path: root/51212-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 51212 ***

                               THE FLAG

                            AND OTHER POEMS

                                 1918

                                  BY

                          AMY REDPATH RODDICK

                        (_All rights reserved_)

                               Montreal

                          JOHN DOUGALL & SON




CONTENTS.



                                  PAGE

THE BRITISH LANDS                    5

THE FLAG                             7

ENGLAND’S OLDEST COLONY              9

IN FORT-BOUND METZ                  11

THE CALM THAT COMES WITH YEARS      13

GOING WEST                          15

PERFECT IN THY PROMISE              18

ARMAGEDDON                          19

THE FAIRIES                         20

THE SOLDIERS                        21

NO TEARS                            22

“MON REPOS”                         22

“AS WE FORGIVE”                     23

THE CREW                            24

IN A TRAIN                          25

THE BALLAD OF A BUGABOO             26

OUR ART                             31

ON READING SOME IMAGIST VERSES      33

THE MIND OF THE MYSTIC              34

A MONTREAL LULLABY                  35

L’ESPERANCE                         36

MY LAKE                             37

A SCIENTIFIC PUZZLE                 38

THE GOOD OLD DAYS                   40

AT LENNOX                           41

THE FLOWER OF TRUE HAPPINESS        42

THE MOUNTAIN TOP                                                      44

CHARITY                                                               46




THE BRITISH LANDS.


    The tie that binds the British lands
      Is never spun of tyrant’s might;
    Of fair replies to just demands,
      Of compromise whenever right
    Is spun the fibre of its strands,
      A mighty Empire to unite.

    A symbol is our gracious King
      Of British unity of heart,
    A simple man to whom we cling,
      Of all good men the counterpart.
    We sing to God to “Save the King,”
      And mean thereby ourselves in part.

    The people of the British lands
      Are masters of their future fate,
    By effort of their mind and hands
      They glorify their Empire State,
    And, as the bud of thought expands,
      Can make new laws by calm debate.

    The British Empire, may it be
      The nucleus of that larger league,
    Uniting every land and sea,
      Eschewing wars and false intrigue,
    May common sense and kindness be
      The crowning glory of that league!




THE FLAG.


    Canada! where is thy flag,
      Welding race and race together?
    Union Jack, that wondrous rag,
      Dear to those who’ve trod the heather,
    Dear to those who love the rose,
      Blending Irish cross and nation
    With the crosses of old foes
      In a just and fair relation,
    Bears no emblem of the men,
      First to cross the stormy ocean,
    Bringing faith and plough and pen,
      First to know with deep emotion,
    Canada! thy name, as home.
      True, provincial arms commingle
    On thy flag o’er ships that roam;
      In their stead an emblem single,
    Maple leaf of golden hue,
      Would announce to all more proudly
    Whence thy ships their anchors drew;
      Would announce to all more loudly,
    Canada! thy nation’s life;
      And on land, when bells are ringing
    To acclaim the end of strife,
      When with joy each heart is singing;
    Canada! is this thy flag?
      Welding race and race together,
    Waving from each roof and crag,
      East and West, one nation ever!




ENGLAND’S OLDEST COLONY.


    [A]Newfoundland is proud to be
    England’s oldest colony!
    Loving her dear motherland,
    By her side she takes her stand,
    Devon, Scotch and Irish stock,
    Sturdy as their seagirt rock,
    Leave their homes and leave their boats,
    Don the khaki-coloured coats.
    Newfoundland has fought and bled,
    Far and wide her fame has spread,
    Newfoundland is proud to be
    England’s oldest colony!

    Nine fair sisters in one home,
    With the North Pole on its dome,
    Facing both the East and West,
    And a friendly State abreast,
    Smile upon the lonely one.
    They have done as she has done,
    Fought and bled in freedom’s cause,
    Won like her the world’s applause.
    Will she join her home to theirs?
    No, her head in scorn she rears,
    Newfoundland is proud to be
    England’s oldest colony!

    But the offer’s most sincere;
    And the offer’s always there;
    Newfoundland may change her mind,
    And in time she too may find,
    Burdens shared are light to bear,
    Triumphs shared are doubly dear,
    She may gladly join the sheaf
    Bound around by maple leaf,
    Knowing well she still may boast,
    Answering her sisters’ toast:
    “Newfoundland is proud to be
    England’s oldest colony!”

 [A] The name of “Newfoundland” is never pronounced by its inhabitants
 or their neighbors of the Maritime Provinces with the accent on the
 middle syllable, as is the usage elsewhere. It is pronounced as though
 written “Newf’n’land,” with the principal stress on the last syllable.




IN FORT-BOUND METZ.

July 26th, 1914.


    Neat uniformed, with close cropped head and fierce moustache,
    Near us they dined one July day in fort-bound Metz.
    We could not catch their words; but we could see and feel
    Their strong excitement, breaking forth, then held in check,
    Then breaking forth afresh as some new health was drunk.
    The joy, imprinted on their faces, spread to ours.
    We laughed in turn as they; but knew not why we laughed.
    It was indeed a merry meal in which we shared,
    That July day, in fort-bound Metz.
    Next day, in France, we were to know at what we laughed
    With those large built, full blooded German men of rank,
    For when we asked a grieving woman why she wept,
    She sobbed: “Because the Germans will make war on France!”




THE CALM THAT COMES WITH YEARS.


    I cannot write of turmoil, I cannot write of strife,
    Long since has gone the passion, I used to think was life.
    A calmness rests upon me, a calm I cannot break,
    Though worlds are trembling round me and freedom is at stake.

    Because I have no sorrows, because my heart’s at rest,
    I cannot weep with others, whose hearts are not so blest;
    I tremble for no hero upon the fields of France,
    I cannot curse the Nero who planned this gory dance.

    Though woman fast is winning her place in Council Halls,
    By work where talent leads her, by work where mercy calls,
    I feel no keen elation to know her triumph’s near,
    A triumph most unselfish, a heavier weight to bear.

    The calm that rests upon me, the calm that comes with years,
    Suggests that man’s impatience is the cause of most he fears,
    Suggests that war’s upheaval is but the anvil clink,
    The welding by the Forger of yet another link
    In that great chain of progress that binds successive time,
    From chaos on to order, and then to heights sublime!




GOING WEST.


        A pulsing silence shrouds me round
        Like waves one feels, but hears no sound,
        Then slowly, as from realms above,
        There come soft whispered words of love.

        And something presses on my heart,
        Of my own self it seems a part,
        So very close I feel--her head--
        And now I know she is not dead!

        I try to break the secret charm
        That weighs upon my nerveless arm,
        I want to hold my love so close
        She will not wander whilst I doze.

        I think I fell asleep,
        The silence seemed more deep,
        I could not catch the beat
        The noiseless waves repeat.

        Again there comes that soundless sound,
        The heavy, ceaseless, rythmic pound.
        Is it the throb of worlds alive?
        Is it the hum of some near hive?

        My own tired pulse may be the cause
        Of what is more like faint applause,
        Of what might be a funeral drum
        So muffled to be almost dumb.

        But no, that pressure on my heart
        Reminds me, with a sudden dart
        Of pain, so keen it seems to thrill,
        That my dear love is by me still.

        And now I understand
        The meaning of that band,
        Her heart is beating time
        In unison with mine.

           *       *       *       *       *

        Again those words of love I hear,
        But now they are so very near,
        They’re telling me of deeds I’ve done
        And of the wished for cross I’ve won!

        So after all my life’s not lost,
        Amidst that fiery holocaust,
        I’ve done what I was meant to do,
        What matter if the fight’s not through!

        My little love your head is pressed
        Too close upon my burning breast,
        And yet it seems, that while you press,
        The pain is growing less and less.

        Perhaps I’m going west,
        I’m tired, I want to rest,
        My breathing’s slow and deep,
        I’m sinking fast asleep--

           *       *       *       *       *

    In shell tossed No Man’s Land they saw him, lying
    Unconscious, smiling in his sleep, but dying--
    His broken arm hung limp, a mortal wound
    Gaped wide above his heart, on which they found,
    Tight pressed, the picture of his youthful bride,
    Whose grave is swept by ocean’s restless tide.




PERFECT IN THY PROMISE.


    Perfect in thy promise, as the bud unfolding,
        Perfect in thyself, as rose fresh blown,
    Ever gracious, all that’s pure and good upholding,
        Perfect spirit, hast thou really flown?

    Must I spend alone the many, many morrows,
        Void of blissful hopes together spanned,
    Hopes of service in assuaging others’ sorrows,
        Hopes of varied joys together planned?

    No, these heavy mourning weeds I’ll cast asunder,
        Struggle through the clouds that wrap me round,
    Close my ears to their unholy, fearsome thunder,
        Spring anew to life from grief unbound.

    Perfect spirit, now I know that thou art near me;
        In thy tender love I rest content,
    Trusting in that love to cheer, and help, and steer me,
        Till I too have climbed life’s steep ascent!




ARMAGEDDON.


    The Armageddon of the ages,
    In pent up wrath and fury rages,
    And little souls like children cry,
    And little souls are asking why.

    The Armageddon of the ages,
    The Lord of all, in pity stages,
    That little souls may grow in grace,
    That little souls may know His face.

    The Armageddon of the ages,
    Foretold by holy men and sages,
    The last and greatest fight of all--
    When good shall win, and evil fall,
    When nation shall clasp hands with nation
    In universal federation!




THE FAIRIES.


    Merrily the fairies march,
      In and out,
      Round about,
    Where toadstools in magic row
    Mark their course by moonlight glow.
      In and out,
      Round about,
    Waving music with their wands,
    Cheerful little vagabonds,
    Knowing nought of care or duty,
    Living but for play and beauty,
    Dancing in the moonshine hours,
    They will hide from sun and showers.

    No one seeks the fairies now,
      They’re forgotten with our joys,
      They’re forgotten with our toys,
    No one seeks the fairies now.




THE SOLDIERS.


    Sternly march the soldier men,
        Straight ahead,
        Where they’re led,
    Ready for self-sacrifice,
    Braving death in any guise.
        Straight ahead,
        Where they’re led,
    Sternly march the splendid hosts,
    Never flinching from their posts,
    Facing frightful odds at first,
    When o’er peaceful lands war burst,
    Beating back the hated foe
    With a strong united blow.

    Thinking of our soldier men
        There’s no duty we will shirk,
        Rain or shine will stop no work,
    Thinking of our soldier men.




NO TEARS.


    For a hero’s death, no tears!
    He fought for lasting peace,
    But everlasting peace he’s won;
    It might be troubled if I wept.




“MON REPOS.”


    “Mon Repos” he called our home,
    Meaning his and mine.
    He has gone, our home has gone;
    But “Mon Repos” still shelters me.




“AS WE FORGIVE.”[B]


    On Belgic dunes the sun is gayly shining
      And little children can forget--and play;
    A jolly band with smiles and arms entwining
      Are running through the sands and lose their way.

    They stop their frolicking and rather weary
      They chance upon a road where, looking round,
    They see the perfect Son of gentle Mary
      Resigned upon His cross though pierced and bound.

    At His dear feet, in prayer, they closely snuggle
      And chant the words of Him they all adore,
    But “trespasses” reminding them, they struggle
      To finish, hesitate, can say no more.

    A step is heard, a presence felt that captures
      The stammered words, and firmly all repeat
    The Pater Noster to its end. What raptures!
      Their hero King! they see and humbly greet.

 [B] Suggested by a pretty story of King Albert that has filtered
 through from martyred Belgium.




THE CREW.


    O’er the moving waters of the Horicon[C]
      Comes a gentle breeze,
    Throwing kisses to its ripples,
      Flirting with the trees,
    Blowing whiffs of scented clover,
      Whiffs of sweetest peas.

    On the moving waters of the Horicon
      Comes a red canoe,
    Bearing Cupid, with an arrow
      Pointed at the crew,
    Sharing youthful dreams together,
      In that red canoe!

 [C] “The Horicon,” meaning tail lake, is the Indian name given by
 Cooper to Lake George.




IN A TRAIN.


    A lonesome landscape, brown and grey,
        And chilled with flakes of smutchy snow,
    So grimly dull that every ray
        Of setting sun forgets its glow;

    But in the train I sit with one.
        Who clears my thoughts of wintry gloom;
    She laughs!--and now a midday sun
        Is coaxing summer flowers to bloom!




THE BALLAD OF A BUGABOO.[D]


    In Aachen Town, in olden days,
      There dwelt a demon beast,
    Whose special prey was roysterers
      Returning from a feast.

    By day, he lurked in caverns deep
      Where sulphur waters boil,
    And dreamt of evil men and deeds,
      Whilst resting from his toil.

    By night he issued from the spring,
      And those, who saw him, said:
    “His body long and shaggy seemed
      With oddly flattened head.

    His eyes burned like two fiery moons
      That paled the Queen of Night,
    And when he opened wide his mouth
      His teeth gleamed sharp and white.

    His tail, which brushed the ground, was decked
      With phosphorescent scales,
    And yet his paws were like a bear’s
      With long, protruding nails.”

    His head and legs were wreathed in chains,
      Which rattled as he went
    Along the narrow, winding streets
      On pranks and mischief bent.

    He gambolled like a monstrous calf
      Of breed unknown and strange,
    And drunken men were filled with fear
      Who happened on his range.

    His egress led along the drain,
      Whence comes, from far below,
    The boiling, seething sulphur stream
      Whose waters ever flow.

    Before the large Bath House was built,
      A wide canal was made
    To hold this healing flood, and there,
      Beneath the beech trees shade,

    The poorer women washed their clothes
      Without a thought of fear;
    Though echoes rattling through the drain
      Announced the beast was near.

    They felt no fear, for demons shun
      The honest light of day,
    But as the night came stealing on
      They were afraid to stay,

    Although the beast was never known
      To take a single life,
    Was never even known to touch
      A child or maid or wife.

    He seldom either sought his prey
      Before the midnight hour,
    And then the haunts of vice and mirth
      Around about he’d scour.

    Ah, woe betide! the jovial youth
      Or greybeard steeped in shame,
    Whose shuffling walk and glassy eye
      Proclaim from whence he came.

    The demon beast with gliding gait
      Would follow on his track,
    With sudden spring would seize his prey
      And hang upon his back.

    The more the victim fought and reeled,
      The heavier hung the beast,
    The more the victim cursed or prayed,
      The closer clung the beast.

    The wretched man now sought his home
      Beneath this awful load,
    With beads of sweat upon his brow
      He oft mistook the road.

    At last, at last he reached his goal,
      Worn out by pain and fear,
    And as he passed within his home--
      The beast would disappear.

    With rattling and with clanking chains
      The demon gambolled off,
    Avoiding church and crucifix,
      To seek the sulphur trough;

    But if another maudlin man
      There chanced upon his way,
    Most gladly would he turn aside
      To grapple yet more prey.

    Then moans and groans began afresh,
      As this new victim found
    He too must turn from wrong to right,
      By sad repentance bound!

 [D] The Baakauf--a legend of Charlemagne’s Day.




OUR ART.


    To be great is not our fate
    So we try to gain applause,
    To attract, by being in fact,
    What perhaps we really are,
    Somewhat hazy, if not quite crazy.

    See the pictures which we hang,
    Daubs of paint, now bright, now faint,
    Houses leaning, quaint designs,
    Figures queer and how we sneer
    At what the common people like!

    Though our verse may seem too terse,
    Somewhat odd and not quite nice;
    Yet it’s fine, each single line,
    Free from metre and from rhyme,
    It’s intense, without much sense!

    Music may be passing strange,
    Tunes appear, then disappear
    In a hurricane of sound,
    Now a squeak, a louder shriek,
    Rockets bursting, grand finale!

    With clasped hands the critic stands
    Talking much of atmosphere,
    Looking wise through half-closed eyes,
    He reveals our very soul.
    With disdain for all that’s plain
    He explains our meaning well;
    Listeners smile, they love his style
    As they love our modern art,
    Whose true tone, we can’t disown,
    Only mystics understand!




ON READING SOME IMAGIST VERSES.


    Sensuous cadences
    Poignant with feeling,
    Writhing like snakes
    Before feeding,
    Coiling, uncoiling,
    In magical curves.

    Words most expressive,
    Which sound like their meaning,
    Throwing pictures before us,
    In beauty revealing
    Form, movement and feeling;
    Words chosen with care
    And yet some may ask,
    Leading where?
    Leading where?




THE MIND OF THE MYSTIC.


    Caverns deep and fathomless,
    Heights too steep for thought to climb,
    Mazes whose key is ecstacy,
    Music too sweet for words to speak,
    Visions that fleet through aerial dreams,
    Woe so drear no hopes can cheer,
    Joy that comes with boundless love
    Rippling from its source above!




A MONTREAL LULLABY.


    The swishing of passing motors,
        The rumbling of city cars,
    The click and the clack of horses
        That sharply accent the bars,
    The boom of important freighters,
        The whiz of the swifter train
    Which slows, with a hushing whisper
        To toot of canal refrain.

    And, striking its note of rawness,
        The hoot of the motor horn
    Is shrieking erratic discord,
        To show its true Georgian scorn
    Of soothing Victorian rhythm;
        As sweetly and softly chimes
    The old English clock in hallway.
        Its tick and its tick make rhymes.

    And I sink into slumber
    Counting slowly their number,
    Tick tick--tick tick--tick--




L’ESPERANCE.


    La nuit, en pleurs, s’évanouit,
    D’un air vainqueur le jour s’avance,
    Et le rayon de l’espérance
    Chasse les craintes de la nuit.

    Les oiseaux font leur joyeux bruit,
    La douleur repose sa lance,
    La nuit, en pleurs, s’évanouit,
    D’un air vainqueur le jour s’avance.

    L’éclat du soleil éblouit,
    Zéphyr riant rompt le silence,
    Un chant d’amour au ciel s’élance,
    Et dans les yeux le bonheur luit,
    La nuit, en pleurs, s’évanouit.




MY LAKE.


    I love the stillness of my lake
        With silent mountains round,
    Their peaks denoting lofty thought
        Scarce held by earthly bound.

    I love the clearness of my lake
        Reflecting Heaven’s blue,
    Symbolic of the pure of heart,
        Absorbing grace anew.

    I love the clouds above my lake
        Of filmy grey and white,
    As transient as the grief of those
        Who’ve learnt to live aright!




A SCIENTIFIC PUZZLE.


    The vast and cold expanse of boundless space
    Where worlds, revolving in a ceaseless race,
    Are born in fire, and slowly grow to prime,
    Then cool to death in aeon’s endless time:
    In space so vast could seeds of life survive
    And reach another younger world alive,
    If wafted, dustwise, from a world grown old,
    Whilst lulled to deathless sleep by freezing cold?

                        Or,

    Sunk in a meteor, hurling through space,
    Flung from a broken star on its mad race;
    Hurling through space ever heading for earth,
    Rider momentous! hold fast to your berth,
    Cling to your crevace in meteor’s side,
    Life of a planet depends on this ride!
    Last of one world, to be first of another,
    Germ most amazing, of all germs the mother,
    Strengthen yourself, for your luminous steed
    Generates heat from his furious speed,
    Strengthen yourself to withstand the fierce jar,
    When the swift meteor, rushing from far,
    Dashes in frenzy, indenting the earth,
    Shaking you free from your perilous berth.

                        Then,

    Feeding on water and warmed by the sun,
    Germ of all living, where life there was none,
    Energy gaining, dividing in twain,
    Wonders and wonders will come in their train.
    Life on this planet is now well begun,
    Ever evolving, its course it must run
    Till at length man can commune with his mate,
    Looking to God to explain his strange fate.

                        For,

            Even if true, there is ever the whence?
                The why? the how?
            God of all Mystery! God of all Truth!
                To Thee, we bow!




THE GOOD OLD DAYS.


    In the evening
    Mysteries come creeping into our garden,
    And the slanting beams of the settling sun
    Enhance, by their mellowing glow,
    The loveliness of trees and lawns and flowers.
    The weeds now have their hour of beauty,
    The dying cedar hedge is fashioned of golden tissue,
    The falling apple blossoms are fairy butterflies,
    And the peace of God
    Enfolds the troubled heart of man!

    As the evening of life draws on,
    Memory, the wonder worker, casts her magic spell
    Over the past, with its strivings and failures,
    Its sorrows and hardships,
    Mingling them with its joys and successes,
    Till “the good old days” become as perfect
    As our garden,
    In the twilight hour!




AT LENNOX.


The silver birch, on the mountain top, laughed for sheer joy of being
alive!

She looked down on the valley and saw the peaceful farms and the green
meadow, where man’s only labour was driving a ball from hole to hole,
and beyond she saw the gentle slopes of wooded hills and the pure gold
of the setting sun and she was happy, for was not all this created just
for her!

So she laughed, and every leaf fluttered for joy!




THE FLOWER OF TRUE HAPPINESS.


The Flower of Happiness grows in the fields of the Poor and in the
gardens of the Rich and may be gathered by all who want it and have the
will to reach for it. It hangs high up on the Tree of Life though, and
many never see it at all. They are so busy digging for gold or weeping
over graves, they forget to look up. Even amongst those who do see it
many are afraid to pluck it, fearing its beauty and fragrance might
injure their souls. Others strive for it; but the rock, on which they
stand, is so overlaid with greed and lust that, when the Flower is
within their reach, they slip, clutching but a broken stalk.

A few only, with their feet firmly planted on the plane of moderation
and their faces turned towards God, gather this wondrous Flower. At
moments it may wilt; but the true Flower always revives, and whiffs of
its sweetness go to gladden many hearts as they, who have plucked it,
walk amongst their fellow-men.




THE MOUNTAIN TOP.


A man of mature years and thoughtful mien was slowly ascending the
mountain slopes when he met the good minister, with prayer book under
arm, on his way to church.

“My dear sir,” said the latter, “your steps have passed the House of
God, and this the Sabbath morn!”

The other answered: “The house of man, you mean. I go to the House of
God, the mountain top, with its foundation of finite rock and its roof
of infinite space; and there, from the finite my soul aspires to the
infinite, from sin to perfection, from the known to the ideal, from
disorder to harmony, from man to God.”

“This too, I preach,” said the good minister.

“And so do the Rabbi, the Brahman and the priests of the many religions
and sects of this world,” replied the other. “But each explains the
great mystery in his own way and the many ways confuse me and so, as
alone I must one day meet my God, alone now I seek Him on the mountain
top.”

“Let not our many ways trouble you,” said the good minister, with a
kindly smile. “If you really have our common goal in your heart, you
need not climb to the mountain top to find the House of God; because
then you will know it is everywhere, as God is everywhere!”




CHARITY.


A lovable and beautiful maid was Charity, yet withal thoughtless and
somewhat vain. She was admired and “God-blessed” by all men, for what
beggar did she ever repulse! And for each coin she dropped into a
beggar’s hand, what treasure was she not storing up for herself in the
wonderful kingdom to come!

But some of the beggars began to whisper among themselves that it was
not fair that she should receive such great reward for doing so very
little, and that the scattered coins vanished almost as soon as they
touched their outstretched hands, and that misery was everywhere.

At last these murmurings reached Charity herself and they bewildered
her. So she looked more closely at the beggars and she saw here a blind
one, there a lame one, and many, many who were sick and weary, and her
heart was touched. So she came down from her pedestal and soothed and
comforted the needy, even finding cures for a few of them. Now she was
admired and loved more than ever, and greater than ever she felt was
that future reward she was heaping up for herself.

But some of the beggars again began to whisper that everything was not
right, that perhaps after all it was not Charity they wanted, and again
Charity heard, and she looked at the beggars yet more closely and she
found in every face the promise of something better, if she could but
reach it. So she called all the Sciences and all the Arts to her aid and
for long they communed together. Then the Sciences and the Arts went to
work, accompanied by a sweet and perfect Charity, who now sought her
only reward in her power to serve and to love, and they found the roots
of the many evils that beset the world and one by one they destroyed
them.

No angry whisperings now, no gruesome beggars more; but soft laughter
and willing helpers everywhere abound.








End of Project Gutenberg's The Flag and Other Poems, by Amy Redpath Roddick

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 51212 ***