. 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M. MacKeracher +</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.t1 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 200%; + text-align: center } + +P.t2 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 150%; + text-align: center } + +P.t3 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 100%; + text-align: center } + +P.t4 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 80%; + text-align: center } + +P.t5 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 50%; + text-align: center } + +P.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; } + +P.letter {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +P.footnote {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 80%; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +P.intro {text-indent: 4% ; + font-size: 85%; + 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 Sonnets and Other Verse, by W. M. MacKeracher + +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: Sonnets and Other Verse + +Author: W. M. MacKeracher + +Release Date: September 9, 2011 [EBook #37365] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONNETS AND OTHER VERSE *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + +</pre> + + +<BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="t1"> +SONNETS +</P> + +<P CLASS="t2"> +AND OTHER VERSE +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +BY +</P> + +<P CLASS="t2"> +W. M. MacKERACHER +</P> + +<P CLASS="t4"> +Author of "Canada, My Land" +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="t4"> +TORONTO +<BR> +WILLIAM BRIGGS +<BR> +1909 +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="t4"> +Copyright, Canada, 1909, by +<BR> +W. M. MacKERACHER. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="t2"> +CONTENTS.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent" STYLE="margin-left: 10%"> +<A HREF="#p5">The Old and The New</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p6">How Many a Man!</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p7">The Saddest Thought</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p8">The House-Hunter</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p9">On Moving Into a New House</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p10">Literature</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p11">A Library</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p12">On Charles Lamb's Sonnet, "Work."</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p13">Work</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p14">The Joy of Creation</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p15">Adam</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p16">A Shallow Stream</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p17">A Faithful Preacher</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p18">A Wish Rebuked</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p19">The Sabbath</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p20">Milton</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p21">The Three Hundredth Anniversary of Milton's Birth</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p22">Burns</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p23">A Late Spring</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p24">Autumn</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p25">An Autumn Walk</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p26">November</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p27">November Sunshine</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p28">Short Days</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p29">The Beginning of Winter</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p30">The Winter and the Wilderness</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p31">The Immigrants</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p32">Wolfe</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p33">Montcalm</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p34">The Coming of Champlain</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p35">The Montagnais at Tadoussac</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p36">Champlain's First Winter and Spring in Quebec</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p38">Idleness</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p39">Success</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p40">The Exclusion of Asiatics</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p41">The People's Response to Heroism</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p42">An Aristocrat</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p43">In Warehouse and Office</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p44">H.M.S. "Dreadnought"</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p45">The Revolution in Russia</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p46">Tea's Apologia</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p47">A Wish</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p48">Alone with Nature</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p49">The Works of Man and the Works of Nature</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p50">A Day Redeemed</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p51">Outremont</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p52">The New Old Story</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p53">Recreation</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p54">Paestum</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p55">Rondeau: An April Day</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p56">Autumn</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p57">My Two Boys</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p58">My Old Classical Master</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p60">The Gold-Miners of British Columbia</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p62">War-ships in Port</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p64">On Finding a Copy of Burns's Poems in the House of an Ontario Farmer</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p66">The Ideal Preacher</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p73">The Wheel of Misfortune</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p76">Tim O'Gallagher</A><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p5"></A> + +<P CLASS="t2"> + SONNETS AND OTHER VERSE. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +THE OLD AND THE NEW.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Scorn not the Old; 'twas sacred in its day,<BR> + A truth overpowering error with its might,<BR> +A light dispelling darkness with its ray,<BR> + A victory won, an intermediate height,<BR> +Which seers untrammel'd by their creeds of yore,<BR> + Heroes and saints, triumphantly attained<BR> +With hard assail and tribulation sore,<BR> + That we might use the vantage-ground they gain'd.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Scorn not the Old; but hail and seize the New<BR> + With thrill'd intelligences, hearts that burn,<BR> +And such truth-seeking spirits that it, too,<BR> + May soon be superseded in its turn,<BR> +And men may ever, as the ages roll,<BR> +March onward toward the still receding goal.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p6"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +HOW MANY A MAN!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +How many a man of those I see around<BR> + Has cherished fair ideals in his youth,<BR> +And heard the spirit's call, and stood spellbound<BR> + Before the shrine of Beauty or of Truth,<BR> +And lived to see his fair ideals fade,<BR> + And feel a numbness creep upon his soul,<BR> +And sadly know himself no longer swayed<BR> + By rigorous Truth or Beauty's sweet control!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +For some, alas! life's thread is almost spun;<BR> + Few, few and poor, the fibres that remain;<BR> +But yet, while life lasts, something may be done<BR> + To make the heavenly vision not in vain;<BR> +Yet, even yet, some triumph may be won,<BR> + Yea, loss itself be turned to precious gain.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p7"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +THE SADDEST THOUGHT.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Sad is the wane of beauty to the fair,<BR> + Sad is the flux of fortune to the proud,<BR> +Sad is the look dejected lovers wear,<BR> + And sad is worth beneath detraction's cloud.<BR> +Sad is our youth's inexorable end,<BR> + Sad is the bankruptcy of fancy's wealth,<BR> +Sad is the last departure of a friend,<BR> + And sadder than most things is loss of health.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And yet more sad than these to think upon<BR> + Is this—the saddest thought beneath the sun—<BR> +Life, flowing like a river, almost gone<BR> + Into eternity, and nothing done.<BR> +Let me be spared that bootless last regret:<BR> +Let me work now; I may do something yet.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p8"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +THE HOUSE-HUNTER.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +As one who finds his house no longer fit,<BR> + Too narrow for his needs, in nothing right,<BR> +Wanting in every homelike requisite,<BR> + Devoid of beauty, barren of delight,<BR> +Goes forth from door to door and street to street,<BR> + With eager-eyed expectancy to find<BR> +A new abode for his convenience meet,<BR> + Spacious, commodious, fair, and to his mind;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +So living souls recurrently outgrow<BR> + Their mental tenements; their tastes appear<BR> +Too sordid, and their aims too cramped and low.<BR> + And they keep moving onward year by year,<BR> +Each dwelling in its turn prepared to leave<BR> +For one more like the mansion they conceive.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p9"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +ON MOVING INTO A NEW HOUSE.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Heaven bless this new abode; defend its doors<BR> + Against the entry of malignant sprites—<BR> + Gaunt Poverty, pale Sickness, Care that blights;<BR> +And o'er its thresholds, like the enchanted shores<BR> +Of faery isles, serene amid the roars<BR> + Of baffled seas, let in all fair delights<BR> + (Such as make happy days and restful nights)<BR> +To tread familiarly its charmèd floors.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Within its walls let moderate Plenty reign,<BR> + And gracious Industry, and cheerful Health:<BR> + Plenish its chambers with Contentment's wealth,<BR> +Nor let high Joy its humble roof disdain;<BR> + Here let us make renewal of Love's lease,<BR> + And dwell with Piety, who dwells with Peace.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p10"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +LITERATURE.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Here is a banquet-table of delights,<BR> + A sumptuous feast of true ambrosial food;<BR> +Here is a journey among goodly sights,<BR> + In choice society or solitude;<BR> +Here is a treasury of gems and gold—<BR> + Of purest gold and gems of brightest sheen;<BR> +Here is a landscape gloriously unroll'd,<BR> + Of heights sublime and pleasant vales between.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Here is the realm of Thought, diverse and wide,<BR> + To Genius and her sovereign sons assign'd;<BR> +The universal church, o'er which preside<BR> + The heaven-anointed hierarchy of mind<BR> +And spirit; the imperishable pride<BR> + And testament and promise of mankind.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p11"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +A LIBRARY.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +As one, who, from an antechamber dim,<BR> + Is ushered suddenly to his surprise<BR> + Before a gathering of the great and wise,<BR> +Feels for the moment all his senses swim,<BR> +Then looks around him like a veteran grim<BR> + When peerless armies pass before his eyes,<BR> + Or Michael when he marshals in the skies<BR> +The embattled legions of the cherubim;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +So shall the scholar pause within this door<BR> + With startled reverence, and proudly stand,<BR> + And feel that though the ages' flags are furled<BR> +By Time's rude breath, their spoils are here in store,<BR> + The riches of the race are at his hand,<BR> + And well-nigh all the glory of the world.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p12"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +ON CHARLES LAMB'S SONNET, "WORK."<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"Who first invented work?" asks Elia, he<BR> + Whose life to an ungenial task was wed,<BR> +And answers, "Satan"; but it could not be—<BR> + On idleness his foul ambition fed;<BR> +By idleness the heavenly domiciles<BR> + Were lost to him and all his idle crew;<BR> +In idleness he hatches all his wiles,<BR> + And mischief finds for idle hands to do.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +His business ever was to scamp and shirk,<BR> + And scout the task that too ignoble seemed,<BR> +And in snug corners serpentlike to lurk<BR> + Where no one of his presence ever dreamed;<BR> +He never knew the zest of honest work,<BR> + Nor ever shall, or he would be redeemed.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p13"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +WORK.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Not to the Arch-Idler be the honor given<BR> + Of first inventing work, but to his Lord,<BR> +Who made the light, the firmament of heaven,<BR> + And sun and moon and planets in accord,<BR> +The land and cattle on it, and the sea<BR> + And fish therein, and flying fowl in air,<BR> +And grass and herb and fair fruit-yielding tree,<BR> + And man, His own similitude to wear;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Whose works are old and yet for ever new,<BR> + Who all sustains with providential sway,<BR> +Whose Son, "My Father worketh hitherto<BR> + And I work," said, and ere He went away,<BR> +"Finished the work thou gavest me to do,"<BR> + And unto us, "Work ye while it is day."<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p14"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +THE JOY OF CREATION.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +How must have thrilled the great Creator's mind<BR> + With radiant, glad and satisfying joy,<BR> +Ever new self-expressive forms to find<BR> + In those six days of rapturous employ!<BR> +How must He have delighted when He made<BR> + The stars, and meted ocean with His span,<BR> +And formed the insect and the tender blade,<BR> + And fashioned, after His own image, man!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And unto man such joy in his degree<BR> + He hath appointed, work of mind and hand,<BR> +To mould in forms of useful symmetry<BR> + Words, hues, wood, iron, stone, at his command<BR> +To toil upon the navigable sea<BR> + And ply his industry upon the land.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p15"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +ADAM.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +God made him, like the angels, innocent,<BR> + And made a garden marvellously fair,<BR> +With arbors green, sun-kissed and dew-besprent,<BR> + And fruits and flowers whose fragrance filled the air;<BR> +Where rivers four meandered with delight,<BR> + And in the soil were gleaming treasures laid,<BR> +Good gold and bdellium and the onyx bright;<BR> + And set therein the man whom He had made;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And proved to him by sad experience<BR> + That not in bowers of indolence, supine<BR> +On beds of ease, could ev'n Omnipotence<BR> + Work out in man His last and best design;<BR> +And in great love and wisdom drove him thence,<BR> + And cursed him with a blessing most benign.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p16"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +A SHALLOW STREAM.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +There is a stream to northward, thinly spread<BR> + Over a shelving, many-fissured shale,<BR> +That brawls and blusters in its shallow bed,<BR> + And ends its course inglorious in a swale.<BR> +Its babble stirs the laughter of the hills;<BR> + The rooted mountains mock its fume and fret;<BR> +And all the summer long the idle mills<BR> + Wait wearily with water-wheel unwet.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Let us not waste our lives in froth and foam<BR> + And unavailing vanity of noise;<BR> +"Still waters deepest run"—the ancient gnome<BR> + Pricks well our sham, conceited bubble-toys;<BR> +Who serve best here in God's great halidome<BR> + Have volume, depth, serenity and poise.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p17"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +A FAITHFUL PREACHER.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Let no one say of Christ's Church, "Ichabod,"<BR> + Or deem her strength partaker of decay,<BR> + Or think her trumpet voices fail. To-day<BR> +I saw a man who was a man of God,<BR> +His feet with gospel preparation shod,<BR> + The Spirit's quick and mighty weapon sway;<BR> + I heard him faithfully point out the way,<BR> +To him familiar, which the Master trod.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Intrepid, patient follower of the Lord,<BR> + While such as thou, obedient to His call,<BR> + Living epistles, known and read of all,<BR> +Proclaim the wonders of His sacred Word,<BR> +No sound of lamentation should be heard,<BR> + No shade of apprehension should appal.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p18"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +A WISH REBUKED.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +If one could have a hundred years to live,<BR> + After the settlement of youth's unrest,<BR> +A hundred years of vigorous life to give<BR> + To the pursuit of what he counted best,<BR> +A hundred summers, autumns, winters, springs,<BR> + To train and use the forces of his mind,<BR> +He might fulfil his fond imaginings,<BR> + And lift himself and benefit his kind.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +O faint of heart, to whom this life appears<BR> + Too short for thy ambitious projects, He<BR> +Who plied His task in weakness and in tears<BR> + Along the countrysides of Galilee,<BR> +And blest the world for these two thousand years,<BR> + Did His incomparable work in three.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p19"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +THE SABBATH.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Who, careless, would behold a goodly tree<BR> + Or noble palace stricken to decay?<BR> +Who would drop precious jewels in the sea<BR> + Or cast rare heirlooms on the trodden way?<BR> +Who, but a prodigal in wantonness,<BR> + Would waste his patrimony for swine's food?<BR> +Who would his birthright sell for pottage-mess<BR> + But a dull, sensual Esau, blind to good?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Our tree o'ershadowing the sons of care,<BR> + Our palace welcoming the weary guest,<BR> +Our precious jewel and our heirloom rare,<BR> + Our birthright and our patrimony blest,<BR> +Art thou, to guard and keep for ever fair,<BR> + Sweet Christian Sabbath-day of joy and rest.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p20"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> + MILTON. +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Say not that England ever kingless was:<BR> + 'Twixt Charles and Charles two royal men appear,—<BR> +Cromwell, to give her health with arms and laws,<BR> + And Milton, thou, to speak out loud and clear<BR> +For freedom of man's conscience and the state,<BR> + For England and her deeds before the world,<BR> +And for the victims of religious hate<BR> + From Alpine summits pitilessly hurl'd.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Thou wast a Champion of Liberty:<BR> + In fair Italian cities thou had'st heard<BR> +Her voice upon the north wind summon thee,<BR> + And, like another Moses, had'st preferr'd<BR> +Affliction with thy brethren to the lure<BR> +Of beauty, art and cultur'd ease secure.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p21"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +THE THREE HUNDREDTH ANNIVERSARY OF MILTON'S BIRTH.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="t4"> +(December 9th, 1908.)<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="t4"> +"There was a man sent from God, whose name was John."<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Three hundred years have left their telltale rings<BR> + Upon the tree of Time since he appeared—<BR> + Milton (to be remembered and revered);<BR> +Whose spirit mounted on seraphic wings;<BR> +Who saw, though blind, extraordinary things;<BR> + Who wrought in obloquy, and persevered,<BR> + And, Orpheus-like, with his great music reared<BR> +A monument surpassing those of kings.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Three hundred years, courageous, lofty soul,<BR> + Hast thou by precept and example taught<BR> + Thy lesson. Have we learned it as we ought?<BR> +Have we moved upward, nearer to the goal?<BR> + Yea, somewhat have we learned; be with us still,<BR> + And teach us Man's high function to fulfil.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p22"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +BURNS.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +We read his life of poverty and bane,<BR> + From weakness, folly, error, not exempt,<BR> +And turn aside with a depressing pain—<BR> + Compassion tinged with something like contempt.<BR> +We read his work, and see his human heart,<BR> + His manly mind, his true, if thwarted, will,<BR> +And all that's noblest in us takes his part,<BR> + And shames our former verdict, will or nill.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +His was a fiery spirit that unbound<BR> + Men's fetters, sometimes leading him astray;<BR> +He was a seed that fell into the ground<BR> + And brought forth fruit; he cast himself away<BR> +Like bread upon the waters, and was found<BR> + To nourish worth in many an after day.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p23"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +A LATE SPRING.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Twelve weeks had passed—how slowly!—day by day,<BR> + Since formal, dull Sir Calendar had bowed<BR> +Old Winter from the scene, and cried, "Make way!<BR> + The Spring, the Spring!" and still a sullen cloud<BR> +Obscured the sky, and the north wind blew chill;<BR> + When lo, one morn the miracle began;<BR> +A Presence brooded over vale and hill,<BR> + And through all life a quickening impulse ran.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Long-hushed, forgotten melodies awoke<BR> + Within my soul; the rapture of the boy<BR> +Refilled me; o'er my arid being broke<BR> + A brimming tide of elemental joy<BR> +From primal deeps; and all my happy springs<BR> +Came back to me—I was the peer of kings!<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p24"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +AUTUMN.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +From shy expectancy to burgeoning,<BR> + From burgeoning to ripeness and decline,<BR> +The seasons run their various course and bring<BR> + Again at last the sober days benign.<BR> +And spring's pied garland, worn for Beauty's sake,<BR> + And summer's crown of pride, less fair appear<BR> +Than the subdued, enchanted tints that make<BR> + The aureole of the senescent year.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +So grows the good man old—meek, glad, sublime;<BR> + More lovely than in all his youthful bloom,<BR> +Grander than in the vigor of his prime,<BR> + He lights with radiance life's autumnal gloom,<BR> +And through the fading avenue of Time<BR> + Walks in triumphal glory to his tomb.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p25"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +AN AUTUMN WALK.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Adown the track that skirts the shallow stream<BR> + I wandered with blank mind; a bypath drew<BR> + My aimless steps aside, and, ere I knew,<BR> +The forest closed around me like a dream.<BR> +The gold-strewn sward, the horizontal gleam<BR> + Of the low sun, pouring its splendors through<BR> + The far-withdrawing vistas, filled the view,<BR> +And everlasting beauty was supreme.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I knew not past or future; 'twas a mood<BR> + Transcending time and taking in the whole.<BR> +I was both young and old; my lost childhood,<BR> + Years yet unlived, were gathered round one goal;<BR> +And death was there familiar. Long I stood,<BR> + And in eternity renewed my soul.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p26"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +NOVEMBER.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Sombre November, least belov'd of all<BR> + The months that make the pleasurable year,<BR> +Too late for the resplendence of the fall,<BR> + Too soon for Christmas-bringing winter's cheer;<BR> +Ignoble interregnum following<BR> + The golden cycle of a good queen's reign,<BR> +Before her heir, proclaimed already king,<BR> + Has come of age to rule in her domain;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +We do not praise you; many a dreary day<BR> + Impatiently we chide your laggard pace;<BR> +Backward we look, and forward, and we say:<BR> + The queen was kind and fair of form and face;<BR> +The king is stern, but clad in brave array:<BR> + God save His Majesty and send him grace.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p27"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +NOVEMBER SUNSHINE.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +O affluent Sun, unwilling to abate<BR> + Thy bounteous hospitality benign,<BR> +Whenas we deemed the banquet o'er, thy great<BR> + Gold flagon brims again with amber wine;<BR> +Whenas we thought t' have seen on plain and hill<BR> + Thy euthanasia in October's haze,<BR> +The blessing of thy light, unstinted still,<BR> + Irradiates the drear November days.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Naught can discourage thee, O thurifer<BR> + Of gladness to the else benighted face<BR> +Of the misfeatured earth; fit minister<BR> + Of Him whose love illumines every place,<BR> +Who pours His mercy forth without demur<BR> + Over the sins and sorrows of our race.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p28"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +SHORT DAYS.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Now is the Sun, erst spendthrift of his rays<BR> + And lavish of his largesses of light,<BR> +Become a miser in his latter days,<BR> + An avaricious dotard, alter'd quite.<BR> +Is he the same that all the summer long<BR> + Strew'd with ungrudging hand his gleaming gold?<BR> +Can such ill grace to high estate belong?<BR> + Can bright be dim? can warm so soon be cold?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Ay, but he goes his parsimonious way,<BR> + And hoards his shining treasures from the view,<BR> +And garners up his riches 'gainst the day<BR> + When Earth, the prodigal, shall beg anew;<BR> +Then to her need he'll give no niggard dole,<BR> +But wealth incalculable, heart and soul.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p29"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +THE BEGINNING OF WINTER.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Now are the trees all ruefully bereft<BR> + Of their brave liveries of green and gold,<BR> +No shred of all their pleasant raiment left<BR> + To shield them from the wind and nipping cold.<BR> +Now is the grass all withered up and dead,<BR> + And shrouded in its cerement of the snow;<BR> +Now the enfeebled Sun goes soon to bed,<BR> + And rises late and carries his head low.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Now is the night magnificent to view<BR> + When the Queen Moon appears with cloudless brow;<BR> +Now are our spirits cleans'd and born anew<BR> + In the clear, quickening atmosphere; and now<BR> +We re-make home, and find our hearts' desire<BR> +In common talk before the cheerful fire.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p30"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> + THE WINTER AND THE WILDERNESS. +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +When we who dwell within this province old,<BR> + Cloven in twain by the great river's tide,<BR> +Gird at inhospitable winter's cold,<BR> + And rue the downfall of fair summer's pride;<BR> +Or turn our eyes from gazing on the vales<BR> + Of lavish verdure and abundant fruit,<BR> +To those rough wastes where Nature ever fails,<BR> + And tillage spurns a profitless pursuit;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Let us recall that sentence from the hand<BR> + Of history's father, laying down his pen,—<BR> +Those words of Cyrus, which he made to stand<BR> + To all his work as moral and amen;<BR> +'Tis not the richest and most fertile land<BR> + That always bears the noblest breed of men.[<A NAME="chap030fn1text"></A><A HREF="#chap030fn1">1</A>]<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="footnote"> +<A NAME="chap030fn1"></A> +[<A HREF="#chap030fn1text">1</A>] "Although the work seems unfinished, it concludes with a sentence +which cannot have been placed casually at the end, viz., that, as the +great Cyrus was supposed to have said, 'It is not always the richest +and most fertile country which produces the most valiant +men.'"—<I>Commentary on the Work of Herodotus</I>. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p31"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +THE IMMIGRANTS.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +From lands where old abuses sit entrenched<BR> + And stern restriction thwarts aspiring merit,<BR> +And by gaunt men a meagre dole is wrenched<BR> + From the unkind conditions they inherit;<BR> +From teeming cities where the ceaseless moan<BR> + Of want is burthen to the traffic's hum,<BR> +From shrouded mills, and fields they ne'er might own,<BR> + From servitude and blank despair, they come.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And every ship that sails across the foam,<BR> + And every train that rushes from the sea,<BR> +And every sun that brightens heaven's dome,<BR> + And every breeze that stirs the leafing tree,<BR> +Sings to the pilgrims a glad song of home,<BR> + With freedom, joy and opportunity.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p32"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +WOLFE.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="intro"> +"I would rather have written those lines than take Quebec +to-morrow."—<I>Wolfe, on hearing Gray's "Elegy" read the night before +the capture of Quebec</I>. +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Thou need'st no marble monuments to keep<BR> + Thy fame immortal and thy memory<BR> +An inspiration to make pulses leap<BR> + And resolution spring to mastery.<BR> +Thou need'st no gilded tablets on the walls<BR> + Of cities, no imposing sepulchre,<BR> +Imperishable Wolfe, whose name recalls<BR> + The flower of kings, who bore Excalibur.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The ultimate dispensers of renown,<BR> + The poets, shall accord thee honor fit,<BR> +And add fresh laurels ever to thy crown,<BR> + High-minded hero, who hadst rather writ<BR> +Those lines of one to every poet dear<BR> + Than take the fortress of a hemisphere.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p33"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +MONTCALM.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="intro"> +"Ce n'est rien, ce n'est rien; ne vous affligez pas pour moi, mes +bonnes amies." +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Montcalm, calm mount, thou didst not faint nor fail<BR> + At that fierce volley from thy foemen near,<BR> +Nor at the charge's deafening prelude quail,—<BR> + The Highland slogan and the Saxon cheer.<BR> +But thou, even thou, couldst not withstand the shock<BR> + That broke and bore precipitately on<BR> +Tried regiments, La Sarre and Languedoc,<BR> + Béarn, Guienne and Royal Roussillon.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Thou couldst but fight as heroes e'er have fought,<BR> + With that high self-devotion which transcends<BR> +Vain-glorious victory: "'Tis naught, 'tis naught;<BR> + Fret not yourselves on my account, good friends,"<BR> +Yet 'twas thy mortal wound. Such words express<BR> +True chivalry and Christlike nobleness.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p34"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +THE COMING OF CHAMPLAIN.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="t4"> +(From the prose of Parkman.)<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Up the St. Lawrence with well-weather'd sails<BR> + A lonely vessel clove its foaming track.<BR> +None hail'd its coming; the white floundering whales<BR> + Disported in the Bay of Tadoussac;<BR> +The wild duck div'd before its figured prow;<BR> + The painted savage spied it from the shore,<BR> +And dream'd not that his reign was ended now,—<BR> + That that strange ship a new Aeneas bore,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Whose pale-fac'd inconsiderable band<BR> + Were pioneers of an aggressive host<BR> +Of thousands, millions, filling all the land,<BR> + And 'stablishing therein from coast to coast<BR> +This civil state, with cities, temples, marts,<BR> +Schools, laws and peaceful industries and arts.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p35"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +THE MONTAGNAIS AT TADOUSSAC.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="t4"> +(From the prose of Parkman.)<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The lodges of the Montagnais were there,<BR> + Who reaped the harvest of the woods and rocks—<BR> +Skins of the moose and cariboo and bear,<BR> + Fur of the beaver, marten, otter, fox.<BR> +From where the shivering nomad lurks among<BR> + The stunted forests south of Hudson's Bay<BR> +They piloted their frail canoes along<BR> + By many a tributary's devious way;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Then between mountains stern as Teneriffe<BR> + Their confluent flotillas glided down<BR> +The Saguenay, and pass'd beneath the cliff<BR> + Whose shaggy brows athwart the zenith frown,<BR> +And reach'd the Bay of Trinity, dark, lone,<BR> + And silent as the tide of Acheron.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p36"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +CHAMPLAIN'S FIRST WINTER AND SPRING IN QUEBEC.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="t4"> +(From the prose of Parkman.)<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I. THE WINTER.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +September bade the sail of Pontgravé<BR> +Godspeed, and smil'd upon the infant nation;<BR> +October deckt the shores and hills with "gay<BR> +Prognostics of approaching desolation."<BR> +Ere long the forest, steep'd in golden gloom,<BR> +Dropt rustling down its shrivel'd festal dress,<BR> +And chill November, sombre as the tomb,<BR> +Sank on the vast primeval wilderness.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Inexorable winter's iron vice<BR> +Gript hard the land, funereal with snow;<BR> +The stream was fill'd with grinding drifts of ice;<BR> +A fell disease laid twenty Frenchmen low<BR> +In death, and left the dauntless leader eight<BR> +With whom to hold the New World's fortress gate.<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +II. THE SPRING.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The purgatory pass'd—the stalactites<BR> + That fring'd the cliffs fell crashing to the earth;<BR> +With clamor shrill the wild geese skimm'd the heights,<BR> + In airy navies sailing to the north;<BR> +The bluebirds chirrup'd in the naked woods,<BR> + The water-willows donn'd their downy blooms,<BR> +The trim swamp-maple blush'd with ruddy buds,<BR> + The forest-ash hung out its sable plumes.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The shad-bush gleam'd a wreath of purest snow,<BR> + The white stars of the bloodroot peep'd from folds<BR> +Of rotting leaves, and in the meadows low<BR> + Shone saffron spots, the gay marsh-marigolds.<BR> +May made all green, and on the fifth of June<BR> + A sail appeared, with succor none too soon.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p38"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +IDLENESS.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The street was brisk, an animated scene,<BR> + And every man was on some business bent,<BR> + Absorbed in some employment or intent,<BR> +Pre-occupied, intelligent and keen.<BR> +True, some were dwarf'd and some were pale and lean.<BR> + But to the sorriest visage Labor lent<BR> + A light, transfiguring with her sacrament<BR> +The abject countenance and slavish mien.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +But one—he shambled aimlessly along<BR> + Asham'd, and shrunk from the abstracted ken<BR> + Of passers-by with conscience-struck recoil,<BR> +A pariah, a leper in the throng,<BR> + An alien from the commonwealth of men,<BR> + A stranger to the covenant of toil.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p39"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +SUCCESS.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +What is success? In mad soul-suicide<BR> + The world's vain spoils rapaciously to seize,<BR> +To pamper the base appetite of pride,<BR> + And live a lord in luxury and ease?<BR> +Is this success, whereof so many prate?—<BR> + To have the Midas-touch that turns to gold<BR> +Earth's common blessings? to accumulate,<BR> + And in accumulation to grow old?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Nay, but to see and undertake with zest<BR> + The good most in agreement with our powers,<BR> +To strive, if need be, for the second best,<BR> + But still to strive, and glean the golden hours,<BR> +With eyes for nature, and a mind for truth,<BR> +And the brave, loving, joyous heart of youth.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p40"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> + THE EXCLUSION OF ASIATICS. +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Is our renown'd Dominion then so small<BR> + As not to hold this new inhabitant?<BR> + Or are her means so pitiably scant<BR> +As not to yield a livelihood to all?<BR> +Or are we lesser men, foredoom'd to thrall?<BR> + Or so much better than the immigrant<BR> + That we should make our hearts as adamant<BR> +And guard against defilement with a wall?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Nay, but our land is large and rich enough<BR> + For us and ours and millions more—her need<BR> + Is working men; she cries to let them in.<BR> +Nor can we fear; our race is not the stuff<BR> + Servants are made of, but a royal seed,<BR> + And Christian, owning all mankind as kin.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p41"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +THE PEOPLE'S RESPONSE TO HEROISM.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Our hearts are set on pleasure and on gain.<BR> + Fine clothes, fair houses, more and daintier bread;<BR> +We have no strivings, and no hunger-pain<BR> + For spiritual food; our souls are dead.<BR> +So judged I till the day when news was rife<BR> + Of fire besieging scholars and their dames,<BR> +And bravely one gave up her own fair life<BR> + In saving the most helpless from the flames.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Then when I heard the instantaneous cheer<BR> + That broke with sobbing undertones from all<BR> +The multitude, and watched them drawing near,<BR> + Stricken and mute, around her funeral pall<BR> +In grief and exultation, I confest<BR> +My judgment erred,—we know and love the best.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p42"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +AN ARISTOCRAT.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Her fair companions she outshone,<BR> + As this or that transcendent star<BR> +Makes all its sister orbs look wan<BR> + And dim and lustreless and far.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Her charm impressed the fleeting glance,<BR> + But chiefly the reflective mind;<BR> +A century's inheritance,<BR> + By carefull'st nurture still refined.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Devotions, manners, hopes that were,<BR> + Ideals high, traditions fine,<BR> +Were felt to culminate in her,<BR> + The efflorescence of her line.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +What time and cost conspired to trace<BR> +Her lineaments of perfect grace!<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p43"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +IN WAREHOUSE AND OFFICE.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +How can the man whose uneventful days,<BR> + Each like the other, are obscurely spent<BR> +Amid the mill's dead products, keep his gaze<BR> + Upon a lofty goal serenely bent?<BR> +Or he who sedulously tells and groups<BR> + Their minted shadows with deft finger-tips?<BR> +Or who above the shadow's shadow stoops,<BR> + And dips his pen and writes, and writes and dips?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +How can he? Yet some such have been and are,<BR> + Prophets and seers in deed, if not in word,<BR> +And poets of a faery land afar,<BR> + By incommunicable music stirred;<BR> +Feasting the soul apart with what it craves,<BR> +Their occupation's masters, not its slaves.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p44"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +H. M. S. "DREADNOUGHT."<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Titanic craft of many thousand tons,<BR> + A smaller Britain free to come and go,<BR> +Relying on thy ten terrific guns<BR> + To daunt afar the most presumptuous foe;<BR> +Thick-panoplied with plates of hardened steel,<BR> + Equipped with all the engin'ry of death,<BR> +Unrivalled swiftness in thy massive keel,<BR> + Annihilation latent in thy breath.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"Dreadnought" thy name. And yet, for all thy size<BR> + And strength, the ocean might engulf thy prow,<BR> +Or the swift red torpedo of the skies,<BR> + The lightning, blast thy boast-emblazoned brow;<BR> +Thou hast thy use, but Britain's sons were wise<BR> + To put their trust in better things than thou.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p45"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +THE REVOLUTION IN RUSSIA.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +From Lapland to the land of Tamerlane,<BR> + Kamchatka to the confines of the Turk,<BR> +The spirit tyrants never can restrain<BR> + When once awake is mightily at work.<BR> +Liberty, frantic with a fearful hope,<BR> + Out of long darkness suddenly arisen,<BR> +Maddens the dull half-human herds who grope<BR> + And rend the bars of their ancestral prison.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Over the wan lone steppe her couriers speed,<BR> + The secret forest echoes her command,<BR> +She smites the sword that made her children bleed,<BR> + And Death and Havoc hold the famished land.<BR> +But God overrules, and oft man's greatest good<BR> +Is won through nights of dread and days of blood.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p46"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +TEA'S APOLOGIA.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Loved by a host from Noah's days till now,<BR> + Extolled by bards in many a glowing line,<BR> +My purple rival of the mantling brow<BR> + May laugh to scorn this swarthy face of mine.<BR> +I care not: many a weary pain I cure;<BR> + Cold, heat and thirst I harmlessly abate;<BR> +I bless the weak, the aged and the poor;<BR> + And I have known the favor of the great.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I've cheered the minds of mighty poets gone;<BR> + Philosophers have owned my solace true;<BR> +Shy Cowper was my sweet Anacreon;<BR> + Keen Hazlitt craved "whole goblets" of my brew;<BR> +De Quincey praised my stimulating draught;<BR> +What cups of me old Doctor Johnson quaffed!<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p47"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +A WISH.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +When my time comes to quit this pleasing scene,<BR> + And drop from out the busy life of men;<BR> +When I shall cease to be where I have been<BR> + So willingly, and ne'er may be again;<BR> +When my abandoned tabernacle's dust<BR> + With dust is laid, and I am counted dead;<BR> +Ere I am quite forgotten, as I must<BR> + Be in a little while, let this be said:<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +He loved this good God's world, the night and day,<BR> + Men, women, children (these he loved the best);<BR> +Pictures and books he loved, and work and play,<BR> + Music and silence, soberness and jest;<BR> +His mind was open, and his heart was gay;<BR> + Green be his grave, and peaceful be his rest!<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p48"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +ALONE WITH NATURE.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The rain came suddenly, and to the shore<BR> + I paddled, and took refuge in the wood,<BR> + And, leaning on my paddle, there I stood<BR> +In mild contentment watching the downpour,<BR> +Feeling as oft I have felt heretofore,<BR> + Rooted in nature, that supremest mood<BR> + When all the strength, the peace, of solitude,<BR> +Sink into and pervade the being's core.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And I have thought, if man could but abate<BR> + His need of human fellowship, and find<BR> + Himself through Nature, healing with her balm<BR> +The world's sharp wounds, and growing in her state,<BR> + What might and greatness, majesty of mind,<BR> + Sublimity of soul and Godlike calm!<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p49"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +THE WORKS OF MAN AND OF NATURE.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Man's works grow stale to man: the years destroy<BR> + The charm they once possessed; the city tires;<BR> + The terraces, the domes, the dazzling spires<BR> +Are in the main but an attractive toy—<BR> +They please the man not as they pleased the boy;<BR> + And he returns to Nature, and requires<BR> + To warm his soul at her old altar fires,<BR> +To drink from her perpetual fount of joy.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +It is that man and all the works of man<BR> + Prepare to pass away; he may depend<BR> + On naught but what he found her stores among;<BR> +But she, she changes not, nor ever can;<BR> + He knows she will be faithful to the end,<BR> + For ever beautiful, for ever young.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p50"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> + A DAY REDEEMED. +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I rose, and idly sauntered to the pane,<BR> + And on the March-bleak mountain bent my look;<BR> + And standing there a sad review I took<BR> +Of what the day had brought me. What the gain<BR> +To Wisdom's store? What holds had Knowledge ta'en?<BR> + I mused upon the lightly-handled book,<BR> + The erring thought, and felt a stern rebuke:<BR> +"Alas, alas! the day hath been in vain!"<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +But as I gazed upon the upper blue,<BR> + With many a twining jasper ridge up-ploughed,<BR> +Sudden, up-soaring, swung upon my view<BR> + A molten, rolling, sunset-laden cloud:<BR> +My spirit stood, and caught its glorious hue—<BR> + "Not lost the day!" it, leaping, cried aloud.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p51"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +OUTREMONT.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Far stretched the landscape, fair, without a flaw,<BR> + Down to one silver sheet, some stream or cloud,<BR> + Through glamorous mists. Midway, an engine ploughed<BR> +Across the scene. In meditative awe<BR> +I stood and gazed, absorbed in what I saw,<BR> + Till sweet-breathed Evening came, the pensive-browed,<BR> + And creeping from the city, spread her shroud<BR> +Over the sunlit slopes of Outremont.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Soon the mild Indian summer will be past,<BR> + November's mists soon flee December's snows;<BR> +The trees may perish, and the winter's blast<BR> + Wreck the tall windmills; these weak eyes may close;<BR> +But ever will that scene continue fast<BR> + Fixed in my soul, where richer still it grows.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p52"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +THE NEW OLD STORY.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Hard by an ancient mansion stood an oak;<BR> + For centuries, 'twas said, it had been there:<BR> +The old towers crumbled 'neath decay's slow stroke,<BR> + While, hall by hall, upgrew a palace fair;<BR> +Lives and momentous eras waxed and waned,<BR> + Old barons died, and barons young and gay<BR> +Ruled in their stead, and still the oak remained,<BR> + And each new spring seemed older not a day.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The vesture of the spirit of mankind,—<BR> + Forms and beliefs, like meteors, rise and set;<BR> +The spirit too doth change; but o'er the mind<BR> + This old Evangel holds young lordship yet;<BR> +And here among Canadian snows we bring<BR> +Each Christmastide our tribute to the King.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p53"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +RECREATION.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Give me a cottage embower'd in trees,<BR> + Far from the press and the din of the town;<BR> +There let me loiter and live at my ease,<BR> + Happier far than the King with his crown.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +There let the music that's sweeter than words<BR> + Waken my soul's inarticulate song,<BR> +Murmur of zephyrs and warbling of birds,<BR> + Babble of waters that hurry along.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Under the shade of the maple and beech<BR> + Let me in tranquil contentment recline,<BR> +Learning what nature and solitude teach,<BR> + Charming philosophy, human, divine;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Finding how trivial the myriad things<BR> + Life is concern'd with, to seek or to shun;<BR> +Seeing the sources whence blessedness springs,<BR> + Gathering strength for the work to be done.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p54"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +PAESTUM.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Paestum, your temples and your streets<BR> + Have been restored to view;<BR> +Your fadeless Grecian beauty greets<BR> + The eyes of men anew.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +But where are all your roses now—<BR> + Those wonderful delights<BR> +That made such garlands for the brow<BR> + Of your fair Sybarites?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +They in your time were more renown'd,<BR> + And dearer to your heart,<BR> +Than these fine works which mark the bound<BR> + And highest reach of art.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +We'd see you as you look'd of old;<BR> + Though column, arch and wall<BR> +Were worth a kingdom to behold,<BR> + One rose would shame them all.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p55"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +RONDEAU: AN APRIL DAY.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +An April day, when skies are blue,<BR> +And earth rejoices to renew<BR> + Her vernal youth by lawn and lea,<BR> + And sap mounts upward in the tree,<BR> +And ruddy buds come bursting through;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +When violets of tender hue<BR> +And trilliums keep the morning dew<BR> + Through all the sweet forenoon—give me<BR> + An April day;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +When surly Winter's roystering crew<BR> +Have said the last of their adieux,<BR> + And left the fettered river free,<BR> + And buoyant hope and ecstasy<BR> +Of life awake, my wants are few—<BR> + An April day.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p56"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +AUTUMN.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The Year, an aged holy priest,<BR> + In gorgeous vestments clad,<BR> +Now celebrates the solemn feast<BR> + Of Autumn, sweet and sad.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The Sun, a contrite thurifer<BR> + After his garish days,<BR> +Through lessening arch, a wavy blur,<BR> + His burnish'd censer sways.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The Earth,—an altar all afire<BR> + Her hecatombs to claim,<BR> +Shoots upward many a golden spire<BR> + And crimson tongue of flame.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Like Jethro's shepherd, when he turn'd<BR> + In Midian's land to view<BR> +The bush that unconsuming burn'd,<BR> + I pause—and worship, too.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p57"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +MY TWO BOYS.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +To some the heavenly Father good<BR> + Has given raiment rich and fine,<BR> +And tables spread with dainty food,<BR> + And jewels rare that brightly shine.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +To some He's given gold that buys<BR> + Immunity from petty care,<BR> +Freedom and leisure and the prize<BR> + Of pleasing books and pictures fair.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +To some He's given wide domains<BR> + And high estate and tranquil ease,<BR> +And homes where all refinement reigns<BR> + And everything combines to please.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +To some He's given minds to know<BR> + The what and how, the where and when;<BR> +To some, a genius that can throw<BR> + A light upon the hearts of men.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +To some He's given fortunes free<BR> + From sorrows and replete with joys;<BR> +To some, a thousand friends; to me<BR> + He's given my two little boys.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p58"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +MY OLD CLASSICAL MASTER.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Ever hail'd with delight when my memory strays<BR> +O'er the various scenes of my juvenile days,<BR> +Do you mind if I sing a poor song in your praise,<BR> + My jolly old classical master?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +You were kind—over-lenient, 'twas rumor'd, to rule—<BR> +And so learn'd, though the blithest of all in the school,<BR> +'Twas your pupil's own fault if he left you a fool,<BR> + My jolly old classical master.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"Polumetis Odusseus" you brought back to life,<BR> +"Xanthos Menelaos" recalled to the strife:<BR> +You knew more about Homer than Homer's own wife,<BR> + My jolly old classical master.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +You could sever each classical Gordian knot,<BR> +Each "crux criticorum" explain on the spot;<BR> +We preferr'd your opinion to Liddell and Scott,<BR> + My jolly old classical master.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +To you "Arma virumque," "All Gaul" and the rest<BR> +Were a snap of the fingers, a plaything, a jest,<BR> +Even Horace mere English—you lik'd Horace best,<BR> + My jolly old classical master.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +We esteemed you a marvel in Latin and Greek,<BR> +An Erasmus, a Bentley, a Person, a freak;<BR> +And for all sorts of knowledge we held you unique,<BR> + My jolly old classical master.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +You brought forth from your treasury things new and old,<BR> +Philosophical gems, oratorical gold;<BR> +And how many a capital story you told,<BR> + My jolly old classical master!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Your devotion to learning, whole-hearted and pure,<BR> +Your fine critical relish of literature,<BR> +And your gay disposition, had charms to allure,<BR> + My jolly old classical master.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Here's a health to you, sir, from a thousand old boys,<BR> +Who once plagu'd you with nonsense and tried you with noise,<BR> +But who learn'd from you, lov'd you, and wish you all joys,<BR> + My jolly old classical master.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +May your mien be still jovial, your mind be still bright,<BR> +May your wit be still sprightly, your heart be still light,<BR> +And long, long may it be ere your spirit takes flight,<BR> + My jolly old classical master.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p60"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> + THE GOLD-MINERS OF BRITISH COLUMBIA. +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +They come not from the sunny, sunny south,<BR> + Nor from the Arctic region,<BR> +Nor from the east, the busy, busy east,<BR> + The where man's name is legion;<BR> +But they come from the west, the rugged, rugged west,<BR> + From the world's remotest edges;<BR> +And their pockets they are filled with the yellow, yellow gold<BR> + That they mined in the mountain ledges.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +CHORUS—<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Then, hey, lads, hey, for the mining man so bold,<BR> + Who comes from the world's far edges!<BR> + And hey for the gold, the yellow, yellow gold,<BR> + That is stored in the mountain ledges!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +They basked not, they, in balmy tropic shade,<BR> + 'Neath orange tree and banyan;<BR> +But braved the bush, the torrent and the steep,<BR> + By gorge and gulch and canyon.<BR> +They would not be held back in cities over desks,<BR> + Or among the homestead hedges;<BR> +So their pockets now are filled with the yellow, yellow gold<BR> + That they mined in the mountain ledges.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +They left their homes, their loved ones all behind,<BR> + Forsook kind friend and neighbor,<BR> +And went to seek the thing of greatest worth,<BR> + For gold, rare gold, to labor.<BR> +Oh! they bled the old earth—they opened up her veins<BR> + With their picks and drills and sledges;<BR> +And their pockets now are filled with the yellow, yellow gold<BR> + That they mined in the mountain ledges.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p62"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +WAR-SHIPS IN PORT.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The tread of armèd mariners is in our streets to-day,<BR> +An Empire's pulse is beating in the march of this array.<BR> +From western woods, and Celtic hills, and homely Saxon shires,<BR> +They sailed beneath the "meteor flag," the emblem of our sires;<BR> +And for the glory that has been, the pride that yet may be,<BR> +We hail them in the sacred names of home and liberty,<BR> +And know that not on sea or land more dauntless hearts there are<BR> +Than the hearts of these bold seamen from the English men-of-war.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Trafalgar's fame-crowned hero stands, encarved in storied stone,<BR> +And from his place of honor looks in silence and alone:<BR> +But no, to-day his spirit lives, and walks the crowded way;<BR> +For us Drake, Hawkins, Frobisher and Howard live to-day;<BR> +For us from many a page of eld, 'mid war and tempest blast,<BR> +A thousand thousand valiant forms come trooping from the past,<BR> +And say, "Forget not us to-day, we have a part with these,<BR> +The 'sea-dogs' of old England, the 'Mistress of the Seas.'"<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +No, no, ye gruff old heroes, ye can never be forgot;<BR> +The memory of your prowess will outlive the storm, the shot<BR> +Destruction pours impartially on common and sublime,<BR> +And scorn the volleying years that mount the battery of time;<BR> +For far above this tide of war your worth is written clear<BR> +On fame's bright rock of adamant, imperishable here;<BR> +Your names may be recorded not, your graves be 'neath the keel,<BR> +But many a million English hearts some love for you shall feel.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Five grim old ocean-buffeters, stern ploughshares of the deep,<BR> +Have come to visit us of those whose duty 'tis to keep,<BR> +With the old lion's courage and the young eagle's ken,<BR> +Their sleepless watch upon the sea that skirts this world of men:<BR> +And if again in stately pride their lordly forms they bear<BR> +Upon the ample bosom of our noble stream, whene'er<BR> +From massive prow impregnable their peaceful anchor falls,<BR> +We'll hail old England's hearts of steel who man her iron walls.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p64"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +ON FINDING A COPY OF BURNS'S POEMS IN<BR> +THE HOUSE OF AN ONTARIO FARMER.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Large Book, with heavy covers worn and old,<BR> + Bearing clear proof of usage and of years,<BR> +Thine edges yellow with their faded gold,<BR> + Thy leaves with fingers stained—perchance with tears;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +How oft thy venerable page has felt<BR> + The hardened hands of honorable toil!<BR> +How oft thy simple song had power to melt<BR> + The hearts of the rude tillers of the soil!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +How oft has fancy borne them back to see<BR> + The Scottish peasant at his work, and thou<BR> +Hast made them feel the grandeur of the free<BR> + And independent follower of the plough!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +What careth he that his proud name hath peal'd<BR> + From shore to shore since his new race began,<BR> +In humble cot and "histie stibble field"<BR> + Who doth "preserve the dignity of man"?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +With reverent hands I lay aside the tome,<BR> + And to my longing heart content returns,<BR> +And in the stranger's house I am at home,<BR> + For thou dost make us brothers, Robert Burns.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And thou, old Book, go down from sire to son;<BR> + Repeat the pathos of the poet's life;<BR> +Sing the sweet song of him who fought and won<BR> + The outward struggle and the inward strife.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Go down, grand Book, from hoary sire to son;<BR> + Keep by the Book of books thy wonted place;<BR> +Tell what a son of man hath felt and done,<BR> + And make of us and ours a noble race,—<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +A race to scorn the sordid greed of gold,<BR> + To spurn the spurious and contemn the base,<BR> +Despise the shams that may be bought and sold,—<BR> + A race of brothers and of men,—a race<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +To usher in the long-expected time<BR> + Good men have sought and prophets have foretold,<BR> +When this bright world shall be the happy clime<BR> + Of brotherhood and peace, when men shall mould<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Their lives like His who walked in Palestine;<BR> + The truly human manhood thou dost show,<BR> +Leading them upward to the pure divine<BR> + Nature of God made manifest below.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p66"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +THE IDEAL PREACHER.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +It was back in Renfrew County, near the Opeongo line,<BR> +Where the land's all hills and hollows and the hills are clothed<BR> + with pine,<BR> +And in the wooded valleys little lakes shine here and there<BR> +Like jewels in the masses of a lovely woman's hair;<BR> +Where the York branch, by a channel ripped through rugged rocks<BR> + and sand,<BR> +Sweeps to join the Madawaska, speeding downward to the Grand;<BR> +Where the landscape glows with beauty, like a halo shed abroad,<BR> +And the face of nature mirrors back the unseen face of God.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I was weary with my journey, and with difficulty strove<BR> +To keep myself awake at first, as, sitting by the stove<BR> +In old William Rankin's shanty, I attended as I might<BR> +To the pioneer backwoodsman's tales far on into the night;<BR> +But William talked until the need of sleep one quite forgot,<BR> +Not stopping but to stir the fire, which kept the stove red-hot;<BR> +For the wind was raw and cold without, although the month of May:<BR> +Up north the winter struggles hard before it yields its sway;<BR> +And the snow is in the forests, and the ice is in the lakes,<BR> +And the frost is in the seedland oft when sunny June awakes.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +He talked of camps in winter time, of river drives in spring,<BR> +Of discords in the settlement,—in fact, of everything;<BR> +He told of one good elder who'd been eaten by a bear,<BR> +And wondered that a beast of prey should eat a man of pray'r;<BR> +Of beast, from wolf to porcupine, killed with gun, axe and fork,<BR> +And, finally, of college men who did not pine for pork.<BR> +"But yet among them students," said the bushman, "there wuz one<BR> +As hit me an' the settlement as fair as any gun.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"O' course, he wa'nt no buster, hed no shinin' gifts o' speech;<BR> +But jis' as reg'lar he could give some pointers how to preach.<BR> +He talked straight on like tellin' yarns—more heart, I'd say, 'an head;<BR> +But somehow people felt he meant 'bout every word he said.<BR> +He wa'n't chuck full o' larnin' from the peelin' to the core;—<BR> +Leastwise, he wa'n't the kind they call a college batch-o'-lore;<BR> +He'd no degree, the schoolma'am said,—though soon he let 'em see<BR> +That o' certain sterlin' qualities he had a great degree,—<BR> +Leastwise he hed no letters till the hind end o' his name,—<BR> +But, preacher, say, you don't set much importance by them same?—<BR> +Y' may hev titles o' y'r own, an' think I'm speakin' bold;<BR> +But there's that bob-tailed nag o' mine, the chestnut three-year-old;<BR> +It's true she can't make such a swish, to scare away the flies,<BR> +But if y'd see her cover ground, y'd scarce believe y'r eyes.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"O' course, he hed his enemies,—you preachers alluz hez,—<BR> +But 'twa'n't no use their tellin' us he wa'n't the stuff, I gez;<BR> +An' after while they closed right up an' looked like,—it wuz fun,—<BR> +When they seed the way he 'sisted out ol' Game-leg Templeton.<BR> +O' course, y' knows ol' Templeton,—twuz him as druv y' in;<BR> +Y' noticed, maybe, how he limped, and sort o' saved his shin.<BR> +He's run the mail through fair and foul 'tween this and Cumbermere,<BR> +And faithful served Her Majesty fur nigh on twenty year.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"The preacher stayed with Templeton, the same's you're stay'n' with me,<BR> +On a new clearance back o' this, which, course, y' didn't see.<BR> +An' one day on a visit tour the chap wuz startin' out<BR> +In the way o' Little Carlow,—twuz good twelve mile round about,—<BR> +An' in the bush he'd lose hisself, as everybody knowed:<BR> +'I'll take the axe,' says Templeton, 'an' go an' blaze a road.<BR> +It's only three mile through the bush.' An' so they started in,<BR> +Quite happy like,—men never knows when troubles will begin.<BR> +'Bout noon,—the folks was in the house a eatin' o' their snack,—<BR> +The chap comes home with Templeton a-hangin' on his back.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"The call wuz close fur Templeton, who'd somehow missed his stroke;<BR> +He alluz swung a heavy blow, an' the bone wuz well-nigh broke;<BR> +An' wust of all, 'twuz two whole days afore the doctor came;<BR> +He was up the Long Lake section, seein'—what's that fellow's name?—<BR> +Well, never mind.—An' when he did examine of the wound,<BR> +He said 'twould take all summer fur the man to git around.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"Well, what y' think thet preacher done, but turn right out an' mow<BR> +The meadow down an' put it in, and th' harvest, too, although<BR> +The ol' man worried and complained as how he'd orter stop;<BR> +An' there wa'nt no binders in them days, and work wuz work, sure pop.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"Well, when the people heerd about the way that preacher done,<BR> +All on 'em growed religious straight, sir, every mother's son;<BR> +The meetin'-house wuz crowded from the pulpit to the door—<BR> +Some on 'em hadn't showed face there fur twenty year or more;<BR> +An' them as sot out on the fence an' gossiped all the while,<BR> +Jis' brought the fence planks in and sot down on 'em in the aisle,<BR> +An' listened,—sir, no orator as ever spoke aloud<BR> +Worked on his audience the way as that chap on our crowd.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +We aint no shakes o' people; we aint up to nothin' new;<BR> +But we knows a man what's shammin' and we knows a man what's true.<BR> +An' when we heerd that preacher talk 'bout Christian sacrifice<BR> +And bearin' burdens for the weak, we valued his advice;<BR> +An' we showed it—there wuz nothin' as we thought too good for him;<BR> +We poured our cup o' gratitude an' filled it to the brim.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"He aint been near so fort'nate 'n the city where he's went;<BR> +Some folks as didn't like him set them sticklers on his scent;<BR> +An' the presbytery giv him fits fur trimmin' of his lamp<BR> +The way it shined the brightest, an' he jined another camp.<BR> +But most men,—leastwise such as him,—I take it, fur my part,<BR> +Aint got much devil in their brains when God is in their heart;<BR> +An' I'll allow it yet, although they puts me in the stocks,<BR> +That religion what is practical's sufficient orthodox.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"Well, thet's the finest preacher as hez struck back here to spout,<BR> +An' there never wuz another we cared very much about.<BR> +I've heerd o' Beecher's meetings an' such men as John B. Gough;<BR> +But fourteen waggon loads druv down to see that preacher off.<BR> +We sent him back to college with a fresh supply o' socks,—<BR> +Nigh everything a student needs wuz jammed intill that box;<BR> +An', preacher, spite of what yourself with all your parts may feel,<BR> +Fur me an' Game-leg Templeton that man is our ideel."<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p73"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> + THE WHEEL OF MISFORTUNE. +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +O m'sieu, doan you hask me ma story, doan hask me how dis was happenn;<BR> +Dat's one beeg black hole on ma life, w'ere I doan want to look on some more....<BR> +Well, he's coom joos' so well for to tole you, all tak' beet tabac firs' and den<BR> +A'll tole you what cep' to de pries' a have nevare tole no one before.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Bien, M'sieu; he's come pass joos like dis way; a go out wit' de boys to make lark;<BR> +Dare was Armand and Joseph and Louiee, an' we drink on de deefront saloon.<BR> +An' we feenish in plac' wit' de music, like one of dose garden or park,<BR> +W'ere he's play dose curse wheel for de monee—in Hingleesh dat's wheel of fortune.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +He was Saturday night on de week, M'sieu, an' a have ma week's pay on my bourse,<BR> +Wit'out w'at we pay for de whiskey—'bout one dollar feefty or less;<BR> +An' a'm t'ink a can win me lots monee, and eef a doan win some, of coorse,<BR> +A can stop 'fore a lose much, a tell me, but a've pooty beeg hope for success.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Well, Louiee, he's be careful, risk notting, he's laugh w'en a'm buy some paddell,<BR> +Armand he's buy some for obligement, he's not half so careful's Louiee.<BR> +An' we play dare teel half pas' eleven, an' de meantime she's go pooty well,<BR> +Teel Armand he's lose all she's monee, an' shortly 's de same ting wit' me.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +But Louiee he's got plaintee of monee, an' he's got plaintee fr'en' on de plac',<BR> +An' a'm hask heem for lend me ten dollar, a'm pay wit' good interes', be sure;<BR> +He'll tol me he's got more as feefty an' he's give me plusieurs jours de grace,<BR> +For Louiee he was know a was hones' for all a was poor of de poor.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Well, I not was require all dat monee teel de wheel she was tak' few more whirl,<BR> +For a keep on to lose pooty steady, and Armand he say, "Doan play< some more,"<BR> +But Louiee he say, "Win yet posseeble," and Joseph he was off wit' his girl,<BR> +An' de croupier say, "Bettre luck nex' time, dare is good luck an' bad luck in store."<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And de wheel she was turn on de peevot and shine in de light electrique,<BR> +She seem like beeg star to be turning, an' sing tune like she doan care notting;<BR> +But she turn like de pool on de river dat's tak' everyt'ing down pooty queek,<BR> +An' she shine like de snake w'en he's body is roll' up—de snake wit' de sting.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +An' a'm play teel a lose all dat monee, an' de wicked roulette she go roun',<BR> +An' a'm play also feefty more dollar, an' ma head she commence for to reel;<BR> +An' oh, M'sieu, de hard time dat was follow teel a lay ma good wife in de groun',<BR> +An' hoffen a hask me forgiveness, as dare by dat grave a go kneel.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p76"></A> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +TIM O'GALLAGHER.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +My name is Tim O'Gallagher,—there's Oirish in that same;<BR> +My parients from the Imerald Oisle beyant the ocean came;<BR> +My father came from Donegal, my mother came from Clare;<BR> +But oi was born in Pontiac, besoide the Belle Rivière.<BR> +Oi spint my choildhood tamin' bears, and fellin' timber trays,<BR> +And catchin' salmon tin fate long—and doin' what oi plaze.<BR> +Oi got my iddication from the Riverind Father Blake;<BR> +He taught me Latin grammar, and he after taught me Grake,<BR> +Till oi could rade the classics in a distint sort of way—<BR> +'Twas the sadetoime of the harvist that oi'm rapin' ivery day.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +My parients thought me monsthrous shmart—of thim 'twas awful koind,<BR> +And where oi'd go to college now was what perplixed their moind;<BR> +So they axed the Riverind Father Blake what varsity was bist<BR> +To make a docthor, bachelor and lawyer and the rist.<BR> +Said Father Blake, "If oi must make decision, faith! oi will:<BR> +Sure, sind the boy to Munthreal, there's none loike Ould McGill."<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +So oi came to Munthreal and found McGill one afternoon,<BR> +And saw a great excoited crowd all shoutin' out of tune;<BR> +And in the cintre thorty min was foightin' jist loike mad,<BR> +And two big fellows on the top of one poor little lad.<BR> +Oi turned indignant to the crowd, and tould them to their face:<BR> +"Ye pack of coward savages, onciviloized and base,<BR> +To stand and see two stalwart min abusin' one that way!<BR> +Oi loike a gladiatorial show, but loike to see fair play."<BR> +So oi jumped at those two bullies and oi caught thim by the shirt,<BR> +And oi knocked their hids together and consoigned thim to the dirt.<BR> +Oi was removed and they were carried home, but all the same,<BR> +Though Ould McGill was two min short, she won that football game.<BR> +They thought oi was a tough gussoon, and whin they played agin,<BR> +They put me in the scrimmage—we got thorty-foive to tin.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Oi thin wint up to college whin the lictures would begin;<BR> +Oi attinded ivery licture—when oi happened to be in;<BR> +Got my work up, kipt my note-books in the illigantist shape;<BR> +Oi took notes of ivery licture—barrin' whin oi was ashlape.<BR> +But, och! oi try to do my bist, for sure it's Father Blake<BR> +As says the foinist faculty is Arts, and no mistake;<BR> +For there they tache philosophy and English literature,<BR> +The mathematics also, and the classic authors, sure.<BR> +Oi larned the Gracian poethry, oi larned the Latin prose;<BR> +Oi know as much about thim both as my profissor knows:<BR> +How Troy, that had for noine long years defoied the Graycian force,<BR> +Was "hors de combat" put at last by jist a wooden horse;<BR> +How Xerxes wipt because his army soon would pass away,<BR> +And Alexander wipt because there were no more to shlay;<BR> +How Cato from his toga plucked the Carthaginian fruit;<BR> +How Brutus murdered Saysar, and how Saysar called him "Brute."<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Oi'd the honor of a mornin' with an influential Med,<BR> +And he took me to the room in which they mutilate the dead.<BR> +Oi don't objict to crack a skull or spoil a purty face,<BR> +But to hack a man who's dead is what oi called extramely base.<BR> +But all pursonal convictions, he explained, should be resoigned<BR> +For the binifit of scoience and the good of humankoind;<BR> +And though oi don't at all admoire their ways o' goin' on,<BR> +Oi'll take a course in Medicine, oi will, before oi'm gone.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Oi saw the Scoience workshops, too, and thought whin oi was made,<BR> +These little hands were niver mint to larn the blacksmith trade;<BR> +And for that illictricity, the thing what gives the shock,<BR> +They collared old Promaytheus and chained him to a rock<BR> +For a-playin' with the loightnin' and a-raychin to the skoies,<BR> +And the vultures gnawed his vittles, and the crows picked out his oyes.<BR> +But toimes has changed, and larnin' gives us power—don't you see?—<BR> +And whin oi'm done with Arts oi'll take that shplindid faculty;<BR> +For, sure, it's from their workshops that the solar system's run;<BR> +Besoides, they make the wither, too, and rigilate the sun.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Oi troied exams at Christmas, and oi didn't pass at all;<BR> +But oi can have another whack at thim nixt spring and fall.<BR> +In toime oi'll pass in iverything, and masther all they taiche;<BR> +Oi'll go through ivery faculty, and come out hid in aiche.<BR> +And whin oi've conquered all, loike Alexander oi will soigh<BR> +There is no more to conquer, and oi'll lay me down and doie.<BR> +They'll birry me with honors, and erict in my behalf<BR> +A monimint which shall disphlay the followin' epitaph:<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"Here loies shwate Tim O'Gallagher,—sure he had wits to shpare,—<BR> +His father came from Donegal, his mother came from Clare.<BR> +He was a shplindid scholar, for he studied at McGill;<BR> +He drank the well of larnin' dhroy (and, faith! he got his fill).<BR> +Was niver mortal craythur larned to such a great degree,—<BR> +B.A.M.A.M.D.C.M.B.SC.LL.D."<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR><BR> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Sonnets and Other Verse, by W. M. MacKeracher + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONNETS AND OTHER VERSE *** + +***** This file should be named 37365-h.htm or 37365-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/7/3/6/37365/ + +Produced by Al Haines + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. 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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: Sonnets and Other Verse + +Author: W. M. MacKeracher + +Release Date: September 9, 2011 [EBook #37365] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONNETS AND OTHER VERSE *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + + + + + + +SONNETS + +AND OTHER VERSE + + +BY + +W. M. MacKERACHER + +Author of "Canada, My Land" + + + + +TORONTO + +WILLIAM BRIGGS + +1909 + + + + +Copyright, Canada, 1909, by + +W. M. MacKERACHER. + + + + + CONTENTS. + + The Old and The New + How Many a Man! + The Saddest Thought + The House-Hunter + On Moving Into a New House + Literature + A Library + On Charles Lamb's Sonnet, "Work." + Work + The Joy of Creation + Adam + A Shallow Stream + A Faithful Preacher + A Wish Rebuked + The Sabbath + Milton + The Three Hundredth Anniversary of Milton's Birth + Burns + A Late Spring + Autumn + An Autumn Walk + November + November Sunshine + Short Days + The Beginning of Winter + The Winter and the Wilderness + The Immigrants + Wolfe + Montcalm + The Coming of Champlain + The Montagnais at Tadoussac + Champlain's First Winter and Spring in Quebec + Idleness + Success + The Exclusion of Asiatics + The People's Response to Heroism + An Aristocrat + In Warehouse and Office + H.M.S. "Dreadnought" + The Revolution in Russia + Tea's Apologia + A Wish + Alone with Nature + The Works of Man and the Works of Nature + A Day Redeemed + Outremont + The New Old Story + Recreation + Paestum + Rondeau: An April Day + Autumn + My Two Boys + My Old Classical Master + The Gold-Miners of British Columbia + War-ships in Port + On Finding a Copy of Burns's Poems in the House of an Ontario Farmer + The Ideal Preacher + The Wheel of Misfortune + Tim O'Gallagher + + + + + SONNETS AND OTHER VERSE. + + + + THE OLD AND THE NEW. + + Scorn not the Old; 'twas sacred in its day, + A truth overpowering error with its might, + A light dispelling darkness with its ray, + A victory won, an intermediate height, + Which seers untrammel'd by their creeds of yore, + Heroes and saints, triumphantly attained + With hard assail and tribulation sore, + That we might use the vantage-ground they gain'd. + + Scorn not the Old; but hail and seize the New + With thrill'd intelligences, hearts that burn, + And such truth-seeking spirits that it, too, + May soon be superseded in its turn, + And men may ever, as the ages roll, + March onward toward the still receding goal. + + + + + HOW MANY A MAN! + + How many a man of those I see around + Has cherished fair ideals in his youth, + And heard the spirit's call, and stood spellbound + Before the shrine of Beauty or of Truth, + And lived to see his fair ideals fade, + And feel a numbness creep upon his soul, + And sadly know himself no longer swayed + By rigorous Truth or Beauty's sweet control! + + For some, alas! life's thread is almost spun; + Few, few and poor, the fibres that remain; + But yet, while life lasts, something may be done + To make the heavenly vision not in vain; + Yet, even yet, some triumph may be won, + Yea, loss itself be turned to precious gain. + + + + + THE SADDEST THOUGHT. + + Sad is the wane of beauty to the fair, + Sad is the flux of fortune to the proud, + Sad is the look dejected lovers wear, + And sad is worth beneath detraction's cloud. + Sad is our youth's inexorable end, + Sad is the bankruptcy of fancy's wealth, + Sad is the last departure of a friend, + And sadder than most things is loss of health. + + And yet more sad than these to think upon + Is this--the saddest thought beneath the sun-- + Life, flowing like a river, almost gone + Into eternity, and nothing done. + Let me be spared that bootless last regret: + Let me work now; I may do something yet. + + + + + THE HOUSE-HUNTER. + + As one who finds his house no longer fit, + Too narrow for his needs, in nothing right, + Wanting in every homelike requisite, + Devoid of beauty, barren of delight, + Goes forth from door to door and street to street, + With eager-eyed expectancy to find + A new abode for his convenience meet, + Spacious, commodious, fair, and to his mind; + + So living souls recurrently outgrow + Their mental tenements; their tastes appear + Too sordid, and their aims too cramped and low. + And they keep moving onward year by year, + Each dwelling in its turn prepared to leave + For one more like the mansion they conceive. + + + + + ON MOVING INTO A NEW HOUSE. + + Heaven bless this new abode; defend its doors + Against the entry of malignant sprites-- + Gaunt Poverty, pale Sickness, Care that blights; + And o'er its thresholds, like the enchanted shores + Of faery isles, serene amid the roars + Of baffled seas, let in all fair delights + (Such as make happy days and restful nights) + To tread familiarly its charmed floors. + + Within its walls let moderate Plenty reign, + And gracious Industry, and cheerful Health: + Plenish its chambers with Contentment's wealth, + Nor let high Joy its humble roof disdain; + Here let us make renewal of Love's lease, + And dwell with Piety, who dwells with Peace. + + + + + LITERATURE. + + Here is a banquet-table of delights, + A sumptuous feast of true ambrosial food; + Here is a journey among goodly sights, + In choice society or solitude; + Here is a treasury of gems and gold-- + Of purest gold and gems of brightest sheen; + Here is a landscape gloriously unroll'd, + Of heights sublime and pleasant vales between. + + Here is the realm of Thought, diverse and wide, + To Genius and her sovereign sons assign'd; + The universal church, o'er which preside + The heaven-anointed hierarchy of mind + And spirit; the imperishable pride + And testament and promise of mankind. + + + + + A LIBRARY. + + As one, who, from an antechamber dim, + Is ushered suddenly to his surprise + Before a gathering of the great and wise, + Feels for the moment all his senses swim, + Then looks around him like a veteran grim + When peerless armies pass before his eyes, + Or Michael when he marshals in the skies + The embattled legions of the cherubim; + + So shall the scholar pause within this door + With startled reverence, and proudly stand, + And feel that though the ages' flags are furled + By Time's rude breath, their spoils are here in store, + The riches of the race are at his hand, + And well-nigh all the glory of the world. + + + + + ON CHARLES LAMB'S SONNET, "WORK." + + "Who first invented work?" asks Elia, he + Whose life to an ungenial task was wed, + And answers, "Satan"; but it could not be-- + On idleness his foul ambition fed; + By idleness the heavenly domiciles + Were lost to him and all his idle crew; + In idleness he hatches all his wiles, + And mischief finds for idle hands to do. + + His business ever was to scamp and shirk, + And scout the task that too ignoble seemed, + And in snug corners serpentlike to lurk + Where no one of his presence ever dreamed; + He never knew the zest of honest work, + Nor ever shall, or he would be redeemed. + + + + + WORK. + + Not to the Arch-Idler be the honor given + Of first inventing work, but to his Lord, + Who made the light, the firmament of heaven, + And sun and moon and planets in accord, + The land and cattle on it, and the sea + And fish therein, and flying fowl in air, + And grass and herb and fair fruit-yielding tree, + And man, His own similitude to wear; + + Whose works are old and yet for ever new, + Who all sustains with providential sway, + Whose Son, "My Father worketh hitherto + And I work," said, and ere He went away, + "Finished the work thou gavest me to do," + And unto us, "Work ye while it is day." + + + + + THE JOY OF CREATION. + + How must have thrilled the great Creator's mind + With radiant, glad and satisfying joy, + Ever new self-expressive forms to find + In those six days of rapturous employ! + How must He have delighted when He made + The stars, and meted ocean with His span, + And formed the insect and the tender blade, + And fashioned, after His own image, man! + + And unto man such joy in his degree + He hath appointed, work of mind and hand, + To mould in forms of useful symmetry + Words, hues, wood, iron, stone, at his command + To toil upon the navigable sea + And ply his industry upon the land. + + + + + ADAM. + + God made him, like the angels, innocent, + And made a garden marvellously fair, + With arbors green, sun-kissed and dew-besprent, + And fruits and flowers whose fragrance filled the air; + Where rivers four meandered with delight, + And in the soil were gleaming treasures laid, + Good gold and bdellium and the onyx bright; + And set therein the man whom He had made; + + And proved to him by sad experience + That not in bowers of indolence, supine + On beds of ease, could ev'n Omnipotence + Work out in man His last and best design; + And in great love and wisdom drove him thence, + And cursed him with a blessing most benign. + + + + + A SHALLOW STREAM. + + There is a stream to northward, thinly spread + Over a shelving, many-fissured shale, + That brawls and blusters in its shallow bed, + And ends its course inglorious in a swale. + Its babble stirs the laughter of the hills; + The rooted mountains mock its fume and fret; + And all the summer long the idle mills + Wait wearily with water-wheel unwet. + + Let us not waste our lives in froth and foam + And unavailing vanity of noise; + "Still waters deepest run"--the ancient gnome + Pricks well our sham, conceited bubble-toys; + Who serve best here in God's great halidome + Have volume, depth, serenity and poise. + + + + + A FAITHFUL PREACHER. + + Let no one say of Christ's Church, "Ichabod," + Or deem her strength partaker of decay, + Or think her trumpet voices fail. To-day + I saw a man who was a man of God, + His feet with gospel preparation shod, + The Spirit's quick and mighty weapon sway; + I heard him faithfully point out the way, + To him familiar, which the Master trod. + + Intrepid, patient follower of the Lord, + While such as thou, obedient to His call, + Living epistles, known and read of all, + Proclaim the wonders of His sacred Word, + No sound of lamentation should be heard, + No shade of apprehension should appal. + + + + + A WISH REBUKED. + + If one could have a hundred years to live, + After the settlement of youth's unrest, + A hundred years of vigorous life to give + To the pursuit of what he counted best, + A hundred summers, autumns, winters, springs, + To train and use the forces of his mind, + He might fulfil his fond imaginings, + And lift himself and benefit his kind. + + O faint of heart, to whom this life appears + Too short for thy ambitious projects, He + Who plied His task in weakness and in tears + Along the countrysides of Galilee, + And blest the world for these two thousand years, + Did His incomparable work in three. + + + + + THE SABBATH. + + Who, careless, would behold a goodly tree + Or noble palace stricken to decay? + Who would drop precious jewels in the sea + Or cast rare heirlooms on the trodden way? + Who, but a prodigal in wantonness, + Would waste his patrimony for swine's food? + Who would his birthright sell for pottage-mess + But a dull, sensual Esau, blind to good? + + Our tree o'ershadowing the sons of care, + Our palace welcoming the weary guest, + Our precious jewel and our heirloom rare, + Our birthright and our patrimony blest, + Art thou, to guard and keep for ever fair, + Sweet Christian Sabbath-day of joy and rest. + + + + + MILTON. + + Say not that England ever kingless was: + 'Twixt Charles and Charles two royal men appear,-- + Cromwell, to give her health with arms and laws, + And Milton, thou, to speak out loud and clear + For freedom of man's conscience and the state, + For England and her deeds before the world, + And for the victims of religious hate + From Alpine summits pitilessly hurl'd. + + Thou wast a Champion of Liberty: + In fair Italian cities thou had'st heard + Her voice upon the north wind summon thee, + And, like another Moses, had'st preferr'd + Affliction with thy brethren to the lure + Of beauty, art and cultur'd ease secure. + + + + + THE THREE HUNDREDTH ANNIVERSARY OF MILTON'S BIRTH. + + (December 9th, 1908.) + + "There was a man sent from God, whose name was John." + + Three hundred years have left their telltale rings + Upon the tree of Time since he appeared-- + Milton (to be remembered and revered); + Whose spirit mounted on seraphic wings; + Who saw, though blind, extraordinary things; + Who wrought in obloquy, and persevered, + And, Orpheus-like, with his great music reared + A monument surpassing those of kings. + + Three hundred years, courageous, lofty soul, + Hast thou by precept and example taught + Thy lesson. Have we learned it as we ought? + Have we moved upward, nearer to the goal? + Yea, somewhat have we learned; be with us still, + And teach us Man's high function to fulfil. + + + + + BURNS. + + We read his life of poverty and bane, + From weakness, folly, error, not exempt, + And turn aside with a depressing pain-- + Compassion tinged with something like contempt. + We read his work, and see his human heart, + His manly mind, his true, if thwarted, will, + And all that's noblest in us takes his part, + And shames our former verdict, will or nill. + + His was a fiery spirit that unbound + Men's fetters, sometimes leading him astray; + He was a seed that fell into the ground + And brought forth fruit; he cast himself away + Like bread upon the waters, and was found + To nourish worth in many an after day. + + + + + A LATE SPRING. + + Twelve weeks had passed--how slowly!--day by day, + Since formal, dull Sir Calendar had bowed + Old Winter from the scene, and cried, "Make way! + The Spring, the Spring!" and still a sullen cloud + Obscured the sky, and the north wind blew chill; + When lo, one morn the miracle began; + A Presence brooded over vale and hill, + And through all life a quickening impulse ran. + + Long-hushed, forgotten melodies awoke + Within my soul; the rapture of the boy + Refilled me; o'er my arid being broke + A brimming tide of elemental joy + From primal deeps; and all my happy springs + Came back to me--I was the peer of kings! + + + + + AUTUMN. + + From shy expectancy to burgeoning, + From burgeoning to ripeness and decline, + The seasons run their various course and bring + Again at last the sober days benign. + And spring's pied garland, worn for Beauty's sake, + And summer's crown of pride, less fair appear + Than the subdued, enchanted tints that make + The aureole of the senescent year. + + So grows the good man old--meek, glad, sublime; + More lovely than in all his youthful bloom, + Grander than in the vigor of his prime, + He lights with radiance life's autumnal gloom, + And through the fading avenue of Time + Walks in triumphal glory to his tomb. + + + + + AN AUTUMN WALK. + + Adown the track that skirts the shallow stream + I wandered with blank mind; a bypath drew + My aimless steps aside, and, ere I knew, + The forest closed around me like a dream. + The gold-strewn sward, the horizontal gleam + Of the low sun, pouring its splendors through + The far-withdrawing vistas, filled the view, + And everlasting beauty was supreme. + + I knew not past or future; 'twas a mood + Transcending time and taking in the whole. + I was both young and old; my lost childhood, + Years yet unlived, were gathered round one goal; + And death was there familiar. Long I stood, + And in eternity renewed my soul. + + + + + NOVEMBER. + + Sombre November, least belov'd of all + The months that make the pleasurable year, + Too late for the resplendence of the fall, + Too soon for Christmas-bringing winter's cheer; + Ignoble interregnum following + The golden cycle of a good queen's reign, + Before her heir, proclaimed already king, + Has come of age to rule in her domain; + + We do not praise you; many a dreary day + Impatiently we chide your laggard pace; + Backward we look, and forward, and we say: + The queen was kind and fair of form and face; + The king is stern, but clad in brave array: + God save His Majesty and send him grace. + + + + + NOVEMBER SUNSHINE. + + O affluent Sun, unwilling to abate + Thy bounteous hospitality benign, + Whenas we deemed the banquet o'er, thy great + Gold flagon brims again with amber wine; + Whenas we thought t' have seen on plain and hill + Thy euthanasia in October's haze, + The blessing of thy light, unstinted still, + Irradiates the drear November days. + + Naught can discourage thee, O thurifer + Of gladness to the else benighted face + Of the misfeatured earth; fit minister + Of Him whose love illumines every place, + Who pours His mercy forth without demur + Over the sins and sorrows of our race. + + + + + SHORT DAYS. + + Now is the Sun, erst spendthrift of his rays + And lavish of his largesses of light, + Become a miser in his latter days, + An avaricious dotard, alter'd quite. + Is he the same that all the summer long + Strew'd with ungrudging hand his gleaming gold? + Can such ill grace to high estate belong? + Can bright be dim? can warm so soon be cold? + + Ay, but he goes his parsimonious way, + And hoards his shining treasures from the view, + And garners up his riches 'gainst the day + When Earth, the prodigal, shall beg anew; + Then to her need he'll give no niggard dole, + But wealth incalculable, heart and soul. + + + + + THE BEGINNING OF WINTER. + + Now are the trees all ruefully bereft + Of their brave liveries of green and gold, + No shred of all their pleasant raiment left + To shield them from the wind and nipping cold. + Now is the grass all withered up and dead, + And shrouded in its cerement of the snow; + Now the enfeebled Sun goes soon to bed, + And rises late and carries his head low. + + Now is the night magnificent to view + When the Queen Moon appears with cloudless brow; + Now are our spirits cleans'd and born anew + In the clear, quickening atmosphere; and now + We re-make home, and find our hearts' desire + In common talk before the cheerful fire. + + + + + THE WINTER AND THE WILDERNESS. + + When we who dwell within this province old, + Cloven in twain by the great river's tide, + Gird at inhospitable winter's cold, + And rue the downfall of fair summer's pride; + Or turn our eyes from gazing on the vales + Of lavish verdure and abundant fruit, + To those rough wastes where Nature ever fails, + And tillage spurns a profitless pursuit; + + Let us recall that sentence from the hand + Of history's father, laying down his pen,-- + Those words of Cyrus, which he made to stand + To all his work as moral and amen; + 'Tis not the richest and most fertile land + That always bears the noblest breed of men.[1] + + +[1] "Although the work seems unfinished, it concludes with a sentence +which cannot have been placed casually at the end, viz., that, as the +great Cyrus was supposed to have said, 'It is not always the richest +and most fertile country which produces the most valiant +men.'"--_Commentary on the Work of Herodotus_. + + + + + THE IMMIGRANTS. + + From lands where old abuses sit entrenched + And stern restriction thwarts aspiring merit, + And by gaunt men a meagre dole is wrenched + From the unkind conditions they inherit; + From teeming cities where the ceaseless moan + Of want is burthen to the traffic's hum, + From shrouded mills, and fields they ne'er might own, + From servitude and blank despair, they come. + + And every ship that sails across the foam, + And every train that rushes from the sea, + And every sun that brightens heaven's dome, + And every breeze that stirs the leafing tree, + Sings to the pilgrims a glad song of home, + With freedom, joy and opportunity. + + + + + WOLFE. + +"I would rather have written those lines than take Quebec +to-morrow."--_Wolfe, on hearing Gray's "Elegy" read the night before +the capture of Quebec_. + + Thou need'st no marble monuments to keep + Thy fame immortal and thy memory + An inspiration to make pulses leap + And resolution spring to mastery. + Thou need'st no gilded tablets on the walls + Of cities, no imposing sepulchre, + Imperishable Wolfe, whose name recalls + The flower of kings, who bore Excalibur. + + The ultimate dispensers of renown, + The poets, shall accord thee honor fit, + And add fresh laurels ever to thy crown, + High-minded hero, who hadst rather writ + Those lines of one to every poet dear + Than take the fortress of a hemisphere. + + + + + MONTCALM. + +"Ce n'est rien, ce n'est rien; ne vous affligez pas pour moi, mes +bonnes amies." + + Montcalm, calm mount, thou didst not faint nor fail + At that fierce volley from thy foemen near, + Nor at the charge's deafening prelude quail,-- + The Highland slogan and the Saxon cheer. + But thou, even thou, couldst not withstand the shock + That broke and bore precipitately on + Tried regiments, La Sarre and Languedoc, + Bearn, Guienne and Royal Roussillon. + + Thou couldst but fight as heroes e'er have fought, + With that high self-devotion which transcends + Vain-glorious victory: "'Tis naught, 'tis naught; + Fret not yourselves on my account, good friends," + Yet 'twas thy mortal wound. Such words express + True chivalry and Christlike nobleness. + + + + + THE COMING OF CHAMPLAIN. + + (From the prose of Parkman.) + + Up the St. Lawrence with well-weather'd sails + A lonely vessel clove its foaming track. + None hail'd its coming; the white floundering whales + Disported in the Bay of Tadoussac; + The wild duck div'd before its figured prow; + The painted savage spied it from the shore, + And dream'd not that his reign was ended now,-- + That that strange ship a new Aeneas bore, + + Whose pale-fac'd inconsiderable band + Were pioneers of an aggressive host + Of thousands, millions, filling all the land, + And 'stablishing therein from coast to coast + This civil state, with cities, temples, marts, + Schools, laws and peaceful industries and arts. + + + + + THE MONTAGNAIS AT TADOUSSAC. + + (From the prose of Parkman.) + + The lodges of the Montagnais were there, + Who reaped the harvest of the woods and rocks-- + Skins of the moose and cariboo and bear, + Fur of the beaver, marten, otter, fox. + From where the shivering nomad lurks among + The stunted forests south of Hudson's Bay + They piloted their frail canoes along + By many a tributary's devious way; + + Then between mountains stern as Teneriffe + Their confluent flotillas glided down + The Saguenay, and pass'd beneath the cliff + Whose shaggy brows athwart the zenith frown, + And reach'd the Bay of Trinity, dark, lone, + And silent as the tide of Acheron. + + + + + CHAMPLAIN'S FIRST WINTER AND SPRING IN QUEBEC. + + (From the prose of Parkman.) + + I. THE WINTER. + + September bade the sail of Pontgrave + Godspeed, and smil'd upon the infant nation; + October deckt the shores and hills with "gay + Prognostics of approaching desolation." + Ere long the forest, steep'd in golden gloom, + Dropt rustling down its shrivel'd festal dress, + And chill November, sombre as the tomb, + Sank on the vast primeval wilderness. + + Inexorable winter's iron vice + Gript hard the land, funereal with snow; + The stream was fill'd with grinding drifts of ice; + A fell disease laid twenty Frenchmen low + In death, and left the dauntless leader eight + With whom to hold the New World's fortress gate. + + + II. THE SPRING. + + The purgatory pass'd--the stalactites + That fring'd the cliffs fell crashing to the earth; + With clamor shrill the wild geese skimm'd the heights, + In airy navies sailing to the north; + The bluebirds chirrup'd in the naked woods, + The water-willows donn'd their downy blooms, + The trim swamp-maple blush'd with ruddy buds, + The forest-ash hung out its sable plumes. + + The shad-bush gleam'd a wreath of purest snow, + The white stars of the bloodroot peep'd from folds + Of rotting leaves, and in the meadows low + Shone saffron spots, the gay marsh-marigolds. + May made all green, and on the fifth of June + A sail appeared, with succor none too soon. + + + + + IDLENESS. + + The street was brisk, an animated scene, + And every man was on some business bent, + Absorbed in some employment or intent, + Pre-occupied, intelligent and keen. + True, some were dwarf'd and some were pale and lean. + But to the sorriest visage Labor lent + A light, transfiguring with her sacrament + The abject countenance and slavish mien. + + But one--he shambled aimlessly along + Asham'd, and shrunk from the abstracted ken + Of passers-by with conscience-struck recoil, + A pariah, a leper in the throng, + An alien from the commonwealth of men, + A stranger to the covenant of toil. + + + + + SUCCESS. + + What is success? In mad soul-suicide + The world's vain spoils rapaciously to seize, + To pamper the base appetite of pride, + And live a lord in luxury and ease? + Is this success, whereof so many prate?-- + To have the Midas-touch that turns to gold + Earth's common blessings? to accumulate, + And in accumulation to grow old? + + Nay, but to see and undertake with zest + The good most in agreement with our powers, + To strive, if need be, for the second best, + But still to strive, and glean the golden hours, + With eyes for nature, and a mind for truth, + And the brave, loving, joyous heart of youth. + + + + + THE EXCLUSION OF ASIATICS. + + Is our renown'd Dominion then so small + As not to hold this new inhabitant? + Or are her means so pitiably scant + As not to yield a livelihood to all? + Or are we lesser men, foredoom'd to thrall? + Or so much better than the immigrant + That we should make our hearts as adamant + And guard against defilement with a wall? + + Nay, but our land is large and rich enough + For us and ours and millions more--her need + Is working men; she cries to let them in. + Nor can we fear; our race is not the stuff + Servants are made of, but a royal seed, + And Christian, owning all mankind as kin. + + + + + THE PEOPLE'S RESPONSE TO HEROISM. + + Our hearts are set on pleasure and on gain. + Fine clothes, fair houses, more and daintier bread; + We have no strivings, and no hunger-pain + For spiritual food; our souls are dead. + So judged I till the day when news was rife + Of fire besieging scholars and their dames, + And bravely one gave up her own fair life + In saving the most helpless from the flames. + + Then when I heard the instantaneous cheer + That broke with sobbing undertones from all + The multitude, and watched them drawing near, + Stricken and mute, around her funeral pall + In grief and exultation, I confest + My judgment erred,--we know and love the best. + + + + + AN ARISTOCRAT. + + Her fair companions she outshone, + As this or that transcendent star + Makes all its sister orbs look wan + And dim and lustreless and far. + + Her charm impressed the fleeting glance, + But chiefly the reflective mind; + A century's inheritance, + By carefull'st nurture still refined. + + Devotions, manners, hopes that were, + Ideals high, traditions fine, + Were felt to culminate in her, + The efflorescence of her line. + + What time and cost conspired to trace + Her lineaments of perfect grace! + + + + + IN WAREHOUSE AND OFFICE. + + How can the man whose uneventful days, + Each like the other, are obscurely spent + Amid the mill's dead products, keep his gaze + Upon a lofty goal serenely bent? + Or he who sedulously tells and groups + Their minted shadows with deft finger-tips? + Or who above the shadow's shadow stoops, + And dips his pen and writes, and writes and dips? + + How can he? Yet some such have been and are, + Prophets and seers in deed, if not in word, + And poets of a faery land afar, + By incommunicable music stirred; + Feasting the soul apart with what it craves, + Their occupation's masters, not its slaves. + + + + + H. M. S. "DREADNOUGHT." + + Titanic craft of many thousand tons, + A smaller Britain free to come and go, + Relying on thy ten terrific guns + To daunt afar the most presumptuous foe; + Thick-panoplied with plates of hardened steel, + Equipped with all the engin'ry of death, + Unrivalled swiftness in thy massive keel, + Annihilation latent in thy breath. + + "Dreadnought" thy name. And yet, for all thy size + And strength, the ocean might engulf thy prow, + Or the swift red torpedo of the skies, + The lightning, blast thy boast-emblazoned brow; + Thou hast thy use, but Britain's sons were wise + To put their trust in better things than thou. + + + + + THE REVOLUTION IN RUSSIA. + + From Lapland to the land of Tamerlane, + Kamchatka to the confines of the Turk, + The spirit tyrants never can restrain + When once awake is mightily at work. + Liberty, frantic with a fearful hope, + Out of long darkness suddenly arisen, + Maddens the dull half-human herds who grope + And rend the bars of their ancestral prison. + + Over the wan lone steppe her couriers speed, + The secret forest echoes her command, + She smites the sword that made her children bleed, + And Death and Havoc hold the famished land. + But God overrules, and oft man's greatest good + Is won through nights of dread and days of blood. + + + + + TEA'S APOLOGIA. + + Loved by a host from Noah's days till now, + Extolled by bards in many a glowing line, + My purple rival of the mantling brow + May laugh to scorn this swarthy face of mine. + I care not: many a weary pain I cure; + Cold, heat and thirst I harmlessly abate; + I bless the weak, the aged and the poor; + And I have known the favor of the great. + + I've cheered the minds of mighty poets gone; + Philosophers have owned my solace true; + Shy Cowper was my sweet Anacreon; + Keen Hazlitt craved "whole goblets" of my brew; + De Quincey praised my stimulating draught; + What cups of me old Doctor Johnson quaffed! + + + + + A WISH. + + When my time comes to quit this pleasing scene, + And drop from out the busy life of men; + When I shall cease to be where I have been + So willingly, and ne'er may be again; + When my abandoned tabernacle's dust + With dust is laid, and I am counted dead; + Ere I am quite forgotten, as I must + Be in a little while, let this be said: + + He loved this good God's world, the night and day, + Men, women, children (these he loved the best); + Pictures and books he loved, and work and play, + Music and silence, soberness and jest; + His mind was open, and his heart was gay; + Green be his grave, and peaceful be his rest! + + + + + ALONE WITH NATURE. + + The rain came suddenly, and to the shore + I paddled, and took refuge in the wood, + And, leaning on my paddle, there I stood + In mild contentment watching the downpour, + Feeling as oft I have felt heretofore, + Rooted in nature, that supremest mood + When all the strength, the peace, of solitude, + Sink into and pervade the being's core. + + And I have thought, if man could but abate + His need of human fellowship, and find + Himself through Nature, healing with her balm + The world's sharp wounds, and growing in her state, + What might and greatness, majesty of mind, + Sublimity of soul and Godlike calm! + + + + + THE WORKS OF MAN AND OF NATURE. + + Man's works grow stale to man: the years destroy + The charm they once possessed; the city tires; + The terraces, the domes, the dazzling spires + Are in the main but an attractive toy-- + They please the man not as they pleased the boy; + And he returns to Nature, and requires + To warm his soul at her old altar fires, + To drink from her perpetual fount of joy. + + It is that man and all the works of man + Prepare to pass away; he may depend + On naught but what he found her stores among; + But she, she changes not, nor ever can; + He knows she will be faithful to the end, + For ever beautiful, for ever young. + + + + + A DAY REDEEMED. + + I rose, and idly sauntered to the pane, + And on the March-bleak mountain bent my look; + And standing there a sad review I took + Of what the day had brought me. What the gain + To Wisdom's store? What holds had Knowledge ta'en? + I mused upon the lightly-handled book, + The erring thought, and felt a stern rebuke: + "Alas, alas! the day hath been in vain!" + + But as I gazed upon the upper blue, + With many a twining jasper ridge up-ploughed, + Sudden, up-soaring, swung upon my view + A molten, rolling, sunset-laden cloud: + My spirit stood, and caught its glorious hue-- + "Not lost the day!" it, leaping, cried aloud. + + + + + OUTREMONT. + + Far stretched the landscape, fair, without a flaw, + Down to one silver sheet, some stream or cloud, + Through glamorous mists. Midway, an engine ploughed + Across the scene. In meditative awe + I stood and gazed, absorbed in what I saw, + Till sweet-breathed Evening came, the pensive-browed, + And creeping from the city, spread her shroud + Over the sunlit slopes of Outremont. + + Soon the mild Indian summer will be past, + November's mists soon flee December's snows; + The trees may perish, and the winter's blast + Wreck the tall windmills; these weak eyes may close; + But ever will that scene continue fast + Fixed in my soul, where richer still it grows. + + + + + THE NEW OLD STORY. + + Hard by an ancient mansion stood an oak; + For centuries, 'twas said, it had been there: + The old towers crumbled 'neath decay's slow stroke, + While, hall by hall, upgrew a palace fair; + Lives and momentous eras waxed and waned, + Old barons died, and barons young and gay + Ruled in their stead, and still the oak remained, + And each new spring seemed older not a day. + + The vesture of the spirit of mankind,-- + Forms and beliefs, like meteors, rise and set; + The spirit too doth change; but o'er the mind + This old Evangel holds young lordship yet; + And here among Canadian snows we bring + Each Christmastide our tribute to the King. + + + + + RECREATION. + + Give me a cottage embower'd in trees, + Far from the press and the din of the town; + There let me loiter and live at my ease, + Happier far than the King with his crown. + + There let the music that's sweeter than words + Waken my soul's inarticulate song, + Murmur of zephyrs and warbling of birds, + Babble of waters that hurry along. + + Under the shade of the maple and beech + Let me in tranquil contentment recline, + Learning what nature and solitude teach, + Charming philosophy, human, divine; + + Finding how trivial the myriad things + Life is concern'd with, to seek or to shun; + Seeing the sources whence blessedness springs, + Gathering strength for the work to be done. + + + + + PAESTUM. + + Paestum, your temples and your streets + Have been restored to view; + Your fadeless Grecian beauty greets + The eyes of men anew. + + But where are all your roses now-- + Those wonderful delights + That made such garlands for the brow + Of your fair Sybarites? + + They in your time were more renown'd, + And dearer to your heart, + Than these fine works which mark the bound + And highest reach of art. + + We'd see you as you look'd of old; + Though column, arch and wall + Were worth a kingdom to behold, + One rose would shame them all. + + + + + RONDEAU: AN APRIL DAY. + + An April day, when skies are blue, + And earth rejoices to renew + Her vernal youth by lawn and lea, + And sap mounts upward in the tree, + And ruddy buds come bursting through; + + When violets of tender hue + And trilliums keep the morning dew + Through all the sweet forenoon--give me + An April day; + + When surly Winter's roystering crew + Have said the last of their adieux, + And left the fettered river free, + And buoyant hope and ecstasy + Of life awake, my wants are few-- + An April day. + + + + + AUTUMN. + + The Year, an aged holy priest, + In gorgeous vestments clad, + Now celebrates the solemn feast + Of Autumn, sweet and sad. + + The Sun, a contrite thurifer + After his garish days, + Through lessening arch, a wavy blur, + His burnish'd censer sways. + + The Earth,--an altar all afire + Her hecatombs to claim, + Shoots upward many a golden spire + And crimson tongue of flame. + + Like Jethro's shepherd, when he turn'd + In Midian's land to view + The bush that unconsuming burn'd, + I pause--and worship, too. + + + + + MY TWO BOYS. + + To some the heavenly Father good + Has given raiment rich and fine, + And tables spread with dainty food, + And jewels rare that brightly shine. + + To some He's given gold that buys + Immunity from petty care, + Freedom and leisure and the prize + Of pleasing books and pictures fair. + + To some He's given wide domains + And high estate and tranquil ease, + And homes where all refinement reigns + And everything combines to please. + + To some He's given minds to know + The what and how, the where and when; + To some, a genius that can throw + A light upon the hearts of men. + + To some He's given fortunes free + From sorrows and replete with joys; + To some, a thousand friends; to me + He's given my two little boys. + + + + + MY OLD CLASSICAL MASTER. + + Ever hail'd with delight when my memory strays + O'er the various scenes of my juvenile days, + Do you mind if I sing a poor song in your praise, + My jolly old classical master? + + You were kind--over-lenient, 'twas rumor'd, to rule-- + And so learn'd, though the blithest of all in the school, + 'Twas your pupil's own fault if he left you a fool, + My jolly old classical master. + + "Polumetis Odusseus" you brought back to life, + "Xanthos Menelaos" recalled to the strife: + You knew more about Homer than Homer's own wife, + My jolly old classical master. + + You could sever each classical Gordian knot, + Each "crux criticorum" explain on the spot; + We preferr'd your opinion to Liddell and Scott, + My jolly old classical master. + + To you "Arma virumque," "All Gaul" and the rest + Were a snap of the fingers, a plaything, a jest, + Even Horace mere English--you lik'd Horace best, + My jolly old classical master. + + We esteemed you a marvel in Latin and Greek, + An Erasmus, a Bentley, a Person, a freak; + And for all sorts of knowledge we held you unique, + My jolly old classical master. + + You brought forth from your treasury things new and old, + Philosophical gems, oratorical gold; + And how many a capital story you told, + My jolly old classical master! + + Your devotion to learning, whole-hearted and pure, + Your fine critical relish of literature, + And your gay disposition, had charms to allure, + My jolly old classical master. + + Here's a health to you, sir, from a thousand old boys, + Who once plagu'd you with nonsense and tried you with noise, + But who learn'd from you, lov'd you, and wish you all joys, + My jolly old classical master. + + May your mien be still jovial, your mind be still bright, + May your wit be still sprightly, your heart be still light, + And long, long may it be ere your spirit takes flight, + My jolly old classical master. + + + + + THE GOLD-MINERS OF BRITISH COLUMBIA. + + They come not from the sunny, sunny south, + Nor from the Arctic region, + Nor from the east, the busy, busy east, + The where man's name is legion; + But they come from the west, the rugged, rugged west, + From the world's remotest edges; + And their pockets they are filled with the yellow, yellow gold + That they mined in the mountain ledges. + + CHORUS-- + + Then, hey, lads, hey, for the mining man so bold, + Who comes from the world's far edges! + And hey for the gold, the yellow, yellow gold, + That is stored in the mountain ledges! + + They basked not, they, in balmy tropic shade, + 'Neath orange tree and banyan; + But braved the bush, the torrent and the steep, + By gorge and gulch and canyon. + They would not be held back in cities over desks, + Or among the homestead hedges; + So their pockets now are filled with the yellow, yellow gold + That they mined in the mountain ledges. + + They left their homes, their loved ones all behind, + Forsook kind friend and neighbor, + And went to seek the thing of greatest worth, + For gold, rare gold, to labor. + Oh! they bled the old earth--they opened up her veins + With their picks and drills and sledges; + And their pockets now are filled with the yellow, yellow gold + That they mined in the mountain ledges. + + + + + WAR-SHIPS IN PORT. + + The tread of armed mariners is in our streets to-day, + An Empire's pulse is beating in the march of this array. + From western woods, and Celtic hills, and homely Saxon shires, + They sailed beneath the "meteor flag," the emblem of our sires; + And for the glory that has been, the pride that yet may be, + We hail them in the sacred names of home and liberty, + And know that not on sea or land more dauntless hearts there are + Than the hearts of these bold seamen from the English men-of-war. + + Trafalgar's fame-crowned hero stands, encarved in storied stone, + And from his place of honor looks in silence and alone: + But no, to-day his spirit lives, and walks the crowded way; + For us Drake, Hawkins, Frobisher and Howard live to-day; + For us from many a page of eld, 'mid war and tempest blast, + A thousand thousand valiant forms come trooping from the past, + And say, "Forget not us to-day, we have a part with these, + The 'sea-dogs' of old England, the 'Mistress of the Seas.'" + + No, no, ye gruff old heroes, ye can never be forgot; + The memory of your prowess will outlive the storm, the shot + Destruction pours impartially on common and sublime, + And scorn the volleying years that mount the battery of time; + For far above this tide of war your worth is written clear + On fame's bright rock of adamant, imperishable here; + Your names may be recorded not, your graves be 'neath the keel, + But many a million English hearts some love for you shall feel. + + Five grim old ocean-buffeters, stern ploughshares of the deep, + Have come to visit us of those whose duty 'tis to keep, + With the old lion's courage and the young eagle's ken, + Their sleepless watch upon the sea that skirts this world of men: + And if again in stately pride their lordly forms they bear + Upon the ample bosom of our noble stream, whene'er + From massive prow impregnable their peaceful anchor falls, + We'll hail old England's hearts of steel who man her iron walls. + + + + + ON FINDING A COPY OF BURNS'S POEMS IN + THE HOUSE OF AN ONTARIO FARMER. + + Large Book, with heavy covers worn and old, + Bearing clear proof of usage and of years, + Thine edges yellow with their faded gold, + Thy leaves with fingers stained--perchance with tears; + + How oft thy venerable page has felt + The hardened hands of honorable toil! + How oft thy simple song had power to melt + The hearts of the rude tillers of the soil! + + How oft has fancy borne them back to see + The Scottish peasant at his work, and thou + Hast made them feel the grandeur of the free + And independent follower of the plough! + + What careth he that his proud name hath peal'd + From shore to shore since his new race began, + In humble cot and "histie stibble field" + Who doth "preserve the dignity of man"? + + With reverent hands I lay aside the tome, + And to my longing heart content returns, + And in the stranger's house I am at home, + For thou dost make us brothers, Robert Burns. + + And thou, old Book, go down from sire to son; + Repeat the pathos of the poet's life; + Sing the sweet song of him who fought and won + The outward struggle and the inward strife. + + Go down, grand Book, from hoary sire to son; + Keep by the Book of books thy wonted place; + Tell what a son of man hath felt and done, + And make of us and ours a noble race,-- + + A race to scorn the sordid greed of gold, + To spurn the spurious and contemn the base, + Despise the shams that may be bought and sold,-- + A race of brothers and of men,--a race + + To usher in the long-expected time + Good men have sought and prophets have foretold, + When this bright world shall be the happy clime + Of brotherhood and peace, when men shall mould + + Their lives like His who walked in Palestine; + The truly human manhood thou dost show, + Leading them upward to the pure divine + Nature of God made manifest below. + + + + + THE IDEAL PREACHER. + + It was back in Renfrew County, near the Opeongo line, + Where the land's all hills and hollows and the hills are clothed + with pine, + And in the wooded valleys little lakes shine here and there + Like jewels in the masses of a lovely woman's hair; + Where the York branch, by a channel ripped through rugged rocks + and sand, + Sweeps to join the Madawaska, speeding downward to the Grand; + Where the landscape glows with beauty, like a halo shed abroad, + And the face of nature mirrors back the unseen face of God. + + I was weary with my journey, and with difficulty strove + To keep myself awake at first, as, sitting by the stove + In old William Rankin's shanty, I attended as I might + To the pioneer backwoodsman's tales far on into the night; + But William talked until the need of sleep one quite forgot, + Not stopping but to stir the fire, which kept the stove red-hot; + For the wind was raw and cold without, although the month of May: + Up north the winter struggles hard before it yields its sway; + And the snow is in the forests, and the ice is in the lakes, + And the frost is in the seedland oft when sunny June awakes. + + He talked of camps in winter time, of river drives in spring, + Of discords in the settlement,--in fact, of everything; + He told of one good elder who'd been eaten by a bear, + And wondered that a beast of prey should eat a man of pray'r; + Of beast, from wolf to porcupine, killed with gun, axe and fork, + And, finally, of college men who did not pine for pork. + "But yet among them students," said the bushman, "there wuz one + As hit me an' the settlement as fair as any gun. + + "O' course, he wa'nt no buster, hed no shinin' gifts o' speech; + But jis' as reg'lar he could give some pointers how to preach. + He talked straight on like tellin' yarns--more heart, I'd say, 'an head; + But somehow people felt he meant 'bout every word he said. + He wa'n't chuck full o' larnin' from the peelin' to the core;-- + Leastwise, he wa'n't the kind they call a college batch-o'-lore; + He'd no degree, the schoolma'am said,--though soon he let 'em see + That o' certain sterlin' qualities he had a great degree,-- + Leastwise he hed no letters till the hind end o' his name,-- + But, preacher, say, you don't set much importance by them same?-- + Y' may hev titles o' y'r own, an' think I'm speakin' bold; + But there's that bob-tailed nag o' mine, the chestnut three-year-old; + It's true she can't make such a swish, to scare away the flies, + But if y'd see her cover ground, y'd scarce believe y'r eyes. + + "O' course, he hed his enemies,--you preachers alluz hez,-- + But 'twa'n't no use their tellin' us he wa'n't the stuff, I gez; + An' after while they closed right up an' looked like,--it wuz fun,-- + When they seed the way he 'sisted out ol' Game-leg Templeton. + O' course, y' knows ol' Templeton,--twuz him as druv y' in; + Y' noticed, maybe, how he limped, and sort o' saved his shin. + He's run the mail through fair and foul 'tween this and Cumbermere, + And faithful served Her Majesty fur nigh on twenty year. + + "The preacher stayed with Templeton, the same's you're stay'n' with me, + On a new clearance back o' this, which, course, y' didn't see. + An' one day on a visit tour the chap wuz startin' out + In the way o' Little Carlow,--twuz good twelve mile round about,-- + An' in the bush he'd lose hisself, as everybody knowed: + 'I'll take the axe,' says Templeton, 'an' go an' blaze a road. + It's only three mile through the bush.' An' so they started in, + Quite happy like,--men never knows when troubles will begin. + 'Bout noon,--the folks was in the house a eatin' o' their snack,-- + The chap comes home with Templeton a-hangin' on his back. + + "The call wuz close fur Templeton, who'd somehow missed his stroke; + He alluz swung a heavy blow, an' the bone wuz well-nigh broke; + An' wust of all, 'twuz two whole days afore the doctor came; + He was up the Long Lake section, seein'--what's that fellow's name?-- + Well, never mind.--An' when he did examine of the wound, + He said 'twould take all summer fur the man to git around. + + "Well, what y' think thet preacher done, but turn right out an' mow + The meadow down an' put it in, and th' harvest, too, although + The ol' man worried and complained as how he'd orter stop; + An' there wa'nt no binders in them days, and work wuz work, sure pop. + + "Well, when the people heerd about the way that preacher done, + All on 'em growed religious straight, sir, every mother's son; + The meetin'-house wuz crowded from the pulpit to the door-- + Some on 'em hadn't showed face there fur twenty year or more; + An' them as sot out on the fence an' gossiped all the while, + Jis' brought the fence planks in and sot down on 'em in the aisle, + An' listened,--sir, no orator as ever spoke aloud + Worked on his audience the way as that chap on our crowd. + + We aint no shakes o' people; we aint up to nothin' new; + But we knows a man what's shammin' and we knows a man what's true. + An' when we heerd that preacher talk 'bout Christian sacrifice + And bearin' burdens for the weak, we valued his advice; + An' we showed it--there wuz nothin' as we thought too good for him; + We poured our cup o' gratitude an' filled it to the brim. + + "He aint been near so fort'nate 'n the city where he's went; + Some folks as didn't like him set them sticklers on his scent; + An' the presbytery giv him fits fur trimmin' of his lamp + The way it shined the brightest, an' he jined another camp. + But most men,--leastwise such as him,--I take it, fur my part, + Aint got much devil in their brains when God is in their heart; + An' I'll allow it yet, although they puts me in the stocks, + That religion what is practical's sufficient orthodox. + + "Well, thet's the finest preacher as hez struck back here to spout, + An' there never wuz another we cared very much about. + I've heerd o' Beecher's meetings an' such men as John B. Gough; + But fourteen waggon loads druv down to see that preacher off. + We sent him back to college with a fresh supply o' socks,-- + Nigh everything a student needs wuz jammed intill that box; + An', preacher, spite of what yourself with all your parts may feel, + Fur me an' Game-leg Templeton that man is our ideel." + + + + + THE WHEEL OF MISFORTUNE. + + O m'sieu, doan you hask me ma story, doan hask me how dis was happenn; + Dat's one beeg black hole on ma life, w'ere I doan want to look on + some more.... + Well, he's coom joos' so well for to tole you, all tak' beet tabac + firs' and den + A'll tole you what cep' to de pries' a have nevare tole no one before. + + Bien, M'sieu; he's come pass joos like dis way; a go out wit' de boys + to make lark; + Dare was Armand and Joseph and Louiee, an' we drink on de deefront + saloon. + An' we feenish in plac' wit' de music, like one of dose garden or park, + W'ere he's play dose curse wheel for de monee--in Hingleesh dat's wheel + of fortune. + + He was Saturday night on de week, M'sieu, an' a have ma week's pay on + my bourse, + Wit'out w'at we pay for de whiskey--'bout one dollar feefty or less; + An' a'm t'ink a can win me lots monee, and eef a doan win some, of + coorse, + A can stop 'fore a lose much, a tell me, but a've pooty beeg hope + for success. + + Well, Louiee, he's be careful, risk notting, he's laugh w'en a'm buy + some paddell, + Armand he's buy some for obligement, he's not half so careful's Louiee. + An' we play dare teel half pas' eleven, an' de meantime she's go + pooty well, + Teel Armand he's lose all she's monee, an' shortly 's de same ting + wit' me. + + But Louiee he's got plaintee of monee, an' he's got plaintee fr'en' + on de plac', + An' a'm hask heem for lend me ten dollar, a'm pay wit' good interes', + be sure; + He'll tol me he's got more as feefty an' he's give me plusieurs jours + de grace, + For Louiee he was know a was hones' for all a was poor of de poor. + + Well, I not was require all dat monee teel de wheel she was tak' few + more whirl, + For a keep on to lose pooty steady, and Armand he say, "Doan play + some more," + But Louiee he say, "Win yet posseeble," and Joseph he was off wit' + his girl, + An' de croupier say, "Bettre luck nex' time, dare is good luck an' + bad luck in store." + + And de wheel she was turn on de peevot and shine in de light electrique, + She seem like beeg star to be turning, an' sing tune like she doan + care notting; + But she turn like de pool on de river dat's tak' everyt'ing down + pooty queek, + An' she shine like de snake w'en he's body is roll' up--de snake + wit' de sting. + + An' a'm play teel a lose all dat monee, an' de wicked roulette she + go roun', + An' a'm play also feefty more dollar, an' ma head she commence for + to reel; + An' oh, M'sieu, de hard time dat was follow teel a lay ma good wife + in de groun', + An' hoffen a hask me forgiveness, as dare by dat grave a go kneel. + + + + + TIM O'GALLAGHER. + + My name is Tim O'Gallagher,--there's Oirish in that same; + My parients from the Imerald Oisle beyant the ocean came; + My father came from Donegal, my mother came from Clare; + But oi was born in Pontiac, besoide the Belle Riviere. + Oi spint my choildhood tamin' bears, and fellin' timber trays, + And catchin' salmon tin fate long--and doin' what oi plaze. + Oi got my iddication from the Riverind Father Blake; + He taught me Latin grammar, and he after taught me Grake, + Till oi could rade the classics in a distint sort of way-- + 'Twas the sadetoime of the harvist that oi'm rapin' ivery day. + + My parients thought me monsthrous shmart--of thim 'twas awful koind, + And where oi'd go to college now was what perplixed their moind; + So they axed the Riverind Father Blake what varsity was bist + To make a docthor, bachelor and lawyer and the rist. + Said Father Blake, "If oi must make decision, faith! oi will: + Sure, sind the boy to Munthreal, there's none loike Ould McGill." + + So oi came to Munthreal and found McGill one afternoon, + And saw a great excoited crowd all shoutin' out of tune; + And in the cintre thorty min was foightin' jist loike mad, + And two big fellows on the top of one poor little lad. + Oi turned indignant to the crowd, and tould them to their face: + "Ye pack of coward savages, onciviloized and base, + To stand and see two stalwart min abusin' one that way! + Oi loike a gladiatorial show, but loike to see fair play." + So oi jumped at those two bullies and oi caught thim by the shirt, + And oi knocked their hids together and consoigned thim to the dirt. + Oi was removed and they were carried home, but all the same, + Though Ould McGill was two min short, she won that football game. + They thought oi was a tough gussoon, and whin they played agin, + They put me in the scrimmage--we got thorty-foive to tin. + + Oi thin wint up to college whin the lictures would begin; + Oi attinded ivery licture--when oi happened to be in; + Got my work up, kipt my note-books in the illigantist shape; + Oi took notes of ivery licture--barrin' whin oi was ashlape. + But, och! oi try to do my bist, for sure it's Father Blake + As says the foinist faculty is Arts, and no mistake; + For there they tache philosophy and English literature, + The mathematics also, and the classic authors, sure. + Oi larned the Gracian poethry, oi larned the Latin prose; + Oi know as much about thim both as my profissor knows: + How Troy, that had for noine long years defoied the Graycian force, + Was "hors de combat" put at last by jist a wooden horse; + How Xerxes wipt because his army soon would pass away, + And Alexander wipt because there were no more to shlay; + How Cato from his toga plucked the Carthaginian fruit; + How Brutus murdered Saysar, and how Saysar called him "Brute." + + Oi'd the honor of a mornin' with an influential Med, + And he took me to the room in which they mutilate the dead. + Oi don't objict to crack a skull or spoil a purty face, + But to hack a man who's dead is what oi called extramely base. + But all pursonal convictions, he explained, should be resoigned + For the binifit of scoience and the good of humankoind; + And though oi don't at all admoire their ways o' goin' on, + Oi'll take a course in Medicine, oi will, before oi'm gone. + + Oi saw the Scoience workshops, too, and thought whin oi was made, + These little hands were niver mint to larn the blacksmith trade; + And for that illictricity, the thing what gives the shock, + They collared old Promaytheus and chained him to a rock + For a-playin' with the loightnin' and a-raychin to the skoies, + And the vultures gnawed his vittles, and the crows picked out his oyes. + But toimes has changed, and larnin' gives us power--don't you see?-- + And whin oi'm done with Arts oi'll take that shplindid faculty; + For, sure, it's from their workshops that the solar system's run; + Besoides, they make the wither, too, and rigilate the sun. + + Oi troied exams at Christmas, and oi didn't pass at all; + But oi can have another whack at thim nixt spring and fall. + In toime oi'll pass in iverything, and masther all they taiche; + Oi'll go through ivery faculty, and come out hid in aiche. + And whin oi've conquered all, loike Alexander oi will soigh + There is no more to conquer, and oi'll lay me down and doie. + They'll birry me with honors, and erict in my behalf + A monimint which shall disphlay the followin' epitaph: + + "Here loies shwate Tim O'Gallagher,--sure he had wits to shpare,-- + His father came from Donegal, his mother came from Clare. + He was a shplindid scholar, for he studied at McGill; + He drank the well of larnin' dhroy (and, faith! he got his fill). + Was niver mortal craythur larned to such a great degree,-- + B.A.M.A.M.D.C.M.B.SC.LL.D." + + + + + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Sonnets and Other Verse, by W. 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