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diff --git a/old/54601-0.txt b/old/54601-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 3805048..0000000 --- a/old/54601-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,18953 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Treasury of Canadian Verse with Brief -Biographical Notes, by Theodore Harding Rand - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: A Treasury of Canadian Verse with Brief Biographical Notes - -Author: Theodore Harding Rand - -Release Date: April 25, 2017 [EBook #54601] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A TREASURY OF CANADIAN VERSE *** - - - - -Produced by Larry B. Harrison, Ralph and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - - - - -Transcriber's Note: - -Punctuation and possible typographical errors have been changed. - -Archaic, variable and inconsistent spelling and hyphenation have been -preserved. - -Italic text is denoted by _underscores_. - -Inconsistencies in spelling and sequence of author names and poem -titles in Table of Contents, body, Notes of Authors and Index of First -Lines have been retained. - - - - - A TREASURY OF - CANADIAN VERSE - - - - - For English natures, freemen, friends, - Thy brothers and immortal souls. - - _--Love thou thy Land._ - - - - -[Illustration: Title Page] - - A TREASURY - - OF - - CANADIAN VERSE - - WITH BRIEF BIOGRAPHICAL - NOTES - - SELECTED AND EDITED BY - - THEODORE H. RAND - - D.C.L. - - AUTHOR OF - - 'AT MINES BASIN AND OTHER POEMS' - - [Illustration: Decoration] - - NEW YORK: E. P. DUTTON & CO. - LONDON: J. M. DENT & CO. - - 1900 - - - - -_All rights reserved_ - - - - - THIS ANTHOLOGY OF ENGLISH-CANADIAN VERSE - - IS INSCRIBED WITH AFFECTIONATE ADMIRATION - - TO - - LOUIS FRÉCHETTE - - LL.D., F.R.S. CAN. - - C.M.G. - - THE LAMARTINE OF CANADA - - - - -PREFACE - - -To one opening this book for the first time, it may be permissible -to say that the verse included in the volume does not treat solely -nor chiefly of Canadian themes. While Canadian environment and life -necessarily supply the note of inspiration and impart its timbre and -accent, the thought and emotion are of wide range, and seek response in -the universal heart. - -The practical energies of the Canadian people are abundantly attested -by extensive systems of railways and canals, a wide commerce, systems -of free public education in the several provinces and territories, -liberal facilities for the higher education of men and women, and an -enterprising and influential press. Thirty-two years have passed since -the organization of the Dominion of Canada. These years have witnessed -great progress in civil and social institutions, and no unworthy -beginning of an adequate development of the illimitable material -resources of Canada's vast domain. It is noteworthy, as marking the -quality of life of the people, that from the earliest settlement of -the several provinces there have not been wanting public evidences of -the presence of the scientific and literary spirit. The latter has -expressed itself both in prose and verse, and in these recent years -there is an increased activity in literary production commensurate with -the expanding life of Canada. - -It has been my purpose to present worthy specimens of English-Canadian -verse, selected from the entire field of our history. Such a -collection should be of interest, not only to Canadians, but to all -English-speaking peoples. Here are reflected the singular loveliness -of our evanescent spring, the glow and luxuriant life of our hasting -summer, the sensuous glory of our autumn, and the tingle of our frosty -air and the white winter's cheer. Every form and aspect of natural -beauty is, in some degree, caught and expressed--sometimes in homely, -sometimes in classical phrase; often with striking simplicity, and -generally with much purity of thought and an authentic note. A sane -and wholesome spirit is characteristic of the verse, and its spiritual -quality seems to me to be of a high order. The sympathetic reader will -notice a marked pictorial use of nature in some of the specimens given, -as well as a sensuous delight in nature itself, depicted, as it is, -with true feeling and not infrequently with an almost flawless art. He -will notice also that nature is often humanized, and tenderness, love -and pity, and the subtle problems of man's life and existence, are -enshrined in original and poetic similitudes to the melody of haunting -music. Nor are there altogether wanting instances of that insight -and vision which beholds the phenomenal and cosmic with rapt wonder -as awesome beauty-gleams, radiant symbols, or sublime manifestations -of the immanent and loving One in whom all things consist. Great -personalities, high achievement, and noble character, also, have -inspired Canadian song. From the earliest to the latest singer, a -glowing devotion to native land and a loyal and loving reverence -for our gracious Sovereign are characteristic notes. If it should -appear that the abundant verse inspired by these latter motives is -insufficiently represented in this anthology, it may suffice to say -that such verse is already widely known and is not by any means the -highest product of the Canadian muse. Room has been made for the less -hackneyed and richer inspirations of our poets--the virgin freshness -and promise of our country; the life and deeds of men everywhere; the -yearnings of the individual soul; and the aspirations of a people after -the noblest and the divinest. These, with domestic loves, have kindled -our singers to beautiful expression that demands a wider appreciation, -as supplying sustenance and stimulus essential to fulness of national -and imperial life. It will be observed that not only in recent verse, -but also in that of nearly fifty years ago, Canadian poets have given -expression to Anglo-centric conceptions and aspirations, divining with -poetic insight the coming good. - -While the selections have been carefully made, it will be apparent that -some verse has been included whose chief claim to recognition is found -in local and popular associations. It should also be said that much -popular verse has been excluded, in order that the volume be kept of -usable form and size. It did not fall within the plan of this anthology -to include sacred and devotional lyrics, otherwise not a few hymns must -have found a place, notably Joseph Scriven's "What a Friend we have in -Jesus," known as widely as the language is spoken. - -The printing together of the selections from any author has been -advisedly adopted, as affording a greater variety and interest than -could be secured by an abstract or logical classification of the verse -of the entire volume. The convenience of an alphabetical order of -authors is apparent, while the dates supplied in the _Notes_ afford -ample chronology. Here and there the reader may find unfilled dates of -birth or death, or unexpanded initials of names, but all reasonable -effort has been made to furnish complete and trustworthy information. - -I wish to express my gratitude to Mr. Charles C. James, M.A., Deputy -Minister of Agriculture for Ontario, who has given me free access to -his valuable and extensive collection of the works of Canadian poets; -to Mr. James Bain, Jr., of the Toronto Public Library, for special -facilities for inspecting the excellent collection in his charge; -and to Mr. E. S. Caswell, of the publishing house of William Briggs, -for many courtesies, and specially for aid in procuring well-nigh -inaccessible materials for examination. To the many persons who have so -cordially responded to letters of inquiry, and whom I may not thank by -name, I express my acknowledgments. The following special works have -been of service: _Selections from Canadian Poets_ (1864), by Edward -Hartley Dewart; _The Canadian Birthday Book_ (1887), by Seranus; _Songs -of the Great Dominion_ (1889), by William Douw Lighthall, M.A., and -Morgan's _Canadian Men and Women of the Time_. - -Special thanks are rendered to the authors who have permitted the use -of their poems, and to the various publishers for copyright permission. -I regret that I was unable to secure permission to include any poems by -Mr. William Wilfred Campbell. Perhaps the selections from my own verse -should not appear in the volume. Their inclusion, it is proper to say, -is in deference to the wishes of persons of acknowledged taste, rather -than to any desire of my own. - -A Canadian by birth, education, and life-service, as were my father and -his father, my mother and her mother, I may be pardoned the expression -of a feeling of national pride that the materials are so abundant from -which to prepare a representative volume, much of whose contents will -not suffer by comparison with the verse of older countries. I trust -that this anthology may serve as an open door through which the voices -of Canadian singers may vibrate yet more widely on sympathetic ears -both at home and abroad. - - T. H. R. - - TORONTO, CANADA, - _February. 1900_. - - - - -AUTHORS AND SELECTIONS - - - PAGE - - THE WHITETHROAT (T. H. R.) 1 - - - A - - MARGARET H. ALDEN-- - Mother's World 2 - - JOSEPH ANTISELL ALLEN-- - _From_ "Daydreams" 2 - - GRANT ALLEN-- - Only an Insect 3 - - WILLIAM TALBOT ALLISON-- - "There sat the Women weeping for Thammuz" 6 - The Men of the North 8 - Vanishings 8 - - SOPHIE M. ALMON-HENSLEY-- - Content 9 - Song 10 - There is no God 11 - - DUNCAN ANDERSON-- - The Death of Wolfe 11 - Sport 17 - - ALICE M. ARDAGH-- - Sic Passim 20 - - ISIDORE G. ASCHER-- - By the Firelight 22 - - - B - - SAMUEL MATHEWSON BAYLIS-- - In Matabele Land 23 - The Coureur-de-Bois 25 - - JOHN WILSON BENGOUGH-- - Sir John A. Macdonald 26 - Restitution 27 - - CRAVEN LANGSTROTH BETTS-- - In Memoriam 28 - Chaucer 30 - Pope 30 - - BLANCHE BISHOP-- - The Bride o' the Sun 31 - Winter Flowers 31 - Christmas Morn 32 - - EDWARD BLACKADDER-- - Annapolis Royal 33 - - JEAN BLEWETT-- - The Two Marys 33 - She just keeps house for me 35 - At Quebec 36 - - JOHN BREAKENRIDGE-- - The Troubadour 36 - - JOHN HENRY BROWN-- - The Parliament of Man 38 - A Sunset 40 - - EDWARD BURROUGH BROWNLOW-- - The Whippoorwill 40 - The Sonnet 41 - - - C - - GEORGE FREDERICK CAMERON-- - The Golden Text 41 - Is there a God? 43 - On Tiptoe 43 - What matters it? 43 - - BLISS CARMAN-- - Low Tide on Grand Pré 45 - The Gravedigger 46 - The Crimson House 48 - Hack and Hew 49 - Phillips Brooks 51 - The White Gull 52 - - AMOS HENRY CHANDLER-- - When Dora died 59 - - EDWARD J. CHAPMAN-- - A Summer Night 60 - - ANNIE ROTHWELL CHRISTIE-- - The Woman's Part 63 - After the Battle 64 - Welcome Home 66 - - GEORGE HERBERT CLARKE-- - Skater and Wolves 67 - To a Butterfly 68 - Resentment 69 - Ecclesiastes 69 - A Child's Evening Hymn 69 - - HUGH COCHRAN-- - Ideal 70 - - HEREWARD K. COCKIN-- - The Death of Burnaby 70 - - SARA JEANETTE DUNCAN COTES-- - The Poet 72 - - ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD-- - The Master-Builder 73 - The Axe of the Pioneer 73 - _From_ "The Helot" 74 - The Sword 76 - "These Three" 77 - - FRANCIS BLAKE CROFTON-- - The Battle-Call of Anti-Christ 78 - - JOHN ALLISTER CURRIE-- - My Mother 81 - - MARGARET GILL CURRIE-- - By the St John 81 - - SARAH ANNE CURZON-- - Visit of the Prince of Wales to Laura Secord 83 - Invocation to Rain 85 - - - D - - NICHOLAS FLOOD DAVIN-- - _From_ "Eos" 87 - - A. B. DE MILLE-- - The Ice King 89 - Ballad 91 - - JAMES DE MILLE-- - _From_ "Behind the Veil" 92 - - EDWARD HARTLEY DEWART-- - Shadows on the Curtain 96 - On the Ottawa 97 - - FREDERICK AUGUSTUS DIXON-- - A Feather's Message 98 - Hinc Illæ Lachrymæ 99 - - WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND-- - The Habitant's Jubilee Ode 101 - - JOHN HUNTER DUVAR-- - John A'Var's Last Lay 104 - The Minnesingers Lied 106 - How Balthazar the King went down into Egypt 107 - - - E - - ARTHUR WENTWORTH HAMILTON EATON-- - The Egyptian Lotus 109 - Purple Asters 110 - Deepening the Channel 111 - The Phantom Light of the Baie des Chaleurs 112 - The Meadow Lands 113 - My Purest Longings spring 114 - I watch the Ships 114 - - JAMES DAVID EDGAR-- - This Canada of Ours 116 - - - F - - CONSTANCE FAIRBANKS-- - The Junction 117 - Halifax 117 - Those far-off fields 118 - - JOSEPH KEARNEY FORAN-- - The Aurora Borealis 118 - - WILLIAM HENRY FULLER-- - A Song of the Sea 120 - - - G - - ALEXANDER RAE GARVIE-- - _From_ "Phantasy" 121 - - - H - - PIERCE STEVENS HAMILTON-- - _From_ "The Heroine of St John" 123 - - S. FRANCES HARRISON-- - Villanelle 126 - Chateau Papineau 127 - September 128 - November 128 - - THEODORE ARNOLD HAULTAIN-- - Beauty 129 - - CHARLES HEAVYSEGE-- - Magnanimous and Mean 131 - Night 132 - The Coming of the Morn 132 - The Mystery of Doom 133 - - JOHN FREDERIC HERBIN-- - Simon 133 - The Diver 137 - Across the Dykes 137 - The Sonnet 138 - - ANNIE CAMPBELL HUESTIS-- - Gentle-Breath 138 - The Little White Sun 139 - Twenty-Old and Seven-Wild 140 - - JAMES C. HODGINS-- - Once More 145 - A Greek Reverie 146 - - JOSEPH HOWE-- - The Flag of Old England 147 - The Deserted Nest 148 - - WILLIAM EDWARD HUNT-- - Golden-Rod 141 - The Sea's Influence 142 - The Passing of Summer 142 - - RICHARD HUNTINGTON-- - Sunrise on the Tusket 142 - Louisburg 144 - - - J - - CHARLES EDWIN JAKEWAY-- - An Unfinished Prophecy 149 - - E. PAULINE JOHNSON (Tekahiońwake)-- - The Song my Paddle sings 155 - At Husking Time 156 - Shadow River 157 - Brier 158 - Prairie Greyhounds 159 - - - K - - ROBERT KIRKLAND KERNIGHAN-- - The Song of the Thaw 160 - Peepy is not dead 161 - - WILLIAM KIRBY-- - The Marquis of Lorne's visit to the North-West 162 - At Spencer Grange 163 - _From_ "The Sparrows" 163 - - MATTHEW RICHEY KNIGHT-- - Jacques Cartier 166 - Sovereign Moments 167 - The Mercy of God 167 - - - L - - ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN-- - The Railway Station 168 - Outlook 168 - Among the Millet 169 - The Loons 169 - The Sun Cup 170 - After Rain 170 - June 172 - September 174 - The Goal of Life 177 - - MARY JANE KATZMANN LAWSON-- - The Face in the Cathedral 177 - - SOPHIA V. GILBERT LEE-- - The Brook 180 - - LILY ALICE LEFEVRE-- - Imprisoned 180 - Inspiration 181 - - R. E. MULLINS LEPROHON-- - The Huron Chief's Daughter 182 - - WILLIAM DOUW LIGHTHALL-- - The Artist's Prayer 184 - The Sweet Star 186 - My Native Land 186 - - STUART LIVINGSTON-- - The Volunteers of '85 187 - To E. N. L. 188 - The King's Fool 189 - Keats 192 - - ARTHUR JOHN LOCKHART-- - Acadie 192 - The Waters of Carr 193 - The Lonely Pine 194 - - BURTON WELLESLEY LOCKHART-- - _From_ "The Retrospect" 196 - Love and Song 197 - By the Gaspereau 197 - - JOHN E. LOGAN-- - The Indian Maid's Lament 198 - - - M - - AGNES MAULE MACHAR-- - William Ewart Gladstone 199 - Schiller's Dying Vision 200 - Love and Faith 202 - A Madonna of the Entry 202 - - EVAN MACCOLL-- - The Child of Promise 204 - Glenorchy 205 - - ELIZABETH ROBERTS MACDONALD-- - A Song of Seasons 205 - - JOHN MACFARLANE-- - The Two Angels 206 - A Grave in Samoa 207 - A Midsummer Madrigal 208 - - KATE SEYMOUR MACLEAN-- - Ballad of the Mad Ladye 208 - Bird Song 210 - - ELIZABETH S. MACLEOD-- - Alexander Mackenzie 211 - - A. D. MACNEILL-- - The Sea-Gull 212 - - DONALD M'CAIG-- - The Tramp 213 - - JAMES M'CARROLL-- - A Royal Race 215 - Dawn 216 - The Grey Linnet 216 - - WILLIAM M'DONNELL-- - _From_ "Manita" 217 - - BERNARD M'EVOY-- - A Photograph in a Shop Window 218 - Revised Proofs 218 - - THOMAS D'ARCY M'GEE-- - Our Ladye of the Snow 219 - - WILLIAM P. M'KENZIE-- - Moonlight 224 - Gabrielle 224 - The Mother's Song 225 - Lullaby Song 226 - - ALEXANDER M'LACHLAN-- - Indian Summer 227 - Bobolink 229 - The Man who rose from Nothing 230 - - JOHN M'PHERSON-- - The Mayflower 231 - In the Woods 232 - - CHARLES MAIR-- - Untamed 233 - The Voice of the Pines 234 - The Humming Bird 236 - Innocence 236 - - GEORGE MARTIN-- - Shelley 238 - To My Canary Bird 238 - Laleet 240 - - HELEN M. MERRILL-- - The Blue Flower 241 - At Edgewater 243 - The Promise of Spring 243 - Sun-Gold 244 - - SUSANNA MOODIE-- - The Maple Tree 244 - The Fisherman's Light 247 - - MARY MORGAN-- - "In apprehension, so like a God" 247 - Charity 248 - Life 248 - - IRENE ELDER MORTON-- - Browning 249 - Completeness 250 - My Garden Wall 251 - In June 252 - Song of the Pagan Princess 254 - Song 254 - - CHARLES PELHAM MULVANEY-- - Poppœa 255 - - GEORGE MURRAY-- - The Thistle 256 - - - N - - H. M. NICKERSON-- - A Recollection 260 - - - O - - CORNELIUS O'BRIEN-- - St Cecilia 261 - - THOMAS O'HAGAN-- - Ripened Fruit 261 - The Song My Mother Sings 262 - - - P - - HORATIO GILBERT PARKER-- - I loved my Art 264 - It is enough 264 - Their Waving Hands 265 - - AMY PARKINSON-- - The Messenger Hours 265 - - FRANK L. POLLOCK-- - Ad Bellonam 268 - The Trail of Gold 269 - - - R - - ANDREW RAMSAY-- - Jephtha's Daughter 270 - I will not tell 271 - Atkinson's Mill 272 - - THEODORE HARDING RAND-- - The Dragonfly 273 - Beauty 276 - Love 277 - The Hepatica 277 - "I Am" 278 - The Veiled Presence 279 - The Ghost Flower 280 - Glory-Roses 280 - The Carven Shores 281 - - WALTER A. RATCLIFFE-- - Wanted 282 - - JOHN READE-- - Rizpah 283 - Pictures of Memory (i.-iv.) 285 - In My Heart 286 - To Louis Fréchette 288 - Kings of Men 288 - Dominion Day 289 - - ROBERT REID-- - Poesie 290 - A Song of Canada 290 - - CHARLES GEORGE DOUGLAS ROBERTS-- - A Nocturne of Consecration 292 - A Nocturne of Spiritual Love 295 - An Ode for the Canadian Confederacy 296 - Canadian Streams 297 - The Silver Thaw 299 - Epitaph for a Sailor Buried Ashore 300 - The Train among the Hills 301 - A Song of Growth 301 - Sleepy Man 302 - Night in a down-town Street 303 - The Falling Leaves 304 - An Epitaph for a Husbandman 304 - Origins 305 - The Wrestler 306 - Recessional 307 - Ascription 309 - - THEODORE ROBERTS-- - The Spears of Kan-Mar 309 - Cold 310 - The Men of my Heart's Desire 311 - The Chase 312 - - WILLIAM CARMAN ROBERTS-- - History 313 - An Easter Memory 313 - My Comrade Canoe 314 - - GEORGE JOHN ROMANES-- - I ask not for Thy love, O Lord 315 - - CARROLL RYAN-- - _From_ "Malta" 316 - - - S - - CHARLES SANGSTER-- - England and America 318 - A Living Temple 320 - The Illumined Goal 321 - Love's Renewal 321 - 'Tis Summer Still 322 - - DUNCAN CAMPBELL SCOTT-- - The Fifteenth of April 322 - Above St Irénée 323 - Off Rivière Du Loup 325 - The End of the Day 326 - A Flock of Sheep 326 - Memory 327 - Home Song 328 - Life and Death 329 - Ottawa 329 - - FREDERICK GEORGE SCOTT-- - A Reverie 330 - Easter Island 331 - A Dream of the Prehistoric 332 - Dawn 335 - Van Elsen 335 - - CHARLES DAWSON SHANLY-- - The Walker of the Snow 336 - - FRANCIS SHERMAN-- - The Builder 338 - Between the Battles 339 - _From_ "The Prelude" 340 - A Little While before the Fall was done 341 - - GOLDWIN SMITH-- - Flossy to her Mistress 341 - - LYMAN C. SMITH-- - Canada to Columbia 342 - _From_ "A Day with Homer" 343 - - WILLIAM WYE SMITH-- - The Canadians on the Nile 344 - - ALBERT E. STAFFORD SMYTHE-- - The Forgotten Poet 345 - Death the Revealer 346 - - HIRAM LADD SPENCER-- - The River 346 - A Hundred Years to come 347 - - EZRA HURLBURT STAFFORD-- - Chinook 348 - The Strange Vessel 349 - The last Orison 350 - - ALEXANDER CHARLES STEWART-- - _From_ "The Wanderer" 351 - - PHILLIPS STEWART-- - Hope 351 - _From_ "Corydon and Amaryllis" 352 - _From_ "De Profundis" 353 - - BARRY STRATON-- - Love's Harvest 353 - Charity 354 - America 356 - - ARTHUR J. STRINGER-- - A Song in Autumn 356 - Beside the Martyr's Memorial 357 - Canada to England 357 - Beethoven 358 - - ALAN SULLIVAN-- - Venice 359 - The White Canoe 360 - - - T - - BERTRAM TENNYSON-- - Gordon 361 - - EDWARD WILLIAM THOMSON-- - A Day-Dream 363 - The Song-Sparrow 364 - The Bad Year 364 - - JOHN STUART THOMSON-- - The Vale of Estabelle 365 - Even-Time 367 - Late Autumn 368 - - - W - - FRANCIS L. DOMINICK WATERS-- - _From_ "The Water Lily" 369 - - ARTHUR WEIR-- - A Snowshoe Song 370 - Voyageur Song 372 - The Little Trooper 373 - Little Miss Blue Eyes 374 - A Christmas Lullaby 375 - - AGNES ETHELWYN WETHERALD-- - The House of the Trees 376 - At the Window 377 - To February 377 - The Hay Field 378 - - WILLIAM HENRY WITHROW-- - October 379 - Cloud Castles 379 - - R. WALTER WRIGHT-- - Easter Morn 380 - A Still Small Voice 381 - - G. F. W.-- - Sense and Spirit 382 - - - Y - - EVA ROSE YORK-- - I shall not pass this way again 382 - - PAMELIA VINING YULE-- - The Beautiful Artist 384 - Warble thy lays to me 386 - - - NOTES OF AUTHORS 387 - - INDEX OF FIRST LINES 405 - - - - - A TREASURY OF CANADIAN VERSE - - - - - THE WHITETHROAT - - - Shy bird of the silver arrows of song, - That cleave our Northern air so clear, - Thy notes prolong, prolong, - I listen, I hear-- - "I--love--dear--Canada, - Canada, Canada." - - O plumes of the pointed dusky fir, - Screen of a swelling patriot heart, - The copse is all astir - And echoes thy part!... - - Now willowy reeds tune their silver flutes - As the noise of the day dies down; - And silence strings her lutes, - The Whitethroat to crown.... - - O bird of the silver arrows of song, - Shy poet of Canada dear, - Thy notes prolong, prolong, - We listen, we hear-- - "I--love--dear--Canada, - Canada, Canada." - - - - - MARGARET H. ALDEN - - - - - MOTHER'S WORLD - - - Eyes of blue and hair of gold, - Cheeks all brown with summer tan, - Lips that much of laughter hold, - That is mother's little Man. - - Shining curls like chestnut brown, - Long-lashed eyes, demure and staid, - Sweetest face in all the town, - That is mother's little Maid. - - Dainty room with snow-white beds, - Where, like flowers with petals curled, - Rest in peace two dreaming heads, - That--is mother's little World! - - - - - JOSEPH ANTISELL ALLEN - - - - - _From_ "DAY-DREAMS" - - - Ah, what if the mind, - By sense-law confined, - In time, 'neath this stratum of stars, - Secretes by her spell - This fair, wondrous shell - Self-substanced, till bursting the bars - Of chrysalis time, - Free, joyous, sublime, - She mounts the blue space, winged with light, - Where, deep in the soul, - Is mirrored the whole, - As in a calm lake the pure night! - - And what, if the whole - Are things of the soul, - This frame, Earth, bright Moon, garnished Skies, - If from the great Sun - Of spirit are spun - All systems which gravity ties - To their focal source, - By a hidden force - Mysterious, dynamic, unknown-- - A power that controls - Each orb as it rolls, - And links to the great central throne!... - - When the dew-drops shine, - On each sunlit line, - Of gossamer network, on sod - Of emerald green, - In the morning's sheen, - 'Tis a miniature sky-work of God.... - - Arachne how oft, - In the twilight soft, - Seems poised in mid-air; yet some tie - Holds spider, moon, mote, - All known, near, remote, - From mind to yon azure-domed sky! - - - - - GRANT ALLEN - - - - - ONLY AN INSECT - - -I - - On the crimson cloth - Of my study desk - A lustrous moth - Poised statuesque. - Of a waxen mould - Were its light limbs shaped, - And in scales of gold - Its body was draped: - While its luminous wings - Were netted and veined - With silvery strings, - Or golden grained, - Through whose filmy maze - In tremulous flight - Danced quivering rays - Of the gladsome light. - - - II - - On the desk hard by - A taper burned, - Towards which the eye - Of the insect turned. - In its vague little mind - A faint desire - Rose, undefined, - For the beautiful fire. - Lightly it spread - Each silken van; - Then away it sped - For a moment's span. - And a strange delight - Lured on its course - With resistless might - Towards the central source: - And it followed the spell - Through an eddying maze, - Till it fluttered and fell - In the deadly blaze. - - -III - - Dazzled and stunned - By the scalding pain, - One moment it swooned, - Then rose again; - And again the fire - Drew it on with its charms - To a living pyre - In its awful arms; - And now it lies - On the table here - Before my eyes - Shrivelled and sere. - - -IV - - As I sit and muse - On its fiery fate, - What themes abstruse - Might I meditate! - For the pangs that thrilled - Through that martyred frame - As its veins were filled - With the scorching flame, - A riddle enclose - That, living or dead, - In rhyme or in prose, - No seer has read. - "But a moth," you cry, - "Is a thing so small!" - Ah, yes; but why - Should it suffer at all? - Why should a sob - For the vaguest smart - One moment throb - Through the tiniest heart? - Why in the whole - Wide universe - Should a single soul - Feel that primal curse? - Not all the throes - Of mightiest mind, - Nor the heaviest woes - Of human kind, - Are of deeper weight - In the riddle of things - Than that insect's fate - With the mangled wings. - - -V - - But if only I - In my simple song - Could tell you the Why - Of that one little wrong, - I could tell you more - Than the deepest page - Of saintliest lore - Or of wisest sage. - For never as yet - In its wordy strife - Could Philosophy get - At the import of life; - And Theology's saws - Have still to explain - The inscrutable cause - For the being of pain. - So I somehow fear - That in spite of both, - We are baffled here - By this one singed moth. - - - - - WILLIAM TALBOT ALLISON - - - - - "THERE SAT THE WOMEN WEEPING FOR THAMMUZ" - - - The days begin to wane, and evening lifts - Her eyes the sooner towards the vales of sleep; - The yellow leaf upon the night-breeze drifts - And winter-voices thunder from the deep; - Thammuz grows pale in death, the Queen of Shades - Mocks sad-eyed Ishtar and her mourning maids. - - Prostrate along the Babylonish halls, - On alabaster floors the women moan, - All unadmired the lilac-tinted walls - Bespangled wantonly, and sculptured stone; - For Thammuz dies; bereft, the Queen of Love; - Melt into tears, O Earth, O Heaven above! - - Let all the Land between the Rivers sigh, - And such as ever danced with throbbing veins - To Ishtar's music, fill the sodden sky, - With lamentation and most doleful strains. - Thammuz is dead; no more the shepherd leads - His golden flock adown Im's jewelled meads. - - Proud Larsam of Chaldean cities blest, - Famed for the glories of her sun-god's home, - Erech, where countless Kings are laid to rest, - And Eridhu, wet with the salt sea-foam;-- - Princes and priests and lustrous maidens there - Sing plaintive hymns to Thammuz, young and fair. - - And out upon Shumir-Accadian plains, - Beneath the orient night, the shepherd boy - Blows from his oaten pipe the sweet refrains - That tell of Ishtar's one-time joy; - Ana, lord of the starry realms of space, - Roams near to earth seeking the warm god's face. - - Yet full-zoned Ishtar will not weep for aye, - Nor will the land forever saddened be; - For Thammuz is not dead, some spring-time day - He will appear in greater majesty: - Chaldean lovers will take heart again, - The Queen of Love will kiss the sons of men. - - - - - THE MEN OF THE NORTH - - - From out the cold house of the north - Thor's stalwart children hurtled forth, - Forsook their sullen seas; - Southward the Gothic waggons rolled, - While bards foretold a realm of gold, - And fame, and boundless ease. - - Loud rang the shields with sounding blows, - The furious din of war arose - Adown the dreary land; - But Woden held them in his ken, - And safely passed the Teuton men - By every hostile band. - - At length, one day, the host was thrilled - At that glad cry the foremost shrilled,-- - "The sea! A southern sea!" - As breathless stood the northmen there, - The wind swept through their yellow hair, - And sang of empery. - - Rome's doom was written in their eyes, - Fell tumult under sunny skies, - Death on the Golden Horn: - Now, by the rood, what southron slaves, - Or land that any south sea laves, - Can face the northern born? - - - - - VANISHINGS - - - The dark has passed, and the chill Autumn morn - Unrolls her faded glories in the fields; - Dead are the gilded air-hosts newly-born, - The hardiest flowers droop their sodden shields, - For lovely Summer hath cut short her stay-- - The fickle goddess, loaded with delight, - Grown wantonly unconstant, fled away - Under a hoar-frost mantle yesternight. - In one brief hour, the warm and flashing skies - Pale in the marble dawn; we cannot choose, - But marvel that hearts turn to stone, and eyes - Brimful of passion all their lustre lose. - Drear is the morning; love is gone for aye, - Love done to death in one bright peerless day. - - - - - SOPHIE M. ALMON-HENSLEY - - - - - CONTENT - - - I have been wandering where the daisies grow, - Great fields of tall, white daisies, and I saw - Them bend reluctantly, and seem to draw - Away in pride when the fresh breeze would blow - From timothy and yellow buttercup, - So by their fearless beauty lifted up. - - Yet must they bend at the strong breeze's will, - Bright, flawless things, whether in wrath he sweep - Or, as ofttimes, in mood caressing, creep - Over the meadows and adown the hill. - So Love in sport or truth, as Fates allow, - Blows over proud young hearts and bids them bow. - - So beautiful is it to live, so sweet - To hear the ripple of the bobolink, - To smell the clover blossom white and pink, - To feel oneself far from the dusty street, - From dusty souls, from all the flare and fret - Of living, and the fever of regret. - - I have grown younger; I can scarce believe - It is the same sad woman full of dreams - Of seven short weeks ago, for now it seems - I am a child again, and can deceive - My soul with daisies, plucking, one by one, - The petals dazzling in the noonday sun. - - Almost with old-time eagerness I try - My fate, and say: "un peu," a soft "beaucoup," - Then, lower, "passionément, pas du tout"; - Quick the white petals fall, and lovingly - I pluck the last, and drop with tender touch - The knowing daisy, for he loves me "much." - - I can remember how, in childish days, - I deemed that he who held my heart in thrall - Must love me "passionately" or "not at all." - Poor little wilful ignorant heart that prays - It knows not what, and heedlessly demands - The best that life can give with outstretched hands! - - Now I am wiser, and have learned to prize - Peace above passion, and the summer life - Here with the flowers above the ceaseless strife - Of armed ambitions. They alone are wise - Who know the daisy-secrets, and can hold - Fast in their eager hands her heart of gold. - - - - - SONG - - - Joy came in Youth as a humming bird, - (Sing hey! for the honey and bloom of life!) - And it made a home in my summer bower - With the honeysuckle and the sweet-pea flower. - (Sing hey! for the blossoms and sweets of life!) - - Joy came as a lark when the years had gone, - (Ah! hush, hush still, for the dream is short!) - And I gazed far up to the melting blue - Where the rare song dropped like a golden dew. - (Ah! sweet is the song tho' the dream be short!) - - - - - THERE IS NO GOD - - - There is no God! If one should stand at noon - Where the glow rests, and the warm sunlight plays, - Where earth is gladdened by the cordial rays - And blossoms answering, where the calm lagoon - Gives back the brightness of the heart of June, - And he should say: "There is no sun"--the day's - Fair show still round him,--should we lose the blaze - And warmth, and weep that day has gone so soon? - - Nay, there would be one word, one only thought, - "The man is blind!" and throbs of pitying scorn - Would rouse the heart, and stir the wondering mind. - We _feel_, and _see_, and therefore _know_,--the morn - With blush of youth ne'er left us till it brought - Promise of full-grown day. "The man is blind!" - - - - - DUNCAN ANDERSON - - - - - THE DEATH OF WOLFE. - - -I - - Behind Jacques Cartier's hills the sun sinks low - Low burn the beacon fires along the shore; - The drowsy watch dreams of his Norman home, - And dusky warriors sleep, and deem their toils are o'er. - - Beneath the raven wing of sable night, - A little band, with martial fire aglow, - Sweeps down, while he who nobly leads them on - Chides every tardy hour that parts him from the foe. - - Not glory's star allures that dauntless breast, - Nor lust of conquest fires that eagle eye; - For hearth and home, for King and Crown, his brand - Unsheathes at duty's call, and Wolfe will win or die. - - And while no ghostly form unveils the fate - That, ere to-morrow's eve, awaits the brave,-- - Love's gifts all laid aside,--he grasps his sword, - And sighs, "The paths of glory lead but to the grave." - - Adown the stream, past watch and ward they glide; - And as the keel grates on the rocky shore, - Silent and stern, and lithe as roe, each Gael - Upsprings o'er crag and fell, to meet the battle's roar. - - -II - - And had New France no arm to rule the fight, - Or guard her oriflamme with dauntless breast? - Had the great Marquis wearied of the strife, - His war-worn blade to sheathe, and claim a soldier's rest? - - Deserted by a ribald court and King,-- - Ruled by a shameless minion's reckless hand,-- - A thousand vampires battening on her blood,-- - And knaves, or boastful fools deemed noblest of the land;-- - - Cape Breton's capital laid with the ground,-- - Acadia lost,--of Western Empire shorn,-- - No friendly fleet to shield her smouldering homes, - And Stadacona's walls crumbling in sun and storm. - - Such was New France;--but in her bosom glowed - That patriot fire that burned while life was there; - Not Vandreuil's iron rule could cool her love, - Nor Bigot's vile Friponne hound her to mad despair. - - To arms! Grandsire and striplings seek the field; - The Censitaires obey their Seigneurs' call; - Both high and low together ply the spade, - And dainty hands weave gabions for the battered wall. - - And on that morn, when like their mountain mist - The Highland plumes waved o'er the beetling height, - One sentinel stood faithful at his post,-- - One watchful eye gazed wondering at the sight. - - But ere the warning shot could tell the tale, - The Scottish steel found sheath within his breast; - Long may his mother wait to greet her boy;-- - He sleeps with kindred brave on Abraham's lofty crest. - - One cheer above! one answering shout below! - Swift ply the boats across the ebbing tide; - Victors of Louisbourg press proudly on, - And cheerily the gun toils up the mountain side. - - The pass is won, and as grey morning breaks, - The living wave rolls o'er the grassy plain,-- - Grass that ere noon shall reek with human blood - From heaps of dead, like weeds upheaved by storm-tost main. - - -III - - Hark! the loud 'larum through the welkin rings;-- - Down drop the sere leaves with the cannon's roar;-- - The red line forms;--revenge in every eye, - For comrades slain on Montmorenci's blood-stained shore. - - Firm as yon stalwart pines, that phalanx stands, - Waiting the chiefs command to deal the blow,-- - And silent all, save but the mountain pipe - Yelling forth fierce defiance to the gathering foe. - - And on yon ridge Guienne's fair banners claim - The spot where empire's sway will prove the prize, - And where, from hostile ashes kindly blent, - A nobler form, like wakening Phœnix will arise. - - In fiery haste, from Beauport's battered shore; - From feint and bloodless field, now hurry by - La Sarrè, Roussilon, Languedoc, Béarn, and all - Burning from baffled foe to wrest fresh victory. - - No braver sons, to bear her banners well, - Or laurels fresh to win, fair France might yield; - Oswego won, Fort-William Henry theirs,-- - And noblest still, Ticonderoga's hard-fought field. - - On sweeps that band beneath the rampart wall;-- - On through the crowded streets and teeming gates;-- - On, where Guienne has watched since morn the lines, - Where calm as coming storm the proud invader waits. - - -IV - - Silent and stern, Montcalm rides on that morn, - Heedless of warlike shouts, or battle songs; - Victor of Carillon! thy palms may fade, - And Abraham's plains avenge Fort William Henry's wrongs. - - Rank forms on rank, and as the managed hawk - Strains on its leash to swoop upon the prey, - So curbs the ardent chief his champing steed, - And longs to bid his warriors mingle in the fray. - - What stays the heart that panted for the strife? - Why lags the bold Vaudreuil, when battle calls? - Why guard a thousand men our peaceful lines? - Why linger Ramesay's guns behind the sheltering walls? - - "On with the charge!" he cries, and waves his sword; - One rolling cheer five thousand voices swell; - The levelled guns pour forth their leaden shower, - While thundering cannons' roar half drowns the Huron yell. - - "On with the charge!" with shout and cheer they come; - No laggard there upon that field of fame. - The lurid plain gleams like a seething hell, - And every rock and tree send forth their bolts of flame. - - On! on! they sweep. Uprise the waiting ranks-- - Still as the grave--unmoved as granite wall;-- - The foe before--the dizzy crags behind-- - They fight, the day to win, or like true warriors fall. - - Forward they sternly move, then halt to wait. - That raging sea of human life now near;-- - "Fire!" rings from right to left,--each musket rings, - As if a thunder peal had struck the startled ear. - - Again, and yet again that volley flies,-- - With deadly aim the grapeshot sweeps the field;-- - All levelled for the charge, the bayonets gleam, - And brawny arms a thousand claymores fiercely wield. - - And down the line swells high the British cheer, - That on a future day woke Minden's plain, - And the loud slogan that fair Scotland's foes - Have often heard with dread, and oft shall hear again. - - And the shrill pipe its coronach that wailed - On dark Culloden moor o'er trampled dead, - Now sounds the "Onset" that each Clansman knows, - Still leads the foremost rank, where noblest blood is shed. - - -V - - And on that day no nobler stained the sod, - Than his, who for his country laid life down; - Who, for a mighty Empire battled there, - And strove from rival's brow to wrest the laurel crown. - - Twice struck,--he recks not, but still heads the charge, - But, ah! fate guides the marksman's fatal ball:-- - With bleeding breast, he claims a comrade's aid,-- - "We win,--let not my soldiers see their Leader fall." - - Full well he feels life's tide is ebbing fast,-- - When hark! "They run; see how they run!" they cry. - "Who run?" "The foe." His eyes flash forth one gleam, - Then murmuring low he sighs, "Praise God, in peace I die." - - -VI - - Far rolls the battle's din, and leaves its dead, - As when a cyclone through the forest cleaves;-- - And the dread claymore heaps the path with slain, - As strews the biting cold the earth with autumn leaves. - - The "Fleur de Lys" lies trodden on the ground,-- - The slain Montcalm rests in his warrior grave,-- - "All's well" resounds from tower and battlement, - And England's banners proudly o'er the ramparts wave. - - Slowly the mighty war ships sail away, - To tell their country of an empire won; - But, ah! they bear the death-roll of the slain, - And all that mortal is of Britain's noblest son. - - -VII - - With bowëd head they lay their Hero down, - And pomp and pageant crown the deathless brave;-- - Loud salvos sing the soldier's lullaby, - And weeping millions bathe with tears his honored grave. - - Then bright the bonfires blaze on Albion's hills,-- - And rends the very sky a people's joy;-- - And even when grief broods o'er the vacant chair, - The mother's heart still nobly gives her gallant boy. - - And while broad England gleams with glorious light, - And merry peals from every belfry ring;-- - One little village lies all dark and still, - No fires are lighted there--no battle songs they sing. - - There in her lonely cot, in widow's weeds, - A mother mourns--the silent tear-drops fall;-- - She too had given to swell proud England's fame, - But, ah! she gave the widow's mite--she gave her all! - - - - - SPORT - - - Ah! list the music of the whistling wings, - As westward sweeps the long-extended corps; - Our own Outarde revisits well-known haunts, - And the loud quack rings out anew from sea to shore. - - The Canvas-back a double zest affords, - And yields a dish to "set before a king"; - And where the north-shore streams rush to the sea, - Here the rare Harlequin shoots past on rapid wing. - - To Grondine's flats the Ibis yet returns; - The snowy Goose loves well the sedgy shore; - Loud booms the Bittern 'midst the clustering reeds, - And the famed Heron nests on pine-top as of yore. - - If shapely form and splendour charm the eye, - The graceful Wood-Duck claims fair beauty's prize; - No gorgeous plumes like his adorn the crest; - No lovelier shades could feathers yield or sparkling eyes. - - The shady copse the wary Woodcock haunts; - From Château Richer's swamps the Snipe upsprings; - Ontario's fields know well the scurrying Quail, - And o'er the glassy lake the Loon's weird laughter rings. - - Afar 'midst forest glades, where Red Men lie; - On mossy log the Ruffled Grouse strut and drum; - The plump Tetrao courts the spruce tree's shade; - And spotless Ptarmigan with boreal tempests come. - - Resplendent thro' the grove the Turkey roams, - And lends a deeper grace to Christmas cheer; - Our silvery lakes still claim the graceful Swan; - And o'er the uplands shrill the Plover's pipe we hear. - - Or come, where far on rolling Western plains, - Beneath the brushwood Sagefowl snugly lie; - And Prairie Hens rush boldly at the foe, - Their cowering brood to shield, as swoops the Falcon by. - - A hunter thou? The grim Bear courts thy skill, - And fearless roams ere yet he seeks his den; - His glossy robes might grace triumphal car,-- - His pearly spoils proclaim the rank of dusky men. - - The Wolf, still tireless, tracks his victim's trail; - The prowling Lynx, like sleuth-hound, wends his way; - And by the well-worn path the Carcajou - Drops from his hidden perch upon the unwary prey. - - Shy Reynard follows where the startled Hare - Darts thro' the matted elders like a gleam; - And the sleek Otter on his titbits dines, - Nor dreads the Hound's loud bark upon his lonely stream. - - Far from men's haunts the Beaver builds his dam - And ponderous mound, to keep him safe from harm; - His larder filled with choicest winter stores,-- - Cold winds may bite and blow, his lair is soft and warm. - - Thro' rushing chute and pool the Fisher swims; - And Mink and Martin sport right merrily; - While overhead the angry Squirrel chides, - And warns the rude intruder from his nut-stored tree. - - And when the maple trees are stripped and bare,-- - When land and stream with snow are mantled o'er,-- - When light toboggans down the mountains sweep, - And the bold skater skims the lake from shore to shore, - - Then don thy snowshoes, grasp thy rifle true; - The timid Red Deer thro' the forest bounds,-- - The wary Caribou rests on the frozen lake, - And browse the mighty Moose upon their endless rounds. - - These all and more await the hunter's skill; - Such trophies well our antlered halls adorn; - Their shining coats may win a golden prize, - Or keep us snug and warm amid the winter storm. - - But yet, possessed of aught that hands could win, - Or all that pleasure puts within our ken, - We joy to know a nobler gift is ours,-- - We own the heaven-sent heritage of freeborn men. - - - - - ALICE M. ARDAGH - - - - - SIC PASSIM - - (THE SAME EVERYWHERE) - - - I came upon a drawer to-day, - Half-filled with closely written scraps; - A motley crew, and all, perhaps, - But worthy to be cast away - - In other eyes, but to my heart - Dear indexes of pleasures, pains, - Life-revelations, losses, gains, - That in my life have borne their part. - - Small profit were it to detail! - Each fragment paints its little hour, - And each and all are fraught with power - To tell the same unflattering tale: - - Of love, and faithlessness in love; - Of pain, and balm in pleasure found; - Such things in every life abound, - Nor total worthlessness need prove. - - The suns that gild my path to-day - May pale to stars within the year, - What now I lightly hold grow dear, - Yet both a natural law obey. - - For joys and sorrows rise and set - With never-failing eve and morn; - Night yields unto another dawn - And then we say that we "forget." - - O Thou whose passions are divine, - Contemn not that Thou didst create! - In soul or body, love or hate, - We are but what Thou didst design. - - Thou mad'st us mortal, and we hate - And love as mortals. Grace divine! - The earthen vessel and the wine - In strength are made proportionate. - - Ah, lay them by where they have lain! - The years to come shall swell their list, - The sun shall rise through sorrow's mist - And set in whelming clouds again. - - Poor worthless scraps! they have outworn - The fickle moods that gave them birth, - Yet neither I nor they are worth - The critic's undivided scorn. - - For as in water, face to face, - So is the heart of man to man; - By others each himself may scan, - Nor dare to claim a higher place. - - - - - ISIDORE G. ASCHER - - - - - BY THE FIRELIGHT - - - Cradled within the arms of night, - The unquiet day is lulled asleep - The weary hours have taken flight, - Leaving their shadows long and deep, - That spread upon the earth below, - Soft as the falling of the snow. - - Betwixt the glimmer and the gloom, - The twilight beameth tenderly - In dim rays o'er the dusky room, - Like hope of immortality, - That o'er the earth-bound spirit falls, - And shineth through life's prison walls. - - Our converse is of earthly things: - Our little world of joys is pure, - And silvery laughter peals and rings, - Like flute-sounds in an overture, - Swelling with sudden rise aloft, - Or toning to a cadence soft. - - The firelight dances on the walls, - In wavering streams of ruby light; - A human ray that gladly falls, - Cheering the mellow hours of night, - While even hurrying Time does seem - To linger by the lambent gleam! - - No shadow in our dear retreat, - Nor heart-glooms, like the night-mists rise; - Love speaketh from the laughter sweet, - Love danceth in the sparkling eyes! - While in the radiance on the wall, - God's love, divine, seems over all! - - The wrathful storm tramps wildly by - The desert waste of snows abroad; - The keen winds rush with sullen cry, - Like shrieks of horror on the road: - Within, the lustre of a light, - Like Israel's pillar-flame at night! - - No mystic seer looks upward now - In stars to read his destiny: - We watch the flame's pure vestal glow - Shine like a beacon, steadfastly, - And read our fireside cheering lore - Imaged in light upon the floor. - - - - - SAMUEL MATHEWSON BAYLIS - - - - - IN MATABELE LAND - - - "Saddle and mount and away!"--loud the bugles in Durban are - pealing: - Carbine and cartridge and girth-buckle, look to it, troopers, - and ride! - Ride for your lives and for England! Ride in your hot saddles - reeling! - Red in the blaze of their homesteads, the trail in your kin's - blood is dyed. - Up! who be men, and no other--rank, title, or no name, what - matter? - Brood of the lion-cub litter, your birthmark's your passport - to-day. - Hard is the ride, and the fight ere they break for their coverts - and scatter: - Spring to the bugle's quick challenge, then, saddle and mount, - and away! - - "Find them and fight them and stand!" down the line ran the - captain's curt orders-- - Hot as the mission's red embers, they burned to the hearts of - the men. - Swift o'er the track's desolation, tho' peril each foot of it - borders, - On thro' the assegais' hurtling and make for the jungle-king's - den! - There, where the waggons are creaking, with ill-gotten booty - encumbered, - Rush the Zareba! It weakens--it breaks! but to close as the sand - Follows the swirl of the tide-beat--a handful by thousands - outnumbered!-- - England shall hear that we failed not to find them and fight - them and stand. - - Stand for the Queen! Ay, God save her! and save us, for sure - there's no other; - Trapped, with no chance for our lives, let the black devils see - we can die. - Scrawl them a line or a letter--sweetheart, wife, sister or - mother-- - Quick, for their bullets fly faster; a handclasp--"old - fellow--goodbye!" - Round up the horses and shoot them--close up the dead comrade's - places-- - Pray if you can, but shoot steady--the last cartridge gone!--all - is still, - Save for the yells of the victors, that hush as they see the white - faces - Kindle when comes the last order: "Men! hats off, God - save!"--Ay, He will. - - - - - THE COUREUR-DE-BOIS. - - - In the glimmering light of the Old Régime - A figure appears like the flushing gleam - Of sunlight reflected from sparkling stream, - Or jewel without a flaw. - Flashing and fading but leaving a trace - In story and song of a hardy race, - Finely fashioned in form and face-- - The Old Coureur-de-Bois. - - No loiterer he 'neath the sheltering wing - Of ladies' bowers where gallants sing. - Thro' his woodland realm he roved a king! - His untamed will his law. - From the wily savage he learned his trade - Of hunting and wood-craft; of nothing afraid: - Bravely battling, bearing his blade - As a free Coureur-de Bois. - - A brush with the foe, a carouse with a friend, - Were equally welcome, and made some amend - For the gloom and silence and hardships that tend - "To shorten one's life, _ma foi_!" - A wife in the hamlet, another he'd take-- - Some dusky maid--to his camp by the lake; - A rattling, roving, rollicking rake - This gay Coureur-de-Bois. - - Then peace to his ashes! He bore his part - For his country's weal with a brave stout heart - A child of nature, untutored in art, - In his narrow world he saw - But the dawning light of the rising sun - O'er an Empire vast his toil had won. - For doughty deeds and duty done - _Salût!_ Coureur-de-Bois. - - - - - JOHN WILSON BENGOUGH - - - - - SIR JOHN A. MACDONALD - - JUNE 6, 1891 - - - Dead! dead! And now before - The threshold of bereavëd Earnscliffe stand, - In spirit, all who dwell within our land, - From shore to shore! - - Before that black-draped gate, - Men, women, children mourn the Premier gone, - For many loved and worshipped old Sir John, - And none could hate. - - And he is dead, they say! - The words confuse and mock the general ear-- - What! can there yet be House and members here, - And no John A.? - - So long all hearts he swayed, - Like merry monarch of some olden time, - Whose subjects questioned not his right divine, - But just obeyed - - His will's e'en faintest breath. - We had forgotten, 'midst affairs of State, - 'Midst Hansard, Second Readings and Debate, - Such things as death! - - Swift came the dread eclipse - Of faculty, and limb and life at last, - Ere to the Judge of all the earth he passed, - With silent lips, - - But not insensate heart! - He was no harsh, self-righteous Pharisee-- - The tender Christ compassioned such as he, - And took their part. - - As for his Statesman-fame, - Let History calm his wondrous record read, - And write the truth, and give him honest meed - Of praise or blame! - - - - - RESTITUTION - - - Enough! the lie is ended. God only owns the land; - No parchment deed hath virtue unsigned by His own hand; - Out on the bold blasphemers who would eject the Lord, - And pauperize His children, and trample on His word! - - Behold this glorious temple, with dome of starry sky, - And floor of greensward scented, and trees for pillars high; - And song of birds for music, and bleat of lambs for prayer, - And incense of sweet vapors uprising everywhere. - - Behold his table bounteous spread over land and sea, - The sure reward of labor, to every mortal free; - And hark! through Nature's anthem there rises the refrain, - "God owns the world, but giveth it unto the sons of men." - - But see, within the temple, as in Solomon's of old, - The money-changers haggle, and souls are bought and sold; - And that is called an _owner's_ which can only be the Lord's, - And Christ is not remembered--nor His whip of knotted cords. - - But Christ has not forgotten, and wolfish human greed - Shall be driven from our heritage; God's bounties shall be freed; - And from out our hoary statutes shall be torn the crime-stained - leaves, - Which have turned the world, God's Temple, into a den of thieves. - - - - - CRAVEN LANGSTROTH BETTS - - - - - IN MEMORIAM - - - Whom would ye choose? for, lo, the chief is dead, - Who latest swayed the realm of English hearts; - He whose revered and silver-crownëd head - Lies peaceful midst the thunder of your marts; - Your Alfred of the calm and lofty mien, - His fingers clasping Shakespere's Cymbeline. - - Buried in the bowels of that ancient crypt, - Amidst the dust of your illustrious great, - He rests, the gracious-hearted, honey-lipped, - Peer of the grandest of your race and state; - Yea, prince of more than kingdoms, age or clime-- - A monarch whose dead sceptre conquers time! - - For, even while the trembling hand of age - Dwelt on the strings, no harsh, uncertain sound - Smote false your hearts; the venerable Mage, - The Master-minstrel all your being found; - Revived your souls to the rich bloom of youth, - And charmed with music the high paths to truth. - - Ah, ye may dew with tears the burial-stone, - And strew your tributes o'er his stainless hearse; - Voice the far echo of his Godlike tone; - Embalm his memory in your fragrant verse; - All, all in vain--no Star of Song doth rise - Above the grave where your great Laureate lies. - - The laurel wreath of Spencer should not grace - A front less high than this majestic brow, - The stamp imperial graved upon the face, - Fervently lighted with the poet's vow; - And with the outgrowth of a fertile heart - Blooming and fruiting in the close of art. - - That hand which _might_ have grasped yon silent lyre, - And struck its fateful strings with strenuous might, - Joined yester-year the pure-toned English choir, - Who wear their amaranths in the halls of light; - Ruder the touch, yet from those fingers ran - Strains that could rouse or sink the heart of man. - - But now, the Arthur of your poet realm, - Both Lancelot and Galahad of rhyme, - Whom will ye find to wear _his_ wingëd helm - Or ride _his_ charger down the lists of time? - The new Pendragon--where can such be found? - Alas, not one of all your Table Round! - - Let none the storied chords of that clear harp - Restrike in service dissonant and vain; - Ye will but cause the world to mock and carp; - Ye will but sound a void of grief and pain; - Hang up the shining wires above his head - And leave your laureate's wreath upon the dead. - - - - - CHAUCER - - - The heart of Merrie England sang in thee, - Dan Chaucer, blithest of the sons of morn! - How, from that dim and mellow distance borne, - Come floating down thy measures pure and free, - Thou prime old minnesinger! Pageantry, - And Revel, blowing from his drinking-horn - The froth of malt, and Love that dwells forlorn-- - Though England perish, these will live in thee! - - Thine is the jocund springtime--winsome May, - Crowned with her daisies, wooed thee, clerkly wight; - The breath of freeland fields is in thy lay, - And in thy graver verse thy nation's might; - O Pan-pipe, blown at England's break of day, - Still echo through her noon thy clear delight! - - - - - POPE - - - Behold the foe of Grub Street's lettered fools, - The Richard Crookback of the kings of rhyme, - Forging his couplets of heroic chime, - And beating all his masters at their rules; - With what an arsenal of shining tools - He wrought to shape his fanciful sublime, - Flouting each proud Mæcenas of the time, - And shoving all the dunces from their stools. - - And you'd deny him greatness? Would to-day - Your acrobatic bards could fill his place! - He lacked variety? But who can sway - More forceful measures in a narrow place? - Yield him, O Fame, brightest three-leaved bay. - Mind, manners, men, the Horace of his race! - - - - - BLANCHE BISHOP - - - - - THE BRIDE O' THE SUN - - - In a veil of white vapor, hushed stars moving through, - She comes, when the tremulous morning is new, - The bride o' the sun; - Green, green is her robe, tipt with crystalline beads, - Where it drips with the dews shaken off as she speeds, - The bride o' the sun. - - There's a slim virgin moon swaying low at her side, - But the frost at her heart is not meet for a bride, - The bride o' the sun. - There are stars in her train, but they pale to the least, - When open the light-shedding doors of the East - To the bride o' the sun. - - Lo he cometh, the bridegroom, in garments of gold, - And his glances are flashing, bright, beauteous, bold, - On the bride o' the sun;-- - Till her heart it leaps up, like flame unto flame, - Unfolding to flower o'er all her fair frame, - Sweet bride o' the sun. - - O glorious bridal of fire and earth! - O ancient of miracles! new as at birth - Of the bride o' the sun. - All creation doth wear a more rapturous face, - For the joy of the earth as she circles thro' space, - Ever bride o' the sun. - - - - - WINTER FLOWERS - - - When tree and bush are comfortless, - And fields are piteous bare, - A garden blooms upon my hearth, - And it is summer there. - - From the gray log's quiescent length - Burst the bright flowers of flame,-- - Like the far flashings of the stars, - Too rare for earthly name. - - Now rosy-hearted, rosy tipt, - Their petals softly blow; - Now clear as water in the sun, - When the blue sky lies below. - - And daintily they toss and sway - To the breath of soundless airs,-- - The memories of wooing winds - That made the forest theirs. - - O for the secret that the sun - Shares with the burning tree! - Elusive sweet as the witching flow - Of water to the sea. - - In thought I grasp the mystic word, - And lo! it hath no form. - I only know 'tis dark without, - And here 'tis light and warm. - - - - - CHRISTMAS MORN - - - Come, happy morn, serene and fair, - With outstretched hand, thy breath a prayer - Come with thy faintly smiling eyes, - And brow whereon majestic rise - Suns of eternal morn. - - Come, happy morn, for see and hark! - A world lies waiting in the dark, - With throbbing heart and straining gaze, - To catch thy first up-springing rays, - O, happy, happy morn! - - The whispering stars will see it first, - From star to star the tidings burst-- - Their paling faces earthward bowed, - While men and angels worship loud - The Christ who is the Morn. - - - - - EDWARD BLACKADDER - - - - - ANNAPOLIS ROYAL - - - I loiter here within this ancient town-- - Long time agone the rising hope of France, - The seed of future empire--as in trance, - 'Mid storied scenes, I wander up and down. - - Here are the grass-grown walls which bore the frown - Of death-disgorging cannon long ago, - And wide the gleaming basin spreads below, - Where thunder-bearing ships no more are known. - - Yea, death hath reaped his harvest in this place; - Along these shores have hundreds bled and died - To save this jewel for the Gallic crown. - Stern fate ordained it for another race: - The sturdy Saxon tills yon meadows wide; - Peace rules o'er all; war's trumpet sleeps unblown. - - - - - JEAN BLEWETT - - - - - THE TWO MARYS - - - They journey sadly, slowly on, - The day has scarce begun, - Above the hills the rose of dawn - Is heralding the sun, - While down in still Gethsemane - The shadows have not moved, - They go, by loss oppressed, to see - The grave of One they loved. - - The eyes of Mary Magdalene - With heavy grief are filled; - The tender eyes that oft have seen - The strife of passion stilled. - And never more that tender voice - Will whisper "God forgives"; - How can the earth at dawn rejoice - Since He no longer lives? - - O, hours that were so full and sweet! - So free from doubts and fears! - When kneeling lowly at His feet - She washed them with her tears! - With head low bowed upon her breast - The other Mary goes, - "He sleeps," she says, "and takes His rest - Untroubled by our woes." - - And spices rare their hands do hold - For Him the loved and lost, - And Magdalene, by love made bold, - Doth maybe bring the most. - It is not needed,--see! the stone - No longer keeps its place, - And on it sits a radiant one - A light upon his face. - - "He is not here, come near and look - With thine own doubting eyes, - Where once He lay--the earth is shook, - And Jesus did arise." - And now they turn to go away, - Slow stepping, hand in hand, - 'Twas something wondrous He did say, - If they could understand. - - The sun is flooding vale and hill, - Blue shines the sky above, - "All hail!"--O voice that wakes a thrill, - Familiar, full of love! - From darkest night to brightest day, - From deep despair to bliss, - They to the Master run straightway, - And kneel His feet to kiss. - - O Love! that made Him come to save, - To hang on Calvary, - O mighty Love! that from the grave - Did lift and set Him free! - Sing, Mary Magdalene, sing forth-- - With voice so sweet and strong, - Sing, till it thrills through all the earth-- - The Resurrection Song! - - - - - SHE JUST KEEPS HOUSE FOR ME - - - She is so winsome and so wise - She sways us at her will, - And oft the question will arise - What mission does she fill? - And so I say, with pride untold - And love beyond degree, - This woman with the heart of gold, - She just keeps house for me. - - A full content dwells in her face, - She's quite in love with life, - And for a title wears with grace - The sweet old-fashioned "Wife." - - What though I toil from morn till night, - What though I weary grow, - A spring of love and dear delight - Doth ever softly flow. - - Our children climb upon her knee - And lie upon her breast, - And ah! her mission seems to me - The highest and the best.-- - And so I say, with pride untold - And love beyond degree, - This woman with the heart of gold, - She just keeps house for me. - - - - - AT QUEBEC - - - Quebec, the grey old city on the hill, - Lies with a golden glory on her head, - Dreaming throughout this hour so fair, so still, - Of other days and all her mighty dead. - The white doves perch upon the cannons grim, - The flowers bloom where once did run a tide - Of crimson, when the moon rose pale and dim - Above the battlefield so grim and wide. - Methinks within her wakes a mighty glow - Of pride, of tenderness--her stirring past-- - The strife, the valor, of the long ago - Feels at her heartstrings. Strong, and tall, and vast, - She lies, touched with the sunset's golden grace, - A wondrous softness on her grey old face. - - - - - JOHN BREAKENRIDGE - - - - - THE TROUBADOUR - - TO THE CAPTIVE RICHARD CŒUR DE LION - - - O Richard, my King, lion-hearted, behold - From thy prison, near which the dark waters are rolled; - 'Tis Blondell the faithful, whose troubadour lay - Would win the sad thoughts of his monarch away; - As David of old, when he played before Saul, - Could banish the demon of woe at his call. - - O King of the lion-heart, oft hath thy sword - Gleamed bright in the fight, for the cause of the Lord: - How the Saracens trembled, and Saladin fled! - How thy pathway was cumbered with dying and dead! - The plume on thy helmet flew on like a bird, - Where, as by the simoon, the Moslems were stirred. - - Or when, in the tourney, thy long lance in rest, - Thy spurs, all of gold, to thy charger's flank pressed; - With a bound, through the lists, to the tilt rushing on, - Down hurling some Templar, or Knight of Saint John; - When the heralds were crying--Brave Knights, have a care, - Upon ye are beaming the eyes of the fair! - - O then, with what grace from your steed vaulting off, - Your helmet, all plumed, to the ladies you'd doff; - How you smiled, bent the knee, to the Queen Berengère,[A] - While thousands of handkerchiefs waved in the air! - How the charger of Saladin proud you bestrode, - And, fearless, to conquer the gallant Turk rode! - - O, England, arise! for thine honour advance, - And punish the traitor-king, Philip of France; - Spread out thy broad standard--"Saint George!" be the cry; - To rescue our Richard, brave cavaliers, fly! - Alas, in the dungeons of savage Tyrol, - No hope ever comes to the poor captive's soul! - - Alas, in her bower the Queen ever weeps, - And treason o'er all thy broad realm, England, sweeps! - Thy brother hath risen, and seized on the crown, - And still the usurper no hand hurleth down. - Doth England forget Cœur de Lion? O, no! - For him the bright tears of her people still flow. - - On my soul there comes rushing a foresight of woe, - And before me long years of the dark future flow. - The Palace of Austria, proud Schoenbrunn, - The Gaul hath invaded, the conqueror won. - Long years have gone by, but the Heavens are just, - And Austria's hopes trodden down in the dust. - - But ere the avenger shall rise in his might, - Long ages will pass, wherein wrong conquers right; - Months and years, it may be, shall flow over thy head; - Thy people will mourn thee, believing thee dead; - But now, and forever, there beats in one heart - Devotion, that living, shall thence never part. - - Cœur de Lion, farewell! But again, when at eve - The world sunk in slumber, thy gaolers believe, - O then, 'neath these battlements sternly that frown, - I'll weep for thy wrongs, and I'll sing thy renown. - King of England, farewell! for the night falleth fast, - And I hear the dull tramp of the sentry at last. - - [A] Berengaria. - - - - - JOHN HENRY BROWN - - - - - THE PARLIAMENT OF MAN - - - What shall withstand her? who shall gainsay her? - The mighty nation! - Nation of freemen with hearts linked together-- - None to betray her. - When from the strong soul leaps forth indignation, - How shall the wrong live? how should the false thrive? - How prosper liars? - Down with dissemblers, far hence be each dastard, - Hence all deniers! - - Chaunt the great nation with hands locked together. - North, South, East, West, one bond binds the true-hearted. - Each one for the nation and the nation for each one. - Where the millions are one fears no one of the millions. - See the monster, Behemoth, stride from ocean to ocean, - From the pole to equator, from the pole to the pole. - Did he slumber--you dreamed?--lo! a single man's wronged there, - And the turbulent crowds raise a cry smites the welkin: - As one pulse beat the millions swift help to the wronged one, - And the wronger slinks back. Justice now hath a pleader. - - Stem the steep waves of ocean when Boreas hath stirred them-- - Quell the riotous billows when tempest doth lash them-- - O the free waves of ocean, how resistless their forces! - O each man of the millions a light-crested fighter! - O the millions oceanic with souls linked together! - O the surging, triumphant, troth-plighting, united-- - The many in one, the sure tie forged by freedom. - - How sing fit praise? how raise the pæan? - Say ye who love her. - How of true hearts breathe the single devotion-- - A song empyrean? - Mingle a voice from strong souls the land over, - Voices of maidens, wives, husbands and lovers, - A voice from the sea-- - Chaunting deep faith in the nation of freemen! - Forever to be! - - - - - A SUNSET - - - A perfect artist hath been here; the scene - Is grandly imaged; with what breadth of hand, - What noble grace of freedom, all is planned! - The woods, the water and the lakelet's sheen; - The magic hues--gold-pink, rose-pearl, sea-green, - And now the western gateway, see, is spanned! - A nameless glory gilds the favored land, - And still the spirit-artist works unseen. - - Belike upon the chamber of a king - My erring steps have stumbled; yet, meseems, - These, like myself, are common men, who spring - From rock to rock where the mid-splendor gleams. - Perchance the king's sons we, and I, who sing, - Co-heir to wealth beyond yon realm of dreams. - - - - - EDWARD BURROUGH BROWNLOW - - - - - THE WHIP-POOR-WILL - - - When early shades of evening's close - The air with solemn darkness fill, - Before the moonlight softly throws - Its fairy mantle o'er the hill, - A sad sound goes - In plaintive thrill; - Who hears it knows - The Whip-poor-will. - - The Nightingale unto the rose - Its tale of love may fondly trill; - No love-tale this--'tis grief that flows - With pain that never can be still. - The sad sound goes - In plaintive thrill; - Who hears it knows - The Whip-poor-will. - - Repeated oft, it never grows - Familiar, but is sadder still, - As though a spirit sought repose - From some pursuing, endless ill. - The sad sound goes - In plaintive thrill; - Who hears it knows - The Whip-poor-will. - - - - - THE SONNET - - - The sonnet is a diamond flashing round - From every facet true rose-colored lights; - A gem of thought carved in poetic nights - To grace the brow of art by fancy crowned; - A miniature of soul wherein are found - Marvels of beauty and resplendent sights; - A drop of blood with which a lover writes - His heart's sad epitaph in its own bound; - A pearl gained from dark waters when the deep - Rocked in its frenzied passion; the last note - Heard from a heaven-saluting skylark's throat; - A cascade small flung in a canyon steep, - With crystal music. At this shrine of song - High priests of poesy have worshipped long. - - - - - GEORGE FREDERICK CAMERON - - - - - THE GOLDEN TEXT - - - You ask for fame or power? - Then up and take for text: - This is my hour, - And not the next, nor next! - - Oh, wander not in ways - Of ease or indolence! - Swift come the days, - And swift the days go hence. - - Strike! while the hand is strong: - Strike! while you can and may - Strength goes ere long,-- - Even yours will pass away. - - Sweet seem the fields, and green, - In which you fain would lie: - Sweet seems the scene - That glads the idle eye: - - Soft seems the path you tread, - And balmy soft the air,-- - Heaven overhead - And all the earth seem fair: - - But, would your heart aspire - To noble things,--to claim - Bard's, statesman's fire-- - Some measure of their fame; - - Or, would you seek and find - Their secret of success - With mortal kind? - Then, up from idleness! - - Up--up! all fame, all power - Lies in this golden text:-- - _This is my hour-- - And not the next, nor next!_ - - - - - IS THERE A GOD? - - - Is there a God, then, above us? - I ask it again and again: - Is there a good God to love us-- - A God who is mindful of men? - - Is there a God who remembers - That we have our nights as our noons? - Our dark and our dismal Decembers - As well as our garden-gay Junes? - - - - - ON TIPTOE - - - Standing on tiptoe ever since my youth, - Striving to grasp the future just above, - I hold at length the only future--Truth, - And Truth is Love. - - I feel as one who, being awhile confined, - Sees drop to dust about him all his bars:-- - The clay grows less, and, leaving it, the mind - Dwells with the stars. - - - - - WHAT MATTERS IT? - - - What reck we of the creeds of men?-- - We see them--we shall see again. - What reck we of the tempest's shock? - What reck we where our anchor lock? - On golden marl or mould-- - In salt-sea flower or riven rock-- - What matter--so it hold? - - What matters it the spot we fill - On Earth's green sod when all is said?-- - When feet and hands and heart are still - And all our pulses quieted? - When hate or love can kill nor thrill,-- - When we are done with life, and dead? - - So we be haunted night nor day - By any sin that we have sinned, - What matter where we dream away - The ages?--In the isles of Ind, - In Tybee, Cuba, or Cathay, - Or in some world of winter wind? - - It may be I would wish to sleep - Beneath the wan, white stars of June, - And hear the southern breezes creep - Between me and the mellow moon; - But so I do not wake to weep - At any night or any noon, - - And so the generous gods allow - Repose and peace from evil dreams, - It matters little where or how - My couch be spread:--by moving streams, - Or on some ancient mountain's brow - Kist by the morn's or sunset's beams. - - For we shall rest; the brain that planned, - That thought or wrought or well or ill, - At gaze like Joshua's moon shall stand, - Not working any work or will, - While eye and lip and heart and hand - Shall all be still--shall all be still! - - - - - BLISS CARMAN - - - - - LOW TIDE ON GRAND PRÉ - - - The sun goes down, and over all - These barren reaches by the tide - Such unelusive glories fall, - I almost dream they yet will bide - Until the coming of the tide. - - And yet I know that not for us, - By any ecstasy of dream, - He lingers to keep luminous - A little while the grievous stream, - Which frets, uncomforted of dream-- - - A grievous stream, that to and fro - Athrough the fields of Acadie - Goes wandering, as if to know - Why one beloved face should be - So long from home and Acadie. - - Was it a year, or lives ago, - We took the grasses in our hands, - And caught the summer flying low - Over the waving meadow lands, - And held it there between our hands? - - The while the river at our feet-- - A drowsy inland meadow stream-- - At set of sun the after-heat - Made running gold, and in the gleam - We freed our birch upon the stream. - - There down along the elms at dusk - We lifted dripping blade to drift, - Through twilight scented fine like musk, - Where night and gloom awhile uplift, - Nor sunder soul and soul adrift. - - And that we took into our hands - Spirit of life or subtler thing-- - Breathed on us there, and loosed the bands - Of death, and taught us, whispering, - The secret of some wonder-thing. - - Then all your face grew light, and seemed - To hold the shadow of the sun; - The evening faltered, and I deemed - That time was ripe, and years had done - Their wheeling underneath the sun. - - So all desire and all regret, - And fear and memory, were naught; - One to remember or forget - The keen delight our hands had caught; - Morrow and yesterday were naught. - - The night has fallen, and the tide ... - Now and again comes drifting home, - Across these aching barrens wide, - A sigh like driven wind or foam: - In grief the flood is bursting home. - - - - - THE GRAVEDIGGER - - - Oh, the shambling sea is a sexton old, - And well his work is done. - With an equal grave for lord and knave, - He buries them every one. - - Then hoy and rip, with a rolling hip, - He makes for the nearest shore; - And God, who sent him a thousand ship, - Will send him a thousand more; - But some he'll save for a bleaching grave, - And shoulder them in to shore,-- - Shoulder them in, shoulder them in, - Shoulder them in to shore. - - Oh, the ships of Greece and the ships of Tyre - Went out, and where are they? - In the port they made, they are delayed - With the ships of yesterday. - - He followed the ships of England far, - As the ships of long ago; - And the ships of France they led him a dance, - But he laid them all arow. - - Oh, a loafing, idle lubber to him - Is the sexton of the town; - For sure and swift, with a guiding lift, - He shovels the dead men down. - - But though he delves so fierce and grim, - His honest graves are wide, - As well they know who sleep below - The dredge of the deepest tide. - - Oh, he works with a rollicking stave at lip, - And loud is the chorus skirled; - With the burly note of his rumbling throat - He batters it down the world. - - He learned it once in his father's house, - Where the ballads of eld were sung; - And merry enough is the burden rough, - But no man knows the tongue. - - Oh, fair, they say, was his bride to see, - And wilful she must have been, - That she could bide at his gruesome side - When the first red dawn came in. - - And sweet, they say, is her kiss to those - She greets to his border home; - And softer than sleep her hand's first sweep - That beckons, and they come. - - Oh, crooked is he, but strong enough - To handle the tallest mast; - From the royal barque to the slaver dark, - He buries them all at last. - - Then hoy and rip, with a rolling hip, - He makes for the nearest shore; - And God, who sent him a thousand ship, - Will send him a thousand more; - But some he'll save for a bleaching grave, - And shoulder them in to shore,-- - Shoulder them in, shoulder them in, - Shoulder them in to shore. - - - - - THE CRIMSON HOUSE - - - Love built a crimson house-- - I know it well-- - That he might have a home - Wherein to dwell. - - Poor Love that roved so far - And fared so ill, - Between the morning star - And the Hollow Hill, - - Before he found the vale - Where he could bide, - With memory and oblivion - Side by side. - - He took the silver dew - And the dun red clay, - And behold when he was through - How fair were they! - - The braces of the sky - Were in its girth - That it should feel no jar - Of the swinging earth; - - That sun and wind might bleach - But not destroy - The house that he had builded - For his joy. - - "Here will I stay," he said, - "And roam no more, - And dust when I am dead - Shall keep the door." - - There trooping dreams by night - Go by, go by. - The walls are rosy white - In the sun's eye. - - The windows are more clear - Than sky or sea; - He made them after God's - Transparency. - - It is a dearer place - Than Kirk or inn; - Such joy on joy as there - Has never been. - - - - - HACK AND HEW - - - Hack and Hew were the sons of God - In the earlier earth than now; - One at his right hand, one at his left, - To obey as he taught them how. - - And Hack was blind and Hew was dumb, - But both had the wild, wild heart; - And God's calm will was their burning will, - And the gist of their toil was art. - - They made the moon and the belted stars, - They set the sun to ride; - They loosed the girdle and veil of the sea, - The wind and the purple tide. - - Both flower and beast beneath their hands - To beauty and speed outgrew,-- - The furious fumbling hand of Hack, - And the glorying hand of Hew. - - Then, fire and clay, they fashioned a man, - And painted him rosy brown; - And God Himself blew hard in his eyes: - "Let them burn till they smoulder down!" - - And "There!" said Hack, and "There!" thought Hew, - "We'll rest, for our toil is done." - But "Nay," the Master Workman said, - "For your toil is just begun. - - "And ye who served me of old as God - Shall serve me anew as man, - Till I compass the dream that is in my heart, - And perfect the vaster plan." - - And still the craftsman over his craft, - In the vague white light of dawn, - With God's calm will for his burning will, - While the mountain day comes on, - - Yearning, wind-swift, indolent, wild, - Toils with those shadowy two,-- - The faltering restless hand of Hack, - And the tireless hand of Hew. - - - - - PHILLIPS BROOKS - - - This is the white winter day of his burial. - Time has set here of his toiling the span - Earthward, naught else. Cheer him out through the portal, - Heart-beat of Boston, our utmost in man! - - Out in the broad open sun be his funeral, - Under the blue for the city to see. - Over the grieving crowd mourn for him, bugle! - Churches are narrow to hold such as he. - - Here on the steps of the temple he builded, - Rest him a space, while the great city square - Throngs with his people, his thousands, his mourners; - Tears for his peace and a multitude's prayer. - - How comes it, think you, the town's traffic pauses - Thus at high noon? Can we wealthmongers grieve? - Here in the sad surprise greatest America - Shows for a moment her heart on her sleeve. - - She who is said to give life-blood for silver, - Proves, without show, she sets higher than gold - Just the straight manhood, clean, gentle, and fearless, - Made in God's likeness once more as of old. - - Once more the crude makeshift law overproven,-- - Soul pent from sin will seek God in despite. - Once more the gladder way wins revelation,-- - Soul bent on God forgets evil outright. - - Once more the seraph voice sounding to beauty, - Once more the trumpet tongue bidding, no fear! - Once more the new, purer plan's vindication,-- - Man be God's forecast, and Heaven is here. - - Bear him to burial, Harvard, thy Hero! - Not on thy shoulders alone is he borne; - They of the burden go forth on the morrow, - Heavy and slow, through a world left forlorn. - - No grief for him, for ourselves the lamenting; - What giant arm to stay courage up now? - March we a thousand file up to the City, - Fellow with fellow linked,--he taught us how! - - Never dismayed at the dark nor the distance! - Never deployed for the steep nor the storm! - Hear him say, "Hold fast, the night wears to morning! - This God of promise is God to perform." - - Up with thee, heart of fear, high as the heaven! - Thou hast known one wore this life without stain. - What if for thee and me,--Street, Yard, or Common,-- - Such a white captain appear not again! - - Fight on alone! Let the faltering spirit - Within thee recall how he carried a host, - Rearward and van, as Wind shoulders a dust-heap; - One Way till strife be done, strive each at his most. - - Take the last vesture of beauty upon thee, - Thou doubting world; and with not an eye dim - Say, when they ask if thou knowest a Saviour, - "Brooks was His brother, and we have known him." - - - - - THE WHITE GULL - - _For the Centenary of the birth of Shelley_ - - -I - - Up by the idling reef-set bell - The tide comes in; - And to the idle heart to-day - The wind has many things to say; - The sea has many a tale to tell - His younger kin. - - For we are his, bone of his bone, - Breath of his breath; - The doom tides sway us at their will; - The sky of being rounds us still; - And over us at last is blown - The wind of death. - - -II - - A hundred years ago to-day - There came a soul, - A pilgrim of the perilous light, - Treading the spheral paths of night, - On whom the word and vision lay - With dread control. - - Now the pale summer lingers near, - And talks to me - Of all her wayward journeyings, - And the old, sweet, forgotten things - She loved and lost and dreamed of here - By the blue sea. - - The great cloud-navies, one by one, - Bend sails and fill - From ports below the round sea-verge; - I watch them gather and emerge, - And steer for havens of the sun - Beyond the hill. - - The grey sea-horses troop and roam; - The shadows fly - Along the wind-floor at their heels; - And where the golden daylight wheels, - A white gull searches the blue dome - With keening cry. - - And something, Shelley, like thy fame - Dares the wide moon - In that sea-rover's glimmering flight, - As if the Northland and the night - Should hear thy splendid valiant name - Put scorn to scorn. - - -III - - Thou heart of all the hearts of men, - Tameless and free, - And vague as that marsh-wandering fire, - Leading the world's outworn desire - A night march down this ghostly fen - From sea to sea! - - Through this divided camp of dream - Thy feet have passed, - As one who should set hand to rouse - His comrades from their heavy drowse; - For only their own deeds redeem - God's sons at last. - - But the dim world will dream and sleep - Beneath thy hand, - As poppies in the windy morn, - Or valleys where the standing corn - Whispers when One goes forth to reap - The weary land. - - O captain of the rebel host, - Lead forth and far! - Thy toiling troopers of the night - Press on the unavailing fight; - The sombre field is not yet lost, - With thee for star. - - Thy lips have set the hail and haste - Of clarions free - To bugle down the wintry verge - Of time forever, where the surge - Thunders and crumbles on a waste - And open sea. - - -IV - - Did the cold Norns who pattern life - With haste and rest - Take thought to cheer their pilgrims on - Through trackless twilights vast and wan, - Across the failure and the strife, - From quest to quest,-- - - Set their last kiss upon thy face, - And let thee go - To tell the haunted whisperings - Of unimaginable things, - Which plague thy fellows with a trace - They cannot know? - - So they might fashion and send forth - Their house of doom, - Through the pale splendor of the night, - In vibrant, hurled, impetuous flight, - A resonant meteor of the North - From gloom to gloom. - - -V - - I think thou must have wandered far - With Spring for guide, - And heard the sky-born forest flowers - Talk to the wind among the showers, - Through sudden doorways left ajar - When the wind sighed; - - Thou must have heard the marching sweep - Of blown white rain - Go volleying up the icy kills,-- - And watched with Summer when the hills - Muttered of freedom in their sleep - And slept again. - - Surely thou wert a lonely one, - Gentle and wild; - And the round sun delayed for thee - In the red moorlands by the sea, - When Tyrian Autumn lured thee on, - A wistful child, - - To rove the tranquil, vacant year, - From dale to dale; - And the great Mother took thy face - Between her hands for one long gaze, - And bade thee follow without fear - The endless trail. - - And thy clear spirit, half forlorn, - Seeking its own, - Dwelt with the nomad tents of rain, - Marched with the gold-red ranks of grain, - Or ranged the frontiers of the morn, - And was alone. - - -VI - - One brief perturbed and glorious day! - How couldst thou learn - The quiet of the forest sun, - Where the dark, whispering rivers run - The journey that hath no delay - And no return? - - And yet within thee flamed and sang - The dauntless heart, - Knowing all passion and the pain - On man's imperious disdain, - Since God's great part in thee gave pang - To earth's frail part. - - It held the voices of the hills - Deep in its core; - The wandering shadows of the sea - Called to it,--would not let it be; - The harvest of those barren rills - Was in its store. - - Thine was a love that strives and calls - Outcast from home, - Burning to free the soul of man - With some new life. How strange, a ban - Should set thy sleep beneath the walls - Of changeless Rome! - - -VII - - More soft, I deem, from spring to spring, - Thy sleep would be - Where this far western headland lies - With its imperial azure skies, - Under thee hearing beat and swing - The eternal sea. - - Where all the livelong brooding day - And all night long, - The far sea-journeying wind should come - Down to the doorway of thy home, - To lure thee ever the old way - With the old song. - - But the dim forest would so house - Thy heart so dear, - Even the low surf of the rain, - Where ghostly centuries complain, - Might beat against thy door and rouse - No heartache here. - - For here the thrushes, calm, supreme, - Forever reign, - Whose gloriously kingly golden throats - Regather their forgotten notes - In keys where lurk no ruin of dream, - No tinge of pain. - - And here the ruthless noisy sea, - With the tide's will, - The strong grey wrestler, should in vain - Put forth his hand on thee again-- - Lift up his voice and call to thee, - And thou be still. - - For thou hast overcome at last; - And fate and fear - And strife and rumour now no more - Vex thee by any wind-vexed shore, - Down the strewn ways thy feet have passed - Far, far from here. - - -VIII - - Up by the idling, idling bell - The tide comes in; - And to the restless heart to-day - The wind has many things to say; - The sea has many a tale to tell - His younger kin. - - The grey sea-horses troop and roam; - The shadows fly - Along the wind-floor at their heels; - And where the golden daylight wheels, - A white gull searches the blue dome - With keening cry. - - - - - AMOS HENRY CHANDLER - - - - - WHEN DORA DIED - - - Dreary, dreary, - Fundy's mists are sweeping - Up the stricken vales of Westmoreland: - Weary, weary - Is my heart and weeping, - While the cold waves dash upon the strand. - - Fillëd, fillëd - Is the land with sorrow, - In loud wailing roars the angry sea: - Stillëd, stillëd - Will they be to-morrow-- - Summer notes, and murmurs on the lea.... - - Coldly, coldly - Blent with autumn mists lie - Eve's dark shadows 'pon the hills away; - Boldly, boldly, - Like a giant sentry, - _Chapeau Dieu_ keeps vigil o'er the bay.... - - Lay me, lay me, - While the world is waking, - Down to dream on what has gone before; - Pray ye, pray ye, - Lest my heart be breaking, - God to bring her to my side once more.... - - - - - EDWARD J. CHAPMAN - - - - - A SUMMER NIGHT - - -I - - The purple shadows dreamingly - Upon the dreaming waters lie, - And darken with the darkening sky. - - Calmly across the lake we float, - I and thou, my little boat-- - The lake with its grey mist-capote. - - We lost the moon an hour ago: - We saw it dip, and downward go, - Whilst all the west was still aglow. - - But in those blue depths moon-forsaken - A moon-like star its place hath taken; - And one by one the rest awaken. - - -II - - With noiseless paddle dip we glide - Along the bay's dark-fringëd side, - Then out--amidst the waters wide! - - With us there floated here last night - Wild threatening waves with foam-caps white, - But these have now spent all their might. - - We knew they would not injure us, - Those tossing waves, so boisterous-- - And where is now their fret and fuss? - - Only a ripple wrinkleth now - The summer lake--and plashes low - Against the boat, in fitful flow. - - -III - - Still callest thou--thou Whip-poor-will! - When dipped the moon behind the hill - I heard thee, and I hear thee still. - - But mingled with thy plaintive cry - A wilder sound comes ebbing by, - Out of the pine-woods, solemnly. - - It is the blinking owls that sit - Up in the trees, and wait a-bit - Ere yet along the shores they flit. - - And hark, again! It comes anew-- - Piercing the dark pine-forest through, - With its long too-hoo, too-hoo! - - -IV - - Swifter and swifter, on we go; - For though the breeze but feigns to blow, - Its kisses catch us, soft and low. - - But with us now, and side by side, - Striving awhile for place of pride, - A silent, dusky form doth glide. - - Though swift and light the birch canoe, - It cannot take the palm from you, - My little boat, so trim and true. - - "Indian! where away to-night?" - "Homeward I wend: yon beacon-light - Shines out for me--good-night!"--"Good-night!" - - -V - - Shoreward again we glide--and go - Where the sumach shadows flow - Across the purple calm below. - - There, the far-winding creeks among, - The frogs keep up, the summer long, - The murmurs of their soft night-song-- - - A song most soft and musical, - Like the dulled voice of distant Fall, - Or winds that through the pine-tops call. - - And where the dusky swamp lies dreaming, - Shines the fire-flies' fitful gleaming-- - Through the cedars--dancing, streaming! - - -VI - - Who is it hideth up in a tree - Where all but the bats asleep should be, - And with his whistling mocketh me? - - Such quaint, quick pipings--two-and-two: - Half a whistle, half a coo-- - Ah, Mister Tree-Frog! gare-à-vous! - - The owls on noiseless wing gloom by,-- - Beware, lest one a glimpse espy - Of your grey coat and jewelled eye! - - And so, good-night!--We glide anew - Where shows the lake its softest blue - With mirror'd star-points sparkling through. - - -VII - - The lights upon the distant shore, - That shone so redly, shine no more: - The Indian-fisher's toil is o'er. - - Already in the eastern skies, - Where up and up new stars arise, - A pearly lustre softly lies. - - And time it were for us to take - Our homeward course across the lake, - Ere yet the tell-tale morn awake. - - O Night--where old shape-hauntings dwell, - Though now, calm-eyed:--for thy soft spell, - O soothing Night! I thank thee well. - - - - - ANNIE ROTHWELL CHRISTIE - - - - - THE WOMAN'S PART - - - Gone! brother, lover, son! - Gone forth to certain peril, toil and pain, - And chance of death--for country counted gain. - Our part to let them go; to say, "Not one - Would we hold back," to give - Our hearts' best treasures to our mother-land - Though the gift break them; firm of lip and hand - To bid farewell; to say, "Be strong, and live - Victors, or die deserving." Who shall deem - Our part the easier? or the place we hold-- - Patience for courage--for the deed the dream-- - Waiting for action,--service slight or cold? - - What shall we give them? Words? - To them, obedient to the bounds of faith, - To them, enduring danger, fencing death, - Words were as stones for bread. Were our speech swords, - And were our frail hopes shields, - Then might we give them; but how frame our thought - Nor mar the harvest-gift their truth has brought - With the poor fruit a woman's nature yields - When love sows seed? Hush! let us keep our souls - In silence--Words of comfort, words of cheer, - But mock the senses when the war-cloud rolls - Black 'twixt the eyes and all the heart holds dear. - - What can we give them? Prayers? - Shall not the God of battles work His will? - He guards, He smites. Our strength is to be still - And wait His word; to cast aside our cares - And trust His justice. Strife - And peace are in His hand. They who shall see - Victorious days, and in the time to be - Shall share again the toils and joys of life - Are His--but not less His are they who fall, - (Sealing their soul's devotion with their breath) - And not less loved that, true to duty's call, - Their crown of honor comes to them in death. - - What shall we give them? Tears? - Tears least of all! Shame not their valor so-- - Honor and manhood call them; let them go, - Nor make farewell twice parting by your tears. - O, woman-heart, be strong! - Too full for words--too humble for a prayer-- - Too faithful to be fearful--offer here - Your sacrifice of patience. Not for long - The darkness. When the dawn of peace breaks bright - Blessed she who welcomes whom her God shall save, - But honored in her God's and country's sight - She who lifts empty arms to cry, "I gave!" - - - - - AFTER THE BATTLE - - - Ay, lay them to rest on the prairie, on the spot where for honor - they fell, - The shout of the savage their requiem, the hiss of the rifle their - knell. - - For what quiet and sheltered God's air would they barter that - stained desert sod - Where at His trumpet summons of duty they gave back their souls to - their God? - - "Private, Number One Company, shot through the heart. First to - fall." Words immortal, sublime - In their teaching, their power to move, and their pathos to plead, - for all time. - - Shall we blench where they led? Shall we falter where they at such - cost won their crown? - "Greater love hath no man--" we all know it; they obeyed it and - laid their lives down. - - "Friends" then, martyrs now, heroes both ways, they bequeath us - their strength for our parts; - Their example their fittest memorial, their epitaphs deep in our - hearts. - - From those graves on the far blood-stained prairie, on the field - where their battle was done, - They shall speak to our souls, and new fire through the veins of - our patriots shall run. - - Wail orphans--weep sisters--look upward, sad mothers and desolate - wives; - But mourn not as those without comfort the loss of the sanctified - lives. - - Can you mourn unconsoled for their taking, though your heads may - in anguish be bowed, - With a nation's tears falling above them, their country's flag - draped for their shroud? - - As the blood of the martyr enfruitens his creed, so the hero sows - peace, - And the reaping of war's deadly harvest is the earnest his havoc - shall cease. - - If the seed sown in blood you must water with tears, shrink not - back from the cost; - What _they_ gave ungrudging for honor _you_ have lent to your - country, not lost. - - And forgive us, who bear not your burden of pain and who share not - your pride, - If we grudge you your glory of giving in the cause where your - heroes have died. - - - - - WELCOME HOME - - _July, 1885_ - - - War-worn, sun-scorched, stained with the dust of toil, - And battle-scarred they come--victorious. - Exultantly we greet them; cleave the sky - With cheers, and fling our banners to the winds; - We raise triumphant songs, and strew their path - To do them homage--bid them "Welcome Home." - - We laid our country's honor in their hands - And sent them forth undoubting; said farewell - With hearts too proud, too jealous of their fame - To own our pain. To-day glad tears may flow. - To-day they come again, and bring their gift-- - Of all earth's gifts most precious--trust redeemed. - We stretch our hands, we lift a joyful cry, - Words of all words the sweetest--"Welcome Home!" - - Oh, brave true hearts! oh, steadfast loyal hearts! - They come, and lay their trophies at our feet: - They show us work accomplished, hardships borne, - Courageous deeds, and patience under pain, - Their country's name upheld and glorified, - And Peace, dear purchased by their blood and toil. - What guerdon have we for such service done? - Our thanks, our pride, our praises, and our prayers; - Our country's smile, and her most just rewards; - The victor's laurel laid upon their brows, - And all the love that speaks in "Welcome Home!" - - Bays for the heroes: for the martyrs, palms! - To those who come not, who "though dead yet speak" - A lesson to be guarded in our souls - While the land lives for whose dear sake they died-- - Whose lives, thrice sacred, are the price of peace, - Whose memory, thrice belovëd, thrice revered, - Shall be their country's heritage, to hold - Eternal pattern to her living sons-- - What dare we bring? They, dying, have won all. - A drooping flag, a flower upon their graves, - Are all the tribute left,--already theirs - A nation's safety, gratitude, and tears, - Imperishable honor, endless rest! - - And ye, O stricken-hearted! to whom earth - Is dark though Peace is smiling, whom no pride - Can soothe, no triumph-pæan can console, - Ye surely will not fail them--will not shrink - To perfect now your sacrifice of love? - - - - - GEORGE HERBERT CLARKE - - - - - SKATER AND WOLVES - - - Swifter the flight! Far, far and high - The wild air shrieks its savage cry, - And all the earth is ghostly pale, - While the young skater, strong and hale, - Skims fearlessly the forest by. - - Hush! shrieking blast, but wail and sigh! - Well sped, O skater, fly thee, fly! - Mild moon, let not thy glory fail! - Swifter the flight! - - O, hush thee, storm! thou canst not vie - With that low summons, hoarse and dry. - He hears, and oh! his spirits quail,-- - He laughs and sobs within the gale, - On, anywhere! He must not die,-- - Swifter the flight! - - - - - TO A BUTTERFLY - - Butterfly, - Flutter by, - Under and over, - Haunting the clover, - Each flashing wing - Fashioning - Quivering glories, - Luminous stories! - - Life in a miniature! - Swiftly to win a pure - Realm of ideals, - Hoping it heals. - - The best, the best - Is the endless quest. - - Is hopefulness vain - To feel or to feign? - Know you not, save to say: - "It is glittering, glittering day,-- - - "The sun to me sings, - Beauty dowers my wings, - All of joy I attain."-- - Flutter by, - Butterfly! - - - - - RESENTMENT - - - The ocean bursts in very wrath, - The waters rush and whirl, - As the hardy diver cleaves a path - Down to the treasured pearl. - - - - - ECCLESIASTES - - - God speaks. Life beats within the brain, - And crowding onward comes the cry - Of worlds,--and in the senses, pain! - And in the heart, eternity! - - - - - A CHILD'S EVENING HYMN - - - Shepherd Jesus, in Thy arms - Let Thy little lamb repose, - Safe and free from all alarms - In the love the Shepherd shows; - May my slumber quiet be, - Angels watching over me! - - Often mother dear has told - How the children Thou didst bless, - And I know that in Thy fold - All is joy and happiness: - May my slumber quiet be, - Angels watching over me! - - Shepherd Jesus, make Thy child - Pure and gentle as the dew, - Keep my spirit undefiled - Waking, sleeping, kind and true: - May my slumber quiet be, - Angels watching over me! - - - - - HUGH COCHRANE - - - - - IDEAL - - - The song unsung more sweet shall ring, - Than any note that yet has rung; - More sweet than any earthly thing - The song unsung! - A harp there lies, untouched, unstrung - As yet by man, but time shall bring - A player by whose art and tongue - This song shall sound to God the King; - The world shall cling as ne'er it clung - To God and heaven, and all shall sing - The song unsung. - - - - - HEREWARD K. COCKIN - - - - - THE DEATH OF BURNABY - - - "Close up in front, and steady, lads!" brave Stewart cries, - "They're here": - And distant Cheops echoes back our soldiers' answering cheer; - One moment's pause--a year it seems--and swift the Arab horde - Pours forth its mingled tide of hate and yells and spear and - sword; - As demons fight, so fight the children of the desert plain, - Their naked breasts defy our steel again and yet again; - But steady as the granite cliff that stems a raging sea, - Above the van of battle looms our "Bayard"--Burnaby. - - Broken! The square is pierced! But only for a moment, though, - And shoulder-strap to shoulder-strap our brave lads meet the foe; - And on this day the Bedouin learns, in the Mahdi's shattered - might, - With what a god-like majesty the island legions fight. - But, oh! the cost, the bitter cost! for ere the set of sun - The bravest heart of Alba's isle its earthly course has run; - And Britain weeps sad, bitter tears whilst flushed with victory, - For on Metemneh's blood-red sand lies noble Burnaby. - - Avenged? Behold what hecatombs around the dead man lay - (The royal paw is heaviest when the lion's brought to bay); - And as the shades of even fall upon this day of strife - That heap of slain exceedeth far the foes he slew in life. - And when a sneering alien tongue shall speak of him with scorn, - Or hint at our decaying might, the child as yet unborn - Shall beard the dastard to his teeth, and tell exultingly - How like the Israelite in death was "Samson" Burnaby. - - Intriguing Russia's prestige waned in far-off Persia's State - When England's lonely horseman stood at Khiva's guarded gate, - Ay! Bruin of the northern steppes, roll forth thy fœtid breath: - Exult since now that lion heart is stilled for aye in death; - And scream thine hate, proud bird of France, beyond thy northern - shore, - Perfidious Albion drapes her halls for one who is no more. - Farewell, the last and brightest star of England's chivalry, - 'Neath orient skies thou sleepest well, O gallant Burnaby! - - - - - SARA JEANETTE DUNCAN COTES - - - - - THE POET - - - O very, very far from our dull earth, - The land where poets spring to glorious birth. - Thrice blessed land, where brood thrice happy skies, - Where he increaseth joy who groweth wise; - Where truth is not too beautiful to see, - Action is music, life a harmony. - There dwells the poet, till some luckless day - Prisons his spirit in our coarser clay, - And in our dull and dusty commonplace - He loses memory of his name and race,-- - Till some bird twitters from a wayside thorn, - The language of the land where he was born; - Or west winds, whispering to the tall pine trees, - Waken his soul to wonder; or he sees - In some first fairness when the day is new, - In some dear dimness i' the time o' the dew, - A loveliness that steals about his heart, - And lays soft fingers on dumb chords that start. - - Then he uprises joyously and binds - His poet's robes upon him, yea, he finds - This drear existence a most glorious thing - And sings because he cannot choose but sing. - - - - - ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD - - - - - THE MASTER-BUILDER - - - O Love builds on the azure sea, - And Love builds on the golden sand; - And Love builds on the rose-winged cloud, - And sometimes Love builds on the land. - - O, if Love build on sparkling sea, - And if Love build on golden strand, - And if Love build on rosy cloud, - To Love these are the solid land. - - O, Love will build his lily walls, - And Love his pearly roof will rear, - On cloud, or land, or mist, or sea,-- - Love's solid land is everywhere! - - - - - THE AXE OF THE PIONEER - - - Bite deep and wide, O Axe, the tree, - What doth thy bold voice promise me? - - "I promise thee all joyous things, - That furnish forth the lives of Kings - - For every silver ringing blow - Cities and palaces shall grow!" - - Bite deep and wide, O Axe, the tree, - Tell wider prophecies to me. - - "When rust hath gnawed me deep and red, - A nation strong shall lift its head! - - His crown the very heavens shall smite, - Æons shall build him in his might!" - - Bite deep and wide, O Axe, the tree; - Bright Seer, help on thy prophecy! - - - - - _From_ "THE HELOT" - - - Helot, drink--nor spare the wine; - Drain the deep, the maddening bowl; - Flesh and sinews, slave, are mine, - Now I claim thy Helot soul. - - Gods! ye love our Sparta; ye - Gave with vine that leaps and runs - O'er her slopes, these slaves to be - Mocks and warnings to her sons! - - Thou, my Hermos, turn thy eyes - (God-touched still their frank, bold blue) - On the Helot--mark the rise - Of the Bacchic riot through - - Knotted vein and surging breast: - Mark the wild, insensate mirth: - God-ward boast--the drivelling jest, - Till he grovel to the earth. - - "Drink, dull slave!" the Spartan cried: - Meek the Helot touched the brim; - Scented all the purple tide; - Drew the Bacchic soul to him. - - Cold the thin-lipped Spartan smiled: - Couched beneath the weighted vine, - Large-eyed gazed the Spartan child - On the Helot and the wine. - - Rose pale Doric shafts behind, - Stern and strong, and thro' and thro', - Weaving with the grape-breathed wind, - Restless swallows called and flew. - - Dropped the rose-flushed doves and hung - On the fountains' murmuring brims; - To the bronzed vine Hermos clung-- - Silver-like his naked limbs - - Flashed and flushed: rich coppered leaves, - Whitened by his ruddy hair; - Pallid as the marble eaves, - Awed he met the Helot's stare. - - Clanged the brazen goblet down; - Marble-bred loud echoes stirred: - With fixed fingers, knotted, brown, - Dumb, the Helot grasped his beard. - - Heard the far pipes mad and sweet, - All the ruddy hazes thrill: - Heard the loud beam crash and beat - In the red vat on the hill. - - Wide his nostrils as a stag's - Drew the hot wind's fiery bliss: - Red his lips as river flags - From the strong Cæcuban kiss. - - On his swarthy temples grew - Purple veins like clustered grapes; - Past his rolling pupils blew - Wine-born, fierce, lascivious shapes. - - Cold the haughty Spartan smiled-- - His the power to knit that day - Bacchic fires, insensate, wild, - To the grand Achean clay. - - His the might--hence his the right! - Who should bid him pause? nor Fate - Warning passed before his sight, - Dark-robed and articulate.... - - "Lo," he said, "he maddens now! - Flames divine do scathe the clod: - Round his reeling Helot brow - Stings the garland of the god." - - - - - THE SWORD - - - At the forging of the sword-- - The mountain roots were stirred - Like the heart-beats of a bird; - Like flax the tall trees waved, - So fiercely struck the Forgers of the Sword. - - At the forging of the Sword-- - So loud the hammers fell, - The thrice-sealed gates of Hell - Burst wide their glowing jaws; - Deep roaring, at the forging of the Sword. - - At the forging of the Sword-- - Kind mother Earth was rent - Like an Arab's dusky tent, - And monster-like she fed - On her children, at the forging of the Sword. - - At the forging of the Sword-- - The startled air swift whirled - The red flames round the world, - From the anvil where was smitten - The steel the Forgers wrought into the Sword. - - At the forging of the Sword-- - The maid and matron fled, - And hid them with the dead; - Fierce prophets sang their doom, - More deadly than the wounding of the Sword. - - At the forging of the Sword-- - Swift leaped the quiet hearts - In the meadows and the marts; - The tides of men were drawn - By the gleaming sickle-planet of the Sword! - - Thus wert thou forged, O lissome Sword; - On such dusk anvil wert thou wrought; - In such red flames thy metal fused; - From such deep hells that metal brought; - O Sword, dread lord, thou speak'st no word, - But dumbly rul'st, king and lord! - - - - - "THESE THREE" - - - A star leant down and laid a silver hand - On the pale brow of death; - Before it roll'd black shadows from the land-- - That star was Faith! - - Across fierce storms that hid the mountains far - In funeral cope, - Piercing the black there sailed a throbbing star-- - The star was Hope! - - From God's vast palm a large sun grandly rolled, - O'er land and sea; - Its core of fire, its stretching hands of gold-- - Large Charity! - - - - - FRANCIS BLAKE CROFTON - - - - - THE BATTLE-CALL OF ANTI-CHRIST - - - Aforethought of the fated reign of peace - Fell on the soul of Anti-Christ, I dreamed; - And his brow darkened, and his hate-lit eyes - Aloft glared lurid through the mist of space. - Then vast and shadowy rose the Lord of War, - And shook his right hand at a far White Throne, - Brooding unutterable blasphemies. - Anon he gazed upon our shuddering world, - The while, with voice that fires or freezes souls, - He spake his message to the circling winds - And roused to battle all his myrmidons: - - "Up, despot, trembling for a blood-bought crown! - The smouldering flame that threatens thine own house - Hurl at another's; lead thy people on - By glory's flaring torches to their doom. - (Ever the spear - Pierces the spirit of the Prince of Peace!) - - "Yoke Victory to thy chariot and ride on, - Trampling the pride of nations, Conqueror! - Let thy maimed warriors writhe alone; for thou - Art scorn of God for His vile images. - (And scorn of mine - For Him who pleads for them at God's right hand.) - - "Pause not to reck the ruin thou hast made: - Is not the comet's course foredoomed, and thine? - A deathless name outweighs a million deaths, - And orphans' sighs are mute 'mid the acclaim - Of multitudes. - (What is the grief of Jesus unto thee?) - - "Statesman, behold, thy trustful neighbors sleep, - And rust is on their swords, your blades are sharp! - Swift and relentless press thy specious claim; - Not thine the toil or risk, thine the fame to win - With others' blood. - (That human blood that filled the veins of Christ!) - - "Flushed with a spotless triumph, patriots, - From brave defence advance to stern revenge, - And urge a war of conquest and bequeath - A heritage of hatred to your sons. - (For freedom's sake - Stabbing His soul who 'came not to destroy'!) - - "Wake, silent trump of holy discord! Sword - Of God and Gideon, hew the Gentiles down! - Slay, in your ruth for graceless babes unborn! - Clash, rival crosses, mock the Crucified! - Blaze, lethal fires! - (_I_ will accept the incense that _He_ loathes.) - - "Poets sublime who sway the souls of men! - Sing still of arms and human hecatombs, - And wrath and glory and the pride of race; - Let rhymesters mumble of love, pity, peace. - (Sing ye the spear - That glances from its victims to Christ's heart.) - - "And thou, enthusiast, whose genius caught - The soul of Revolution and enchained - The fiery spirit in a song, thy strains - Again shall stir rapt throngs to fratricide: - 'To arms! to arms!' - (Christ mocks me with His pity from His throne!) - - "Sound trump and drum and fife and clarion, - Sound, to the rhythmic march of warriors, - With priestly benedictions on their pride - And beauty's smiles upon their waving plumes. - (Marching in pomp - To wound the wearied spirit of their Christ!) - - * * * * * - - "Oh, pygmy pomp and blazon of man's war! - When Michael strove with Satan 'mid the stars, - _There_ were seraphic deeds and agonies - And not this earthly death! Nathless I crave - Unnumbered slain-- - The sin of His own slayers tortured Him! - - "Hail to thy memory, war of wars, that jarred - Awhile the calm of heaven, when Pride and Hate, - Stung by the still rebuke of Love supreme, - Rose, fought and fell! And to thy memory hail, - Symbolic spear, - That wounded the dead Christ on Calvary! - - "Dear is the murderer's dagger; dear the rack - That strains the frame of one who testifies - With his last breath to Christ; dearest the spear - That stabbed Him on the Cross and stabs Him still, - Each thrust a balm - To soothe my sleepless memory in hell!" - - - - - JOHN ALLISTER CURRIE - - - - - MY MOTHER - - - There are no colors in God's heaven-bent bow, - Nor is there music in the quiring spheres, - Can paint thy smile from out these youthful years, - Recall the music of thy voice so low - And sweet, dear mother, in the long ago. - But gone art thou. Ah! how the bitter tears - Burned deep into my heart! How memory sears, - But cannot heal those wounds, while tears still flow. - - Back from those bright and happy days gone by, - Echoes of childish mirth and cradle song! - Thy guiding hand and presence then were nigh, - And I am weary, and life's road seems wrong. - I miss thy smiling face, thy watchful eye. - Life's heaven was short. Eternity's is long. - - - - - MARGARET GILL CURRIE - - - - - BY THE ST. JOHN - - - The broad round-shouldered giant Earth - Upbears no land more sweet - Than that whereon in heedless mirth - Went free my childish feet; - No fairer river furroweth, - With its strong steel-blue share, - The hill-sides and the vales of earth, - Than that which floweth there. - - For rigid fasting hermit John - They named the glorious stream, - As seamen on his holy morn - Beheld its harbor's gleam. - It was like rigid hermit John, - A voice amid the wild, - Its honey and its fatness drawn - From forests undefiled. - - Now that the green is on the plain, - The azure in the sky, - Wherewith clear sunshine after rain - Decketh the rich July, - Broad is the leaf and bright the flower; - Close to the pale gray sands - Coarse alder grows, and virgin's bower - Grasps it with slender hands. - - With honeysuckles, meadow-sweets, - And rue the banks are lined; - O'er wide fields dance gay marguerites - To pipe of merry wind. - By the tall tiger-lily's side - Stands the rich golden-rod, - A king's son wooing for his bride, - The daughter of a god. - - When fresh and bright were all green things, - And June was in the sky, - The dandelions made them wings, - And did as riches fly; - Now the bright buttercups with gold - Empave a toil-trod road-- - Can wayfarers their sheen behold - Nor sigh for streets of God? - - The birds are homed amid the boughs - Of oak and elm trees grand; - As for the snipe, her lowly house - She maketh in the sand; - The robin loves the dawning's hush, - The eve's the chickadee, - The thistle-bird the garden bush, - The bobolink the lea. - - From intervale and swampy dale - Are wafts of fragrance blown, - Of fern and mint and calamus, - And wild hay newly mown. - God's fiery touch hath reached the earth, - And lo! its odors rise - Like incense pure of priceless worth - Offered in sacrifice. - - - - - SARAH ANNE CURZON - - - - - VISIT OF THE PRINCE OF WALES TO LAURA SECORD - - - Now wherefore trembles still the string - By lyric fingers crossed, - To Laura Secord's praise and fame, - When forty years are lost? - - Nay, five and forty, one by one, - Have borne her from the day - When, fired by patriotic zeal, - She trod her lonely way. - - Her hair is white, her step is slow, - Why kindles then her eye, - And rings her voice with music sweet - Of many a year gone by? - - O know ye not proud Canada, - With joyful heart, enfolds - In fond embrace the royal boy - Whose line her fealty holds? - - For him she spreads her choicest cheer, - And tells her happiest tale, - And leads him to her loveliest haunts, - That naught to please may fail. - - And great art thou, O Chippewa, - Though small in neighbours' eyes, - When out Niagara's haze thou seest - A cavalcade arise; - - And in its midst the royal boy - Who, smiling, comes to see - An ancient dame whose ancient fame - Shines in our history. - - He takes the thin and faded hand, - He seats him at her side, - Of all that gay and noble band - That moment well the pride. - - To him the aged Secord tells, - With many a fervid glow, - How, by her means, FitzGibbon struck - His great historic blow. - - Nor deem it ye, as many do, - A weak and idle thing - That at that moment Laura loved - The praises of a king; - - And dwelt on his approving smile, - And kissed his royal hand, - Who represented, and should wield, - The sceptre of our land; - - For where should greatness fire her torch - If not at greatness' shrine? - And whence should approbation come - Did not the gods incline? - - - - - INVOCATION TO RAIN - - - O blessed angel of the All-bounteous King, - Where dost thou stay so long? our sad hearts pine, - Our spirits faint for thee. Our weary eyes - Scan all the blue expanse, where not a cloud - Floats low to rest our vision. In vain we turn - Or east or west, no vaporous haze, nor view - Of distant panorama, wins our souls - To other worlds. All, all is hard and scant. - Thy brother Spring is come. - His favourite haunts the sheltering woods betray-- - The woods that, dark and cheerless yet, call thee. - Tender hepaticas peep forth, and mottled leaves - Of yellow dog's tooth vie with curly fronds - Of feathery ferns, in strewing o'er his path; - The dielytra puts her necklace on, - Of pearly pendants, topaz-tipped or rose. - Gray buds are on the orchard trees, and grass - Grows up in single blades and braves the sun. - But thou!--O, where art thou, sweet early Rain, - That with thy free libations fill'st our cup? - The contemplative blue-bird pipes his note - From off the ridge-cap, but can find no spot - Fit for his nest. The red-breast on the fence - Explores the pasture with his piercing eye, - And visits oft the bushes by the stream, - But takes no mate. For why? No leaves or tufts - Are there to hide a house.... - A-missing thee - The husbandman goes forth with faltering step - And dull sad eye; his sweltering team pulls hard - The labouring plough, but the dry earth falls back - As dead, and gives nor fragrant fume, nor clogs - The plough-boy's feet with rich encumbering mould. - The willows have a little tender green, - And swallows cross the creek--the gurgling creek - Now fallen to pools--but, disappointed, - Dash away so swift, and fly so high - We scarce can follow them. Thus all the land - Doth mourn for thee.-- - Ah! here thou comest, sweet Rain. - Soft, tender Rain! benison of the skies! - See now, what transformation in thy touch! - Straight all the land is green. The blossoming trees - Put on their bridal wreaths, and veil their charms - From the too ardent sun, beneath thy gift - Of soft diaphanous tissue, pure and white - As angels' raiment. Little wood children - Deck all the path with flowers. The teeming earth - Offers rich gifts. The little choristers - Sing ceaseless hymns, and the glad husbandman - Adds his diapason. Bright fountains wake - And mingle with the swift roulade of streams. - The earth is full of music! Thou dost swing - Thy fragrant censer high, and dwellers in - The dusty city raise their toil-worn heads - From desk and bench, and cry "Summer is here!" - And straight they smell new hay and clover blooms, - And see the trout swift-darting in the brooks, - And the plover whistling in the fields. - The little children dream of daisy chains, - And pent-up youth thinks of a holiday,-- - A holiday with romps, and cream, and flowers. - O, Rain! O, soft, sweet Rain! O liberal Rain! - Touch our hard hearts, that we may more become - Like that Great Heart whose almoner art thou. - - - - - NICHOLAS FLOOD DAVIN - - - - - _From_ "EOS" - - - Now the Fraser gleamed - Below, its benches white with apple trees - In bloom. 'Neath one an Indian stood, in hand - A tom-tom rude, on which he beat, the while - He sang in sad tones looking towards the sea. - The children of his tribe impassive sat - And smoked their deep-bowled long-stemmed pipes: - - With spread wings forever - Time's eagle careers, - His quarry old nations, - His prey the young years; - Into monuments brazen - He strikes his fierce claw, - And races are only - A sop for his maw. - - The red sun is rising - Behind the dark pines, - And the mountains are marked out - In saffron lines, - The pale moon still lingers, - But past is her hour - Over mountain and river - Her silver to shower. - - As yon moon disappeareth, - We pass and are past; - The Paleface o'er all things - Is potent at last. - He bores through the mountains, - He bridges the ford, - He bridles steam horses - Where Bruin was lord, - He summons the river - Her wealth to unfold, - From flint and from granite - He crushes the gold. - - Those valleys of silence - Will soon be alive - With huxters who chaffer, - Prospectors who strive, - And the house of the Paleface - Will peer from the crest - Of the cliff, where the eagle - To-day builds his nest. - - The Redskin he marred not - White fall on wild rill, - But to-morrow those waters - Will turn a mill; - And the streamlet which flashes - Like a young squaw's dark eye, - Will be black with foul refuse, - Or may be run dry. - - From the sea where the Father - Of waters is lost, - To the sea where all summer - The iceberg is tost, - The white hordes will swarm - And the white man will sway, - And the smoke of his engine - Make swarthy the day. - - Round the mound of a brother - In sadness we pace, - How much sadder to stand - At the grave of a race! - But the good Spirit knows - What for all is the best, - And which should be chosen, - The strife or the rest. - - As for me, I'm time-weary, - I await my release; - Give to others the struggle, - Grant me but the peace,-- - And what peace like the peace - Which death offers the brave? - What rest like the rest - That we find in the grave? - - For the doom of the hunter - There is no reprieve; - And for me, 'mid strange customs, - 'Tis bitter to live. - Our part has been played - Let the white man play his; - Then he too disappears, - And goes down the abyss. - Yes! Time's eagle will prey - On the Paleface at last, - And his doom like our own - Is to pass and be past. - - - - - A. B. DE MILLE - - - - - THE ICE KING - - - Where the world is gray and lone - Sits the Ice King on his throne-- - - Passionless, austere, afar, - Underneath the Polar Star. - - Over all his splendid plains - An eternal stillness reigns. - - Silent creatures of the North, - White and strange and fierce, steal forth: - - Soft-foot beasts from frozen lair, - Noiseless birds that wing the air, - - Souls of seamen dead, who lie - Stark beneath the pale north sky; - - Shapes to living eye unknown, - Wild and shy, come round the throne - - Where the Ice King sits in view - To receive their homage due. - - But the Ice King's quiet eyes, - Calm, implacable, and wise, - - Gaze beyond the silent throng, - With a steadfast look and long, - - Down to where the summer streams - Murmur in their golden dreams; - - Where the sky is rich and deep, - Where warm stars bring down warm sleep, - - Where the days are, every one, - Clad with warmth and crowned with sun. - - And the longing gods may feel - Stirs within his heart of steel, - - And he yearns far forth to go - From his land of ice and snow. - - But forever, gray and lone, - Sits the Ice King on his throne-- - - Passionless, austere, afar, - Underneath the Polar Star. - - - - - BALLAD - - - Good Christmas bells, I pray you - Ring him back to me; - For I am in the village, - And he is on the sea. - - And out beyond the harbor - The surf is playing white; - Good Christmas bells, I pray you - Ring him home to-night! - - The reef beyond the harbor - Is girt with hungry foam; - Good Christmas bells, I pray you - Ring my sailor home! - - The lighthouse in the harbor - Burns clear, and keen, and still; - But a sound is in the village, - A voice is on the hill: - - The voice of distant surges, - And he is on the sea-- - Good Christmas bells, I pray you - Ring him back to me! - - - - - JAMES DE MILLE - - - - - _From_ "BEHIND THE VEIL" - - - "Son of Light,"--I murmured lowly-- - "All my heart is known to thee-- - Known unto thy vision holy-- - All my longing and my yearning for the Loved One lost to me-- - May these eyes again behold her?"--and the Shape said, "Come and - see." - - 'Twas a voice whose intonation - Through my feeble being thrilled - With a solemn, sweet vibration, - And at once a holy calmness all my wakeful senses stilled, - And my heart beat faint and fainter, with a dying languor filled. - - Then a sudden sharp convulsion - Seized me with resistless might, - Till before that fierce compulsion - All mortality departed; like a Thought, a thing of Light, - All my spirit darted up to an immeasurable height. - - I beheld bright visions darting - Past, in long and quick review, - Quick arriving, quick departing; - Mortal sense had grown immortal, and I saw not, but I knew, - And that spiritual sense was Knowledge, Absolute and True. - - And there came amazement o'er me - In that infinite career, - For the scenes that rushed before me, - Long removed, but long remembered, brought me memories old and - dear, - Bearing sweet familiar faces from that far terrestrial sphere. - - For the spell of earth had bound me, - And each quickly gliding scene - Brought the shapes of earth around me;-- - Vales of bright unclouded verdure; hills arrayed in living green; - Limpid lakes in dim recesses overarched by skies serene; - - Cooling rill and sparkling fountain, - Purple peak and headland bold, - Precipice and snow-clad mountain-- - Lofty summits rising grandly into regions clear and cold, - And innumerable rivers that majestically rolled. - - * * * * * - - By such wondrous scenes surrounded, - O'er them all mine eyes I ran, - All bewildered and confounded; - Yet I sought amid that wonder all its mystery to scan, - Till amid the forms of Nature I beheld the face of Man. - - I beheld fair cities gleaming - White on many a distant shore, - And the battle banners streaming, - And the pomp of mighty armies in the panoply of War, - And the navies of the nations speeding all the Ocean o'er. - - But the human form and faces - Older still and older grew; - Races followed fast on races, - Vanished peoples seemed to rise again and robe themselves anew, - And the life and acts of all the ages passed in swift review. - - Olden populations swarming - In an outward rushing tide, - Scattering o'er the earth and forming - Lines of march o'er lofty mountains, over deserts wild and wide, - Seeking evermore a country where they might in peace abide. - - Then there came unpeopled spaces - Which no human token bore, - And the pathway of the races - Lessened slowly and diminished on the plain and on the shore, - Till at last amid the Vision came the form of Man no more. - - And bereaved of man and lonely - Nature showed her aspect fair, - And the brute creation only - Peopled all her wilds and woodlands--lurked the tiger in his lair, - Coiled the serpent, sprang the lion, sped the bird athwart the - air. - - Myriad scenes in swift succession - Still with earnest gaze I viewed; - But in rapid retrogression - Nature faded;--forms of beauty followed fast by figures rude, - Ending in the dismal prospect of a world-wide solitude. - - But my soul the vast procession - Of those countless vistas bore - With a marvellous impression, - Like the picture on the tablet by the sunbeam painted o'er - Instantaneous; all-embracing; with a power unknown before. - - Then my Heavenly Guide addressing-- - For a wondrous power had birth - In my nature, all expressing-- - "What are these, and where belong they?"--and my Guide - responded--"Earth-- - For thy spirit turns spontaneous to its own domestic hearth." - - "Where am I, O Radiant Spirit? - Where amid the realms of space? - Distant from the Earth, or near it?"-- - "Where the rays projected from it at the birth-time of thy race - Have not yet attained;--a distance more than mortal thought may - trace." - - "Whence these shapes of things terrestrial?"-- - "Shadows from the Earth that fall, - Gliding into space celestial"-- - "Does the Earth thus tell her story;--thus are all things - imaged?"--"All-- - Forms and actions all are imaged; naught is hidden, great or - small." - - --"They at last are dissipated,"-- - I exclaimed in sorrow sore, - --"At the brink of things created?"-- - --"Things created know no limit; infinite space they traverse - o'er; - Still the starry vistas open and recede for evermore."-- - - Then a mighty woe came o'er me, - Deep despair arose within, - And a thought stood black before me-- - Shall Infinity forever write the records of my sin? - Is it thus that space shall treasure proofs of all that I have - been? - - - - - EDWARD HARTLEY DEWART - - - - - SHADOWS ON THE CURTAIN - - - I awoke from the dreams of the night, - From restful and tranquil repose, - And looked where the sunbeams lay bright, - To see what the morn might disclose. - My window looked out on the east, - And opened to welcome the sun, - As he rose, from the darkness released, - All girded, his journey to run. - I watched, as I lay, - The leaf-shadows play-- - For the trees were still mantled in green-- - As they silently danced, - Curvetted and pranced, - On the curtain suspended between. - - Then I said to my soul: Here's some thought - For thee to decipher and read; - Every form, that in nature is wrought, - Bears some lesson to those who give heed. - Between our weak eyes and the light - A thick-woven curtain is spread; - All the future it screens from our sight, - And the home and the fate of the dead. - The phantoms which still - With perplexity chill, - Which doubting despondency brings, - Are cast, as they shine, - By the sunbeams divine, - And are shadows of beautiful things. - - Then I drew the broad curtain aside, - And looked out on the beautiful world; - The dewdrops were flashing, and wide - Were the banners of beauty unfurled. - The leaves that had silently flung - Their shadows to darken my room, - Each answered with musical tongue - To the zephyrs that played with its bloom.-- - And thus it may be - At life's ending with me, - When death rends the curtain away; - I may rise to behold - In beauty unrolled - The morn of a shadowless day. - - - - - ON THE OTTAWA - - - The sun has gone down in liquid gold - On the Ottawa's gleaming breast; - And the silent night has softly rolled - The clouds from her starry vest; - Not a sound is heard-- - Every warbling bird - Has silenced its tuneful lay, - As with calm delight, - In the moon's weird light, - I noiselessly float away. - - As down the river I dreamily glide-- - The sparkling and moonlit river-- - Not a ripple disturbs the glassy tide, - Not a leaf is heard to quiver; - The lamps of night - Shed their trembling light, - With a tranquil and silvery glory, - Over river and dell, - Where the zephyrs tell - To the night their plaintive story. - - I gently time my gleaming oar - To music of joy-laden strains, - Which the silent woods and listening shore - Re-echo in soft refrains:-- - Let holy thought - From this tranquil spot - Float up through the slumbering air; - For who would profane - With fancies vain - A scene so ineffably fair! - - - - - FREDERICK AUGUSTUS DIXON - - - - - A FEATHER'S MESSAGE - - - At the close of the day, when the year was a-dying, - From the chilly north to the southern sun, - High in the sky came the wild swans flying-- - (Great white wings had each glorious one),-- - And a snowy feather fluttered down - On the muddy street of a dirty town. - - Poverty passed, and wealth came speeding; - Business and pleasure turned their wheels; - But the feather lay, as men trod, unheeding, - Stamped and crushed by a thousand heels. - And the message it brought remained untold, - Save to a child with a head of gold. - - Up in a garret, all tearfully fretting, - She peeped in her rags through the broken pane; - And she clapped her hands with delight, forgetting - Hunger and misery, cold, and the rain, - As the strange white thing caught her wondering eye, - Dropped down from nowhere, out of the sky. - - And she cried as it fell, with the faith of seven, - (Fanciful, credulous, innocent elf): - "Look, mother, look! Here's a letter from Heaven! - God didn't forget us--He's written Himself!" - - Was it useless, that feather that so fluttered down - On the muddy street of a dirty town? - - - - - HINC ILLÆ LACHRYMÆ - - (_Hence these tears_) - - - Last night, and there came a guest, - And we shuddered, my wife and I; - A guest, and I could not speak; - A guest, and she could but cry; - And he went, but with no good-bye. - - A little before the dawn - He came, but he did not stay; - And he left us alone with our tears, - For he carried our babe away. - Was there ever a sadder day! - - Had you ever a babe of a year, - With curls on a tiny head, - With limbs like the peach's bloom, - And learnt that your babe was dead?-- - Could you have been comforted? - - Had it bound itself to your heart, - As with fairy gossamer strand, - Slight as that of the worm, - Strong as the hempen band - Which holds tall ships to the land? - - Did you look in its baby eyes - As your treasure lay on your knee, - And wonder what things they saw, - And see, what they could not see, - The life that was yet to be? - - Did it lie at your breast day by day - While you gathered it near and more near? - Did it sleep on your bosom by night, - Ever growing so dear, oh, so dear,-- - Your darling, your babe of a year; - - While you dreamed of the wonder you held, - A thing of so perfect a plan, - Of the wonderful mystery of birth, - Of the wonderful mystery of man, - As only a mother can,-- - - Till your heart, like a human thing, - Seemed to yearn for the child at your side-- - Yearn to gather it in to itself, - To the love that swept up, like a tide - Whose fulness is ever denied? - - If to you came that terrible guest - We so dreaded, my wife and I, - You will know why I could not speak, - You will know why she could but cry-- - You have seen your own baby die. - - - - - WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND - - - - - THE HABITANT'S JUBILEE ODE - - - I read on de paper mos' ev'ry day, all about Jubilee - An' grande procession movin' along, an' passin' across de sea, - Dat's chil'ren of Queen Victoriaw comin' from far away - For tole Madame w'at dey t'ink of her, an' wishin' her bonne - santé. - - An' if any wan want to know pourquoi les Canayens should be dere - Wit' res' of de worl' for shout "Hooraw" an' t'row hees cap on de - air, - Purty quick I will tole heem de reason, w'y we feel lak de oder - do, - For if I'm only poor habitant, I'm not on de sapré fou. - - Of course w'en we t'ink it de firs' go off, I know very strange it - seem - For fader of us dey was offen die for flag of L'Ancien Regime, - From day w'en de voyageurs out all de way from ole St Malo, - Flyin' dat flag from de mas' above, a' long affer dat also. - - De English fight wit' de Frenchman den over de whole contree, - Down by de reever, off on de wood, an' out on de beeg, beeg sea, - Killin' an' shootin', an' raisin' row, half tam dey don't know - w'at for, - W'en it's jus' as easy get settle down, not makin' de crazy war. - - Sometam' dey be quiet for leetle w'ile, you t'ink dey don't fight - no more, - An' den w'en dey're feelin' all right agen, Bang! jus' lak' she - was before. - Very offen we're beatin' dem on de fight, sometam' dey can beat - us, too, - But no feller's scare on de 'noder man, an' bote got enough to do. - - An' all de long year she be go lak' dat, we never was know de - peace, - Not'ing but war from de wes' contree down to de St Maurice; - Till de las' fight's comin' on Canadaw, an' brave Generale - Montcalm - Die lak' a sojer of France is die, on Battle of Abraham. - - Dat's finish it all, an' de English King is axin' us stayin' dere - W'ere we have sam' right as de 'noder peep comin' from Angleterre. - Long tam' for our moder so far away de poor Canayens is cry, - But de new step-moder she's good an' kin', an' it's all right - bimeby. - - If de moder come dead w'en you're small garçon, leavin' you dere - alone, - Wit' nobody watchin' for fear you fall, and hurt youse'f on de - stone, - An' 'noder good woman she tak' your han' de sam' your own moder - do, - Is it right you don't call her moder, is it right you don't love - her too? - - Bâ non, an' dat was de way we feel, w'en de ole Regime's no more, - An' de new wan come, but don't change moche, w'y it's jus' lak' it - be before, - Spikin' Français lak' we alway do, an' de English dey mak no fuss, - An' our law de sam', wall, I don't know me, 'twas better mebbe for - us. - - So de sam' as two broder we settle down, leevin' dere han' in - han', - Knowin' each oder, we lak' each oder, de French an' de Englishman, - For it's curi's t'ing on dis worl', I'm sure you see it agen an' - agen, - Dat offen de mos' worse ennemi, he's comin' de bes', bes' fren'. - - So we're kipin' so quiet long affer dat, w'en las' of de fightin's - done, - Dat plaintee is say, de new Canayens forget how to shoot de gun; - But Yankee man's smart, all de worl' know dat, so he's firs' fin' - mistak' wan day-- - W'en he's try cross de line, fusil on hae's han', near place dey - call Chateaugay. - - Of course it's bad t'ing for poor Yankee man, De Salaberry be dere - Wit' habitant farmer from down below, an' two honder Voltiguers, - Dem feller come off de State, I s'pose, was fightin' so hard dey - can - But de blue coat sojer he don't get kill, is de locky Yankee man! - - Since den w'en dey'se comin on Canadaw, we alway be treat dem - well, - For dey're spennin' de monee lak' gentilhommes, an' stay on de - bes' - hotel, - Den "Bienvenu," we will spik dem, an' "Come back agen nex' week, - So long you was kip on de quiet an' don't talk de politique?" - - Yaas, dat is de way Victoriaw fin' us dis jubilee, - Sometam' we mak' fuss about not'ing, but it's all on de familee, - An' w'enever dere's danger roun' Her, no matter on sea or lan', - She'll find that les Canayens can fight de sam as bes' Englishman. - - An' onder de flag of Angleterre, so long as dat flag was fly-- - Wit' deir English broder, les Canayens is satisfy leev an' die. - Dat's de message our fader geev us w'en dey're fallin' on - Chateaugay, - An' de flag was kipin' dem safe den, dat's de wan we will kip - alway! - - - - - JOHN HUNTER DUVAR - - - - - JOHN A'VAR'S LAST LAY - - (_He becomes a Carmelite_) - - - Take not from me my lute! - There is a spirit caught among its wires - That sentient thrills as if with living fires,-- - Frères! let me keep my lute. - - It may not be? ah, well,-- - Once more ere yet thou diest, O breathing string! - That plainest like the heart of sad sea-shell, - And talk'st to me with voice of living thing. - Sad now art thou and I-- - Loved lute, ring out, ring out ere yet we die. - - Ring out the clash of swords! - The meeting shock! ring out the victor's strain! - Or dirge, when peasants tramp o'er knights and lords,-- - Jarring when the war trumpet blows amain, - And scattered all afield - The shivered lance-shaft and the shattered shield. - - Ring out to ladies' eyes! - To love's wild ecstasy of joy and woe, - To morning's mantling blush, to passionate sighs - That heave the rose-tipped mamelons of snow, - To gage d'amor, I ween, - That wakes the rapturous thought of--once hath been. - - Ring out the words of fire! - 'Gainst pride and hate and tyranny the strong, - 'Gainst proud man's arrogance, and weak man's ire, - And all the lusts that work the world wrong, - 'Gainst envy, lie and ill - Ring out protest once more, and then be still! - - Wake gently softer themes! - Of white-frocked children dead on cottage floors, - Of dances 'neath the jasmine-clustered beams, - Of greybeards drinking at the trellised doors, - Of immortelles on graves, - Of red-cheeked lasses where the ripe corn waves. - - This world hath been so fair, - So full of joyousness! Then what am I - That I should thankless spurn God's blessëd air - And shut my lids against the sunshine sky? - But that is idle breath, - Life may be quiet, even if life in death. - - Dying as echo dies, - Faint, and more faint, loved lute, expires my lay, - And though my Lays have not been overwise - Yet now methinks with thee I best could pray. - Our mission now is o'er, - O Soul of Song! fly free! No more. No more. - - Loved lute, farewell. Farewell with other things. - But though, for me, I henceforth am the Lord's, - No meaner hand shall ever touch thy chords-- - Thus--thus--I rive thy strings! - - - - - THE MINNÉSINGERS LIED - - - In the Rheingan standeth Aix, - And in Aix is La Chapelle; - On a royal marble daïs, - Underneath a vaulted dome, - With his feet upon a tomb, - Sits a dread and fearsome Thing - As ever minstrel-poet sang! - Dead two hundred years! a King - On his throne sits Charlemagne - In his capital of Aix! - - In awful state that mighty Shade - Sitteth in its chair of stone; - In the hand, long ages dead, - The sword with unsheathed blade - And sceptre bright with gems; - On the breast a cross of lead, - On the form a golden gown, - And circling on his head - The French and German diadems - And the Lombard crown! - - And throughout the centuries old, - Underneath the vaulted dome, - With his feet upon a tomb, - Alone and ghastly, stern and cold, - In silence save when midnight tolls - And its heavy murmur rolls - All among the columns round - With a solemn measured clang,-- - In the silentness profound, - Sits the shade of Charlemagne - Armed and crowned! - - - - - HOW BALTHAZAR THE KING WENT DOWN INTO EGYPT - - - Nilus! Nilus! and before them rolled - The mystic river, while a barge of gold - Lay moored with its carved prow against a pier, - From which the King embarked with all his train. - The reis on the fore-deck drew the spear - From out the ringbolt and cast off the chain, - And they were floating upon Nile the old. - - Full bravely led the galley of the King, - And all at once, like flap of ibis' wing, - Flashed out the gilt and crimson-bladed oars - And lightly o'er the molten surface skimmed; - While slow unrolled the low and level shores, - Like to a landscape on a curtain limned, - And blended with the shadows, lessening. - - Music was on the Nile boats: conch and horn, - Flute answering flute, while zittern and lycorn - Took up the keynote from the leading barge, - And part and counterpart in measured strain, - In gathering volume, rolled on to the marge, - The while the swelling chorus grew amain - And inland o'er the standing rice was borne. - - Along the shore, as down the mystic river - Floated the King, the boughs without a shiver - Drooped in the breathless air, and ibises - And birds of scarlet plumage waded grave; - While small deer, timorous as their nature is, - And panthers, to the brink came down to lave, - But drew back as they saw the oar-blades quiver. - - Along the burnished water meadow flowers - Floated, and buds with berries, which the scours - Of melted torrents, moons ago, had shred - From Afric's inland mountain range of snows, - And torn up with the rich mould from its bed - And brought to Egypt when the waters rose - To pour into her lap full harvest dowers. - - The cortege passed the swamp of crocodiles, - And labyrinth of submerged bulrush isles, - With matted lilies growing on the ooze, - While round the shallow bars the eddies swum, - All changeless, as in old time when the Jews - Mustered at beat of the Egyptian drum - And laid their tale of brick upon the piles. - - Upon the left bank of the river loomed - A massive wall where Pharaohs lay entombed - With their deeds vaguely limned in hieroglyph, - In tincts of vivid azure, green and red, - Ochre and vermeil,--standing stark and stiff - Their rigid forms; while 'mong the mummied dead - The frogs croaked and the woeful bittern boomed. - - As they swept on they saw a form of stone - Cleaving the yellow sky-line, stern and lone - And awful, so no man might bear to dwell - 'Neath its eyes glaring with unwinking lids, - As if of beings it alone could tell - The giant mystery of the pyramids - Ere centuries of sand had round them blown. - - Now on the left bank of the river's flow, - Where sentinelled with watch-towers and aglow - With half-mooned vanes all flickering like jets - Uprose a city walled, in proud estate, - Full of domed roofs and tall white minarets - The King's fleet veered towards a water-gate - And anchored 'neath the walls of Cairo. - - - - - ARTHUR WENTWORTH HAMILTON EATON - - - - - THE EGYPTIAN LOTUS - - (NYMPHÆA LOTUS) - - - Proud, languid lily of the sacred Nile, - 'Tis strange to see thee on our western wave, - Far from those sandy shores that, many a mile, - Papyrus-plumed, lie silent as the grave. - - O'er dark, mysterious pool and sheltered bay, - And midst soft-sleeping isles thy leaves expand, - Where Alexandrian barges plow their way, - Full freighted, to the ancient Theban land. - - On Karnak's lofty columns thou wert seen, - And Luxor's spacious temple palace walls, - Each royal Pharaoh's emeralded queen - Chose thee to deck her glittering banquet halls; - - Yet thou art blossoming in this fairy lake - As regally, amidst these common things, - As on the shores where Nile's soft ripples break, - As in the halls of old Egyptian kings. - - Thy beauty daily lures men's curious eyes, - But he who finds in thought his richest feasts, - Looking at thee, sees stately temples rise - About him, and long lines of white-robed priests, - - That chant strange music as they slowly pace - Dim, columned aisles; hears trembling over head - Echoes that lose themselves in that vast space, - Of Egypt's solemn ritual for the dead. - - Aye deeper thoughts than these, though undefined, - Wake in reflective souls at sight of thee, - For this majestic orient faith enshrined - Man's yearning hope of immortality. - - And thou wert Egypt's symbol of the power - That under all decaying forms lies hid; - The old world worshipped thee, O Lotus flower! - Then carved its Sphinx and reared its pyramid. - - - - - PURPLE ASTERS - - - I had a garden when I was a boy - Wherein I planted fondly many a flower, - And watched it grow until I felt the joy - That every gardener feels, as Nature's power - To make rare perfumes burst from stalks of green - And dash rich colours o'er dull earth is seen. - - In that old garden, bright with varied bloom - From early tulip time till winter fell, - It seemed as if no sombre growth or gloom - Had any place, or could desire to dwell; - Yet o'er one corner wildness still held sway, - And there, I always felt, a shadow lay. - - In that strange spot pale purple asters came, - When earth wore gorgeous colours on her breast, - And fields were ripe, and autumn's flood of flame - From scarlet maples swept from east to west; - They bore no wealth of royal purple bloom, - But seemed meet products of great Nature's gloom. - - The lives of men are gardens, from whose soil - Spring rich red-petalled roses, violets blue - As heaven; where, too, the passion-flower's strong coil - Closes round frail anemones, hearts-ease, and rue; - But in some sheltered spots, bright blooms beside, - Pale purple fringëd asters love to hide. - - They tell us there are gardens always clad - With summer's richest robes, awaiting men - Beyond the stars, where hearts at once grow glad, - And never to low levels sink again; - Perhaps even such light lands may need to see - The purple asters of despondency. - - - - - DEEPENING THE CHANNEL - - - A rocky channel from the harbor led - The ships to sea, a blue but shallow sound - With surging tides, upon whose treacherous bed - The keels of heavy vessels ground and ground. - The channel must be deepened, men agree, - And so great thunderous blasts of rock they blew, - And all the sleepy sands were dredged; till, free - From fear, the heaviest ships went swiftly through. - - We fret and foam as if our surface tide - Was fathoms deep, and never know the truth - Till love or sorrow through the water ride - And grate its keel upon the sands of youth; - God cleaves the rock beneath the channel blue, - And then his noblest ships sail safely through. - - - - - THE PHANTOM LIGHT OF THE BAIE DES CHALEURS - - - 'Tis the laughter of pines that swing and sway - Where the breeze from the land meets the breeze from the bay; - 'Tis the silvery foam of the silver tide - In ripples that reach to the forest side; - 'Tis the fisherman's boat, in a track of sheen, - Plying through tangled seaweed green - O'er the Baie des Chaleurs. - - Who has not heard of the phantom light - That over the moaning waves, at night, - Dances and drifts in endless play, - Close to the shore, then far away, - Fierce as the flame in sunset skies, - Cold as the winter light that lies - On the Baie des Chaleurs? - - They tell us that many a year ago, - From lands where the palm and the olive grow, - Where vines with their purple clusters creep - Over the hillsides gray and steep, - A knight in his doublet, slashed with gold, - Famed, in that chivalrous time of old, - For valorous deeds and courage rare, - Sailed with a princess wondrous fair - To the Baie des Chaleurs. - - That a pirate crew from some isle of the sea, - A murderous band as e'er could be, - With a shadowy sail, and a flag of night, - That flaunted and flew in heaven's sight, - Sailed in the wake of the lovers there, - And sank the ship and its freight so fair - In the Baie des Chaleurs. - - Strange is the tale that the fishermen tell: - They say that a ball of fire fell - Straight from the sky, with crash and roar, - Lighting the bay from shore to shore; - Then the ship, with shudder and with groan, - Sank through the waves to the caverns lone - Of the Baie des Chaleurs. - - That was the last of the pirate crew; - But many a night a black flag flew - From the mast of a spectre vessel, sailed - By a spectre band that wept and wailed - For the wreck they had wrought on the sea, on the land, - For the innocent blood they had spilt on the sand - Of the Baie des Chaleurs. - - This is the tale of the phantom light - That fills the mariner's heart, at night, - With dread as it gleams o'er his path on the bay, - Now by the shore, then far away, - Fierce as the flame in sunset skies, - Cold as the winter moon that lies - On the Baie des Chaleurs. - - - - - THE MEADOW LANDS - - - The tide flows in and out and leaves - Its richness on the meadow lands, - The furrowed surface-soil upheaves, - And sprinkles life among the sands. - - Across the meadow lands of life - The tide of time flows and recedes, - Its muddy wave brings woe and strife, - But forms the soil for noble deeds. - - The tide flows in and out and brings - New beauty to the meadow lands, - With lavish tenderness it flings - Fair flowers across the silver sands. - - - - - MY PUREST LONGINGS SPRING - - - My purest longings spring - From the divine, - The sweetest songs I sing - They are not mine. - - I chisel the rude stone - With trembling hand, - The statue comes alone - At God's command. - - Beyond earth's tainted air - I sometimes fly - On wings of faith and prayer; - Yet 'tis not I. - - Not I but He who lights - My flickering creeds; - The Power that writes - My broken deeds. - - Not I but God; for He, - My larger life, - Fulfils Himself in me - With ceaseless strife. - - - - - I WATCH THE SHIPS - - - I watch the ships by town and lea - With sails full set glide out to sea, - Till by the distant light-house rock - The breakers beat with roar and shock - And foam fierce flying o'er their decks, - While deep below lie ocean's wrecks; - What careth she? - - I stand beside the beaten quay - And look while laden ships from sea - Come proudly home upon the tide - lake conquering kings at eventide, - Or from fierce fights with wintry gales - Steal shoreward now with tattered sails; - O cruel sea! - - I pass once more the old gray pier - Where men have waited many a year - For ships that ne'er again shall glide - By town and lea on favoring tide,-- - Strong ships that struggled till the gales - Of winter hid their shrouds and sails - In ocean drear. - - Soft sailing spirits, how they glide - Forth on life's fitful sea untried - To breast the waves and bear the shocks - Beyond the guarded light-house rocks, - To strive and struggle many a year; - Strong souls, indeed, if they can bear - Life's wind and tide. - - I watch beside life's beaten quay - The tides bring back all joyously - To anchor by the sheltered shore - Some freighted full with golden store - From rich spice-fields and perfumed sands - Of soft, luxuriant tropic lands; - O kindly sea! - - But some have met with wintry gales, - And come at last with shattered sails - To anchor by the old gray pier; - While loving ones in hope and fear - Wait on for some that never more - Shall anchor by a peaceful shore; - O sad, sad sea! - - - - - JAMES DAVID EDGAR - - - - - THIS CANADA OF OURS - - - Let other tongues in older lands - Loud vaunt their claims to glory, - And chaunt in triumph of the past, - Content to live in story. - Tho' boasting no baronial halls, - Nor ivy-crested towers, - What past can match thy glorious youth, - Fair Canada of ours? - Fair Canada, - Dear Canada, - This Canada of ours! - - We love those far-off ocean Isles - Where Britain's monarch reigns; - We'll ne'er forget the good old blood - That courses through our veins; - Proud Scotia's fame, old Erin's name, - And haughty Albion's powers, - Reflect their matchless lustre on - This Canada of ours. - Fair Canada, - Dear Canada, - This Canada of ours! - - May our Dominion flourish then, - A goodly land and free, - Where Celt and Saxon, hand in hand, - Hold sway from sea to sea; - Strong arms shall guard our cherished homes - When darkest danger lowers, - And with our life-blood we'll defend - This Canada of ours. - Fair Canada, - Dear Canada, - This Canada of ours! - - - - - CONSTANCE FAIRBANKS - - - - - THE JUNCTION - - - Here, at the change of ways, the steel steed halts, - The train stands still, and weary travellers gaze - On what appears to be a wilderness - Of barren rocks, grim, desolate, and stern. - "What place is this," they ask, "so bleak and bald? - Here surely are the bones of Earth laid bare; - The gaunt frame of this time-worn world!" Such words, - Contempt infused, are heard from jeering lips, - But the drear wayside maketh no reply. - Yet look! the train moves on; the funnel snorts, - And rocks fling echoes on the trembling air; - From the new point of sight the scoffer sees - Deep pools of water bosomed in the waste-- - Calm ponds reflecting Heaven's own lovely blue, - With gray rocks, verdure-touched, around their brinks. - - - - - HALIFAX - - - Facing the ocean, guardian of our land, - Thy frowning forts and ramparts front the foam - Whose waves still ceaseless chafe the rocky strand, - While salt winds waft sea-odors o'er our home. - - All the round year the tramp of armed men, - Crisp bugle call, the guns at noon and night, - And martial music, tell us o'er again - That Britain guards us with a jealous might. - - - - - THOSE FAR-OFF FIELDS - - - Those far-off fields, how fair they seem, - As soft through mists of years they gleam! - We never now around us see - Such meads as those of olden be; - We never find a lake or stream - One half so lovely as we deem - Those which we only view in dream, - Watering the fields of memory-- - Those far-off fields! - - And we were happy then! The theme - Of our existence, love supreme: - And looking back on Fate's decree-- - On all that happened you and me-- - We sigh--for dear our souls esteem - Those far-off fields! - - - - - JOSEPH KEARNEY FORAN - - - - - THE AURORA BOREALIS - - - As the twilight's gray was swallowed - In the depths of night that followed, - And the hand of darkness hollowed - Furrows deep along the land, - Distant bells in sheepfold tinkled, - Million stars in azure twinkled, - Over mountain-peaks that stand - Like giants swarth and grand. - - In the north behold a flushing; - Then a deep and crimson blushing; - Followed by an airy rushing - Of the purple waves that rise! - As when armëd host advances, - See, a silver banner dances, - And a thousand golden lances - Shimmer in the Boreal skies! - The vision slowly dies! - - Now, in bright prismatic splendor, - Comes a picture still more tender, - As a curtain white and slender - Falls across the space afar; - Where its lacy folds are ending, - With the black of distance blending, - Are its miles of fringe descending, - Hanging from a golden bar-- - Pinned to heaven by a star! - - Like a monster roused from sleeping, - First to westward slowly creeping, - Then, in headlong fury, sweeping, - Rushed a mammoth cloud of black; - Rolling upward, plunging, lashing, - Through the fairy curtain dashing, - With a thousand beauties flashing - O'er its phosphorescent back-- - Endless streamers in its track! - - Visions of Arabian story; - Crimson fields of battle gory; - In kaleidoscopic glory, - Shifting, fading, restless tents; - Fairy armies wild in motion; - Jewelled shrines of strange devotion; - And a greenish, tideless ocean, - Bound by ice-clad mounts and dents, - Saw we through the curtain's rents! - - Transformations still beholding, - Up the veil is swiftly folding-- - And fantastic shapes are moulding - On the background of the sky; - Dimmer armies are parading,-- - Fainter wreaths the light is braiding, - While the splendors all are fading - Into one deep purple dye, - Disappearing from the eye! - - - - - WILLIAM HENRY FULLER - - - - - A SONG OF THE SEA - - - I'll sing you a Song of the Sea! - With the waves sparkling bright, - And the breeze blowing light, - And our dear native land on the lee, - How glad is the Song of the Sea! - With friends looking out from the quay, - Their kerchiefs and hands waving free, - And bright smiles and welcome for thee, - How glad! how glad! - How glad is the Song of the Sea! - - I'll sing you a Song of the Sea! - When the skies lour dark - O'er the plague-stricken bark - As she drifts on the desolate sea, - How sad is the Song of the Sea! - When overhead hangs the dun cloud, - Like a pall o'er the dead sailor's shroud - As he sinks in the vast wandering sea, - How sad! how sad! - How sad is the Song of the Sea! - - I'll sing you a Song of the Sea! - When the fierce lightnings flash, - And the stormy waves dash, - And the rocky shore looms on the lee, - How dread is the Song of the Sea! - When the hearts of the bravest will quail - As they shrink from the furious gale - And the wrath of the menacing sea, - How dread! how dread! - How dread is the Song of the Sea! - - - - - ALEXANDER RAE GARVIE - - - - - _From_ "PHANTASY" - - - Fancy many forms assumes! - 'Tis a bee among the blooms, - In the noon of June, that sips - Honey from the heart and lips - Of Anacreon's glorious rose. - Now how warily it goes - Past grim dragons to the trees - Growing in Hesperides! - And anon with Jason hears - Sirens' luring song, and steers - Straightway from the fatal shore, - While each rower strains his oar. - 'Tis a bat at twilight still, - Flitting round a lonesome mill; - 'Tis a falcon fleet that flies - Into depths of opal skies; - Oft it is a sullen owl-- - Pallas' learnëd pensive fowl, - Hooting hoarsely 'mong the trees; - And again, o'er troubled seas - As a petrel bold it wings - Tirelessly. Sometimes it sings - Lark-like in the heavens' scope - When dew gleams on grassy slope. - Roaming meadows, daisy-decked, - 'Tis a child afoot, unchecked, - Gladness in her azure eyes, - As she sees with mute surprise - Brooding birds in hedges' heart, - Building nests with simple art. - And at dawning, near a mere, - Girdled by the bulrush spear, - Fancy as a heron stalks - Heedful of the hated hawks. - Fancy is a butterfly - Born to live brief life and die. - 'Tis a pink-lipped shell afloat, - Fit for tiny fairy's boat; - Fair in fiction, false in fact, - Shunned by men who are exact, - Loved by poet whom it guides - When on Pegasus he rides; - Lover's joy when maid is true, - Lover's woe when, stricken through - With sharp dart, his trust is slain! - Bright and dark and bright again, - Phantom! none thy face may paint, - Since--now sinner, and then saint-- - Thou dost peer from cowl or crown, - Now with smile, anon with frown. - Sweet Sprite! thou alone canst trace - Airy pictures of thy face; - Thou who limnest Rosamond, - Guinevere, and Juliet fond. - Fancy, Fancy, come and charm, - Grasped by clutch of graven gold, - Jove's fetters, her to have and hold! - This swift Ariel serves us well, - Lets us in the glamour's spell, - Drink beside Bacchante fair, - Toy with Pyrrha's braided hair, - Hear Apollo's matchless lute - And the twy-formed Faun's soft flute; - Shows us Aphrodite rise - From foamy seas to sunny skies, - Leads us down the track of Time, - Bears us into every clime; - Often paces kirkyard green - Mourning in her garb and mien, - Mingles with the dancing crowd, - Broiders banners, weaves a shroud, - Keeps a fast or festival-- - Lean Lent here, there--Carnival - Starves or surfeits, Fancy free, - Sojourning in Italy. - As an Arab, lo! how calm - Under frondage of the palm; - Like a Norseman, winter-bound, - (Lest he be in dulness drowned); - Over ice on skate-blades whirs - Past the shaggy, sombre firs.-- - Ha, my Fancy! art thou mad, - Or with Folly's mantle clad? - - - - - PIERCE STEVENS HAMILTON - - - - - _From_ "THE HEROINE OF ST JOHN" - - -I - - 'Tis dawn; but not such morning-tide - As we had guessed the eve before: - Armed ships within our harbor ride, - And armëd men are on the shore. - - But these are not the ships, or men, - That sailed with Sieur La Tour away: - Ah, no, their vengeful chief we ken,-- - Accurst D'Aulnay de Charnisé! - - Now quick the drum is beat to arms; - We run the flag of France on high; - The battle fierce each bosom warms, - And adds a light to every eye. - - And forth our lady chieftain came, - All fearless from her chaste alcove; - But first she snatched from duty's claim - One moment for a mother's love;-- - - One moment pressed her darling child, - And kissed its slumbers with a tear; - One moment more from warfare wild-- - She breathed a brief impassioned prayer; - - Then to the ramparts hied in haste, - To personate her absent lord,-- - A baldrick o'er her swelling breast, - And by her side a pendant sword. - - With glowing cheek, and eye that gleamed, - And voice forbidding all alarm, - Yet graceful, beautiful, she seemed - A warrior in an angel form.... - - -II - - Now dark D'Aulnay a parley seeks; - Demands surrender of the fort! - But, ha! soon back his herald takes - An answer fearless, prompt, and short:-- - - "Madame will hold this fort St John, - As she has held it once before, - Despite of every robber loon, - For France and for her lord, La Tour."... - - Three days D'Aulnay's beleaguering force - Assailed our fort with might and main; - To every wile he had recourse,-- - To fail again and yet again.... - - No craven cry our lady heard, - Though small our band and sorely pressed; - One soul our every action spurred,-- - Her lion's heart in woman's breast!... - - -III - - 'Twas Easter morn.--A sudden cry!-- - Our every heart a moment quailed:-- - "The guard!--quick--ho!--the enemy - Our ditch and parapet have scaled!"... - - Too true: a rampart's coin they'd won, - With skulking treachery for their guide; - De Charnisé himself led on, - With Ponce--the traitor!--by his side. - - With one wild shout of "Vive La Tour!" - We dash upon their bristling van; - Where waves our lady's sword before, - Herself unscathed by fiend or man. - - Our headlong charge the foe appalled; - They shrank; they staggered--turned for flight; - D'Aulnay a parley loudly called - And waved the craven signal white. - - He vaunted his o'erwhelming force; - Our stout defence, he said, was well;-- - Our longer strife would end in worse; - He offered terms most honorable. - - Our lady viewed, with pitying eye, - Her band toil-worn, diminishëd; - With heaving breast and deep-drawn sigh, - She slowly, sadly bowed her head. - - -IV - - Our keys surrendered, arms laid down, - We--penned and prisoned helplessly;-- - Then dark and vengeful was the frown - Of stern D'Aulnay de Charnisé. - - That demon in a human form, - Dark-souled, incarnate treachery,-- - Now swore, with loud upbraiding storm, - The prisoned garrison should die.... - - No sound, no utterance, passed her lips, - The while that awful deed was done; - As if her soul were 'neath eclipse-- - Her beauteous form transformed to stone. - - Then, with one long, loud piercing shriek, - That form upon the earth she cast. - No more can D'Aulnay vengeance wreak: - The heroine's heart has burst at last!... - - - - - S. FRANCES HARRISON - - - - - VILLANELLE - - - Sprung from a sword-sheath fit for Mars, - Straight and sharp, of a gay glad green, - My jonquil lifts its yellow stars. - - Barter, would I, for the dross of the Czars, - These golden flowers and buds fifteen, - Sprung from a sword-sheath fit for Mars? - - Barter, would you, these scimitars, - Among which lit by their light so keen - My jonquil lifts its yellow stars? - - No, for the breast may burst its bars, - The heart its shell, at sight of sheen - Sprung from a sword-sheath fit for Mars: - - Miles away from the mad earth's jars, - Beneath a leafy and shining screen, - My jonquil lifts its yellow stars. - - And I--self-scathed with mortal scars, - I weep, when I see, in its radiant mien, - Sprung from a sword-sheath fit for Mars - My jonquil lift its yellow stars. - - - - - CHÂTEAU PAPINEAU - - - The red-til'd towers of the old Château, - Perched on the cliff above our bark, - Burn in the western evening glow. - - The fiery spirit of Papineau - Consumes them still with its fever spark, - The red-til'd towers of the old Château! - - Drift by and mark how bright they show, - And how the mullion'd windows--mark! - Burn in the western evening glow! - - Drift down, or up, where'er you go, - They flame from out the distant park, - The red-til'd towers of the old Château. - - So was it once with friend, with foe; - Far off they saw the patriot's ark - Burn in the western evening glow. - - Think of him now! One thought bestow, - As, blazing against the pine trees dark, - The red-til'd towers of the old Château - Burn in the western evening glow! - - - - - SEPTEMBER - - -I - - Birds that were gray in the green are black in the yellow. - Here where the green remains rocks one little fellow. - - Quaker in gray, do you know that the green is going? - More than that--do you know that the yellow is showing? - - -II - - Singer of songs, do you know that your Youth is flying? - That Age will soon at the lock of your life be prying? - - Lover of life, do you know that the brown is going? - More than that--do you know that the gray is showing? - - - - - NOVEMBER - - - These are the days that try us; these the hours - That find, or leave us, cowards--doubters of Heaven, - Sceptics of self, and riddled through with vain - Blind questionings as to Deity. Mute, we scan - The sky, the barren, wan, the drab, dull sky, - And mark it utterly blank. Whereas, a fool, - The flippant fungoid growth of modern mode, - Uncapped, unbelled, unshorn, but still a fool, - Fate at his fingers' ends, and Cause in tow, - Or, wiser, say, the Yorick of his age, - The Touchstone of his period, would forecast - Better than us, the film and foam of rose - That yet may float upon the eastern grays - At dawn to-morrow. - Still, and if we could, - We would not change our gloom for glibness, lose - Our wonder in our faith. We are not worse - Than those in whom the myth was strongest, those - In whom first awe lived longest, those who found - --Dear Pagans--gods in fountain, flood and flower. - Sometimes the old Hellenic base stirs, lives - Within us, and we thrill to branch and beam - When walking where the aureoled autumn sun - Looms golden through the chestnuts. But to-day-- - When sodden leaves are merged in melting mire, - And garden-plots lie pilfered, and the vines - Are strings of tangled rigging reft of green, - Crude harps whereon the winter wind shall play - His bitter music--on a day like this, - We, harboring no Hellenic images, stand - In apathy mute before our window pane, - And muse upon the blankness. Then, O, then, - If ever, should we thank our God for those - Rare spirits who have testified in faith - Of such a world as this, and straight we pray - For such an eye as Wordsworth's, he who saw - System in anarchy, progress in ruin, peace - In devastation. Duty was his star-- - May it be ours--this Star the Preacher missed. - - - - - THEODORE ARNOLD HAULTAIN - - - - - BEAUTY - - - Only in dreams she appears to me, - In dreams of the earth, and the sky, and the sea; - In the scent of the rose, the breath of the spring, - The cloud of the summer, glistening; - In the sound of an orient forest dim, - Scarce heard far off on ocean's rim - By wondering traveller who descries - Naught of all its mysteries; - In the wash of the wave, the sigh of the sea, - The laughter of leaves on the wind-tossed tree. - - Her hair is the dusk of an autumn night, - Her brow the moonbeam's pallid light, - Her voice is the voice of the wind and the wave, - When the breeze blows low and the ripples lave - The feet of a wooded mountain hoar - Rising on southern storied shore. - The breath from between her hallowed lips - Is the breath exhaled from a rose that sips - The dew on a lucid April day, - Soft as the spring, as summer gay. - In the flush of the early morning mist, - Which the fervid sun has barely kissed, - Far down in the balmy-breathing dale, - I get a glimpse of her flimsy veil. - In the glow of the lurid sunset hue - I see the robe which her limbs shine through. - On the grass-blade wet I see the tears - Her eyes have shed for our hopes and fears. - Her eyes ... her eyes ... the infinite deeps - Of the holiest heavens where God He keeps - All that is beautiful, good, and true-- - Her eyes are the infinite heaven's blue, - Gazing in sad serenity - On restless, frail humanity. - On softly-breathing evening still, - Alone, where the whispering wayward rill - To the love-sick leaves, which gently dip - Low down to kiss it, lip to lip, - Tells secrets strange of love and pain, - Which the leaves lisp back to it again,-- - Ah! then I dream that my love comes nigh, - And think that I hear her softly sigh. - - Or when, on a windy summer day, - (The golden sunshine-gleam on the bay) - To me, ensconced far out on the high - And rocky weed-strewn promontory, - Come multitudinous sights and sounds-- - The rush of the boisterous wave which bounds - Far up the cliff, the sea-bird's call, - The flying spume, the cloudlets small - That dance through the ether hand in hand-- - The joy suffused o'er the sea and the land,-- - Then, too, I dream that my love is near, - And think that I catch her laughter clear. - - Only in dreams she appears to me, - In dreams of the earth, and the sky, and the sea. - - - - - CHARLES HEAVYSEGE - - - - - MAGNANIMOUS AND MEAN - - - Open, my heart, thy ruddy valves; - It is thy master calls; - Let me go down, and curious trace - Thy labyrinthine halls. - - Open, O heart, and let me view - The secrets of thy den; - Myself unto myself now show - With introspective ken. - - Expose thyself, thou covered nest - Of passions, and be seen; - Stir up thy brood, that in unrest - Are ever piping keen. - Ah! what a motley multitude-- - Magnanimous and mean! - - - - - NIGHT - - - 'Tis solemn darkness; the sublime of shade; - Night, by no stars nor rising moon relieved; - The awful blank of nothingness arrayed, - O'er which my eyeballs roll in vain, deceived. - Upward, around, and downward I explore, - E'en to the frontiers of the ebon air, - But cannot, though I strive, discover more - Than what seems one huge cavern of despair. - Oh, Night, art thou so grim, when, black and bare - Of moonbeams, and no cloudlets to adorn, - Like a nude Ethiop 'twixt two houris fair, - Thou stand'st between the evening and the morn? - I took thee for an angel, but have wooed - A cacodæmon in mine ignorant mood. - - - - - THE COMING OF THE MORN - - - See how the Morn awakes. Along the sky - Proceeds she with her pale, increasing light, - And, from the depths of the dim canopy, - Drives out the shadows of departing night. - Lo, the clouds break, and gradually more wide - Morn openeth her bright, rejoicing gates; - And ever, as the orient valves divide, - A costlier aspect on their breadth awaits. - - Lo, the clouds break, and in each opened schism - The coming Phœbus lays huge beams of gold, - And roseate fire and glories that the prism - Would vainly strive before us to unfold; - And, while I gaze, from out the bright abysm - A flaming disc is to the horizon rolled. - - - - - THE MYSTERY OF DOOM - - - 'Twas on a day, and in high, radiant heaven, - An angel lay beside a lake reclined, - Against whose shores the rolling waves were driven, - And beat the measure to the dancing wind. - There, rapt, he meditated on that story - Of how Jehovah did of yore expel - Heaven's aborigines from grace and glory,-- - Those mighty angels that did dare rebel. - And as he mused upon their dread abode - And endless penance, from his drooping hands - His harp sank down, and scattered all abroad - Its rosy garland on the golden sands; - His soul mute wondering that the All-wise Spirit - Should have allowed the doom of such demerit. - - - - - JOHN FREDERIC HERBIN - - - - - SIMON - - -I - - Simon bent to his hissing saw, - Simon the chopper gnarled and tough, - All the years, till his hands were rough - As the clumsy shape of a bruin's paw, - Knotted and big with his labor long, - Yet sure in the work that made them strong. - - Snarling with curse for his hairy throat, - Poverty feared his strong, rough grasp, - Sick with rage at the saw's bright hasp - That flashed with howl and cut with gloat. - The mother of death and a merciless fate, - She filled his life with the gloom of hate. - - Yet his heart strives upward to his tongue - Incomplete in shreds of song - To help his heavy days along - Through life with mental clouds o'erhung. - Harsh as the saw the tunes depart, - Half-made and dull from the singer's heart. - - -II - - Simon the sage worked night and day, - Simon the chopper wise and true; - Only his song to help him through, - And only his whistle to turn away - The endless gloom of a lowly place, - And the dreary tedium from his face. - - His gleaming axe gives up to the light - Hearts of stubborn sticks and blocks-- - A century maple or birch unlocks - Its fibres gathered through day and night; - And he marks it all with his ancient lore - As he reads the secret of bark and core. - - In forest lore is Simon wise: - The beech that ripens on the hill, - The oak a century cannot kill, - Are well-read books before his eyes; - A forest beneath his axe has turned - In the fifty years his blade has burned. - - He speaks and knows as a wise man knows, - Gathering together with dulling sense - The labor's grudging recompense, - Thoughtful and patient as wisdom grows. - He drifts away from the walks of men, - In a field where he alone has ken. - - Simon is wise in days without tears, - Though arms never rest and work cannot sleep,-- - Wise in the patience that never shall weep; - And toil looms yet in the coming years: - Ceaseless and hungry is human desire, - And Simon must feed the quenchless fire. - - -III - - Simon the digger delves in the earth, - Preparing a pillow for weary head, - For tired limbs and heart a bed,-- - Young, or gray, or dumb at birth, - He makes all ready with prelude dirge, - With careless foot on his own dark verge. - - Like the book recording the village birth, - Fifty years he has kept the file - Of all defunct,--and who meanwhile - May soon desire a strip of earth - Are clearly writ--and the ancient book - Has stamped a gloom upon his look. - - And he often grappled with death in the grave, - While Time stood by whetting his scythe. - Water may drip, and worms may writhe, - And the coffin will soon leave the chapel-nave:-- - Who mourn the dead, as who soon forget, - Look into the grave, unburied yet. - - First to come and last to go, - Simon waits on a fallen stone; - No tear, no fear, though he work alone - To make a grave where weeds may grow. - He fingers the sod with a tender care - As if part of the body resting there. - - -IV - - Seasons have furrowed his features deep, - Bark-like and grim as the axe's food-- - His days have grown slow with the growing wood-- - Furrows that never smile or weep. - Axe and spade turn light away, - He labors in gloom at bright midday. - - Seventy years of months and days - Weigh on his head and bend him down; - His brow with thought has become a frown. - Seldom a smile o'er his wrinkles plays, - For his labor makes him a gloomy lore; - Forgetting no face he has covered o'er. - - -V - - Problems of living are hard to learn; - The duty is clear, reward but a hope; - Philosophy fails beyond life's dark scope. - The sage is the digger whose dawns return - That he drag the lingering minutes away-- - There is no day but the present day. - - What work is well when thrust to a close? - Wisdom foretells no hidden good; - Suffering follows the hardihood - Of plunging thus into future woes. - Living, alone, can quench distress; - The moment seized is the one to bless. - - Poverty near, and death at his heels, - Simon is rich in the wealth of years; - Working for bread, without joy, without tears, - Till the changeless calm will gently steal - Across his face and will silence his song. - Where riches are equal his rest will be long. - - - - - THE DIVER - - - Like marble, nude, against the purple sky, - In ready poise, the diver scans the sea - Gemming the marsh's green placidity, - And mirroring the fearless form on high. - Behold the outward leap--he seems to fly! - His arms like arrow-blade just speeded free; - His body like the curving bolt, to be - Deep-driven till the piercing flight shall die. - Sharply the human arrow cleaves the tide, - Only a foaming swell to mark his flight; - While shoreward moves the silent ring on ring. - And now the sea is stirred and broken wide - Before the swimmer's passage swift and light, - And bears him as a courser bears a king. - - - - - ACROSS THE DYKES - - - The dykes half bare are lying in the bath - Of quivering sunlight on this Sunday morn, - And bobolinks aflock make sweet the worn - Old places, where two centuries of swath - Have fallen to earth before the mower's path. - Across the dykes the bell's low sound is borne - From green Grand Pré, abundant with the corn, - With milk and honey which it always hath.-- - And now I hear the Angelus ring far; - See faith bow many a head that suffered wrong, - Near all these plains they wrested from the tide! - I see the vision of their final griefs that mar - The greenness of these meadows; in the song - Of birds I feel a tear that has not dried. - - - - - THE SONNET - - - How fair thou art the poets long have known; - And I have sought the beauty which is thine - Through many days and nights of cloud and shine, - Until one note of all sweet notes outblown - Has spelled my ear; for dearest things alone - Are found companionless; and the divine - And single inspiration shall entwine - The laurel till it fit the brow of one. - And thou art rare among the things most rare; - The beam consummate of the lights of day; - The fullest note struck from the living flood - Of melody; the gem that has most care - In the kind workman's hand, till he shall say, - "Thy beauty is the acme of all good." - - - - - ANNIE CAMPBELL HUESTIS - - - - - GENTLE-BREATH - - - Oh, Gentle-breath goes singing, goes singing through the grass, - And all the flowers know her and love to see her pass. - Oh, all the flowers know her, and well they know the song - That Gentle-breath goes singing, goes singing all day long. - O Gentle-breath! O Gentle-breath! - They do not know you sing of death. - - Oh, Gentle-breath comes crooning a tender lullaby. - The merry day is over, the stars are in the sky-- - The stars are in the sky, and the flowers droop their heads, - They cannot hear her passing, so airily she treads. - O Gentle-breath! O Gentle-breath!-- - How mournfully she murmureth! - - Oh, Gentle-breath comes crying--comes crying in the night - Among the sleeping flowers, with footsteps swift and light. - Her tears are on their faces--she sheds them for their sakes, - And there is in her singing a tender heart that breaks. - O Gentle-breath! O Gentle-breath!-- - How tunefully she sings of death! - - Oh, Gentle-breath goes wailing--goes shivering away, - And Icy-breath comes howling, and clouds are dull and gray. - Oh, Icy-breath comes howling--the pine trees sob o'erhead - For the leaves that all have fallen, the flowers that are dead. - O Gentle-breath! O Gentle-breath! - They did not know you sang of death. - - O promise sweet!--I hear it!--the falling of the rain! - The leaves once more shall rustle, the flowers come again! - The flowers come again, with their faces fresh and sweet, - And all the grass shall tremble 'neath the touches of your feet. - For you will come, O Gentle-breath! - And sing again your song of death! - - - - - THE LITTLE WHITE SUN - - - The sky had a gray, gray face, - The touch of the mist was chill, - The earth was an eerie place, - For the wind moaned over the hill; - But the brown earth laughed, and the sky turned blue, - When the little white sun came peeping through. - - The wet leaves saw it and smiled, - The glad birds gave it a song-- - A cry from a heart, glee-wild, - And the echoes laugh it along: - And the wind and I went whistling, too, - When the little white sun came peeping through. - - So welcome the chill of rain - And the world in its dreary guise-- - To have it over again, - That moment of sweet surprise, - When the brown earth laughs, and the sky turns blue, - As the little white sun comes peeping through! - - - - - TWENTY-OLD AND SEVEN-WILD - - - O Twenty, running through the wood! - Where friendly leaves and grasses stir, - Where airs are sweet and trees are strong, - And hiding birds call out to her, - And every little timid thing - That creeps within the woods to sing - Seems just to have a voice for her. - - O Twenty, running through the wood! - A woman grown, and yet a child! - Now in the sun, now in the shade-- - The wild gone out to meet the wild. - And who can say life is not sweet - To eager eyes and fearless feet - To Twenty-old and Seven-wild. - - She leaves the quiet road that winds - Its pretty way the whole wood through - And makes a pathway for herself, - As who at Twenty would not do? - Unseen and seen, the wind and she - Go through the bush and round the tree-- - Go roving 'round and singing through. - - Such pleasure just to lose herself! - O Seven-wild! O Twenty-old! - The shadows stealing from the night - Tread measures strange with gleams of gold. - And Mayflowers lift their faces pink:-- - Now who could look at them and think - Of being young or being old? - - O Twenty, running through the wood! - Its wildness has a power to still; - The voices low from rock and twig - The silences with music thrill,-- - And suddenly _she_ silent grows, - And, searching out the path she knows, - Turns back--but carries home the thrill. - - - - - WILLIAM EDWARD HUNT - - - - - GOLDEN-ROD - - - Beshrew the coinëd gold!--and so take heed, - Nor palter with the dross to form a god-- - Behold, the dandelion gilds the clod, - The buttercup adorns the dewy mead! - Doth it not bring contentment to thy greed?-- - Then satiate thine avarice: the sod - Gleams with illimitable golden-rod,-- - And of a surety thou art rich indeed! - - The burnished banner of the summer's prime - Waves happy mortals to a golden feast - (The largess rare of yon high Eastern priest!) - Unstained by goaded greed, or shame, or crime. - Oh, glorious yellow golden-rod!--sublime - Free-offering to the greatest and the least. - - - - - THE SEA'S INFLUENCE - - - The brine is in our blood from days of yore, - And ever in our ears the tide's tune rings; - The wave runs through our legends and our lore, - And permeates a thousand diverse things; - The memory of our race's Island home - Is charged with salt-sea spray and ocean foam. - - - - - THE PASSING OF SUMMER - - - "Summer is dead!"--it was the wind that spake - In the bronze mantle of the sombre pine-- - "The sumach bush unfurls a scarlet sign; - The sere rush signals it in stream and lake; - Soundeth a requiem in gilded brake, - Where mateless birds a lonely fate repine; - The sky is veiled in tears; each gray confine - Bespeaks the shrunken branch the leaves forsake. - - "I laugh with ruddy Autumn in the morn; - I sound his praises in the golden light; - But when high noon has passed and raven night - Comes rushing down, I wail with those forlorn: - The dying leaves, the lone flowers, pale and torn, - The multitudes confronting death or flight." - - - - - RICHARD HUNTINGTON - - - - - SUNRISE ON THE TUSKET - - -I - - Still, in the light of morning gray, - That ushered in the summer day, - The fair Acadien hamlet lay - - Its fringing hem of forest round, - Its verdured slopes with orchards crowned, - Lie steeped in silence most profound. - - No zephyr's wing the leaf hath stirred, - No sound to break the calm is heard, - Save crickets' chirp or trill of bird. - - The frequent fireflies' fitful gleam, - The star of morning's lucent beam, - Shine mirrored in the glassy stream, - - In whose clear depths are pictured seen - The drooping boughs and foliage green - Of graceful trees that o'er it lean. - - -II - - Glows in the kindling East a blush, - Morn's old and immemorial flush! - Afar, the distant Tusket's rush - - Is heard, in muffled murmur deep, - As, past green isle and headland steep, - Its eddying waters seaward sweep. - - Morn's steps advance, and lo, the West - Hath donned a new and gorgeous vest - Of purple and of amethyst. - - Look East once more!--a sea of gold - Along the far horizon rolled-- - The rising orb of day behold! - - It gilds with flame St Michael's spire, - Whose panes, agleam with living fire, - Blaze like some sacrificial pyre. - - It lights, as with celestial glow, - The slender crosslets ranged below, - Man's last, sad resting-place to show.... - - -III - - In yonder modest glebe-house near, - Unconscious of my presence here, - Sleeps one to friendship's heart most dear. - - Unwakened by the orient beam, - Perchance in some ecstatic dream - He roams by Tiber's classic stream, - - Or sees St Peter's mighty dome - Soar grandly o'er the pomp of Rome-- - His own loved Church's pride and home. - - Blest be his visions, wheresoe'er - His dream-enfranchised fancy veer-- - The faithful priest, the friend sincere! - - - - - LOUISBURG - - - And this is Louisburg! whose moss-grown ruin - Stretches before me--one deserted waste! - Scarce can the eye, its eager search pursuing, - The outlines of her strong defences trace-- - Relentless by the miner's blast effaced. - Yet was she once the brightest gem of all - The gorgeous brilliants that with splendor graced - The diadem of old monarchial Gaul,-- - She who defiance frowned, and Britain foe did call. - - The Dunkirk of this land!--how fallen since then! - The eye but wanders o'er a waste of stone, - Remains of dwellings once the abodes of men, - But now forlorn, deserted, silent, lone; - And rank and mantling grass hath overgrown - Her streets, her sepulchres, her ruined walls. - The voice of bygone ages hath a tone - Which lingers yet amid these prostrate halls, - As reverent 'mid their maze my pensive footstep falls. - - Lo, yon green rampart! towering once in pride, - And bristling, too, with bayonets, that long - The prowess of the immortal Wolfe defied.-- - Not to the peaceful Muse doth it belong - To weave with sturdy martial words her song, - Else might I speak of glacis and of fosse, - Of massy culvert, and of battery strong, - And blasted battlements o'ergrown with moss, - Around whose ruined base the angry billows toss.-- - - Eastward there stood upon the frowning steep-- - And of its wreck some fragments still remain-- - Their beacon light, the Pharos of the deep!... - - - - - JAMES COBOURG HODGINS - - - - - ONCE MORE - - - Once more the robin flutes in glee, - On heat returning. - The living juices in the trees - Are shooting in the early leaves,-- - The blossoms break, - And lusty nature wide awake - Her pleasant task sits learning. - - The fleecy clouds scud o'er the blue, - In sudden glory. - The woods are full of whistling birds, - And nature, in strange mystic words, - Relates once more, - In the same strains as oft before, - The one old golden story: - - That he who lives close to her heart, - Nor spurns her warning, - Shall all life's cunning secrets learn: - The trill of birds, the tress of fern, - The roar of seas, - The music of the wind-swept trees, - The glory of the morning; - - Shall learn the noiseless laws of life, - The truths of beauty, - And find that Nature's meanest guise - Is full of wonder and surprise; - That everything - Doth to the surface ever bring - The blessedness of duty. - - - - - A GREEK REVERIE - - - This is the purple sea of ancient song. - These are the groves to which bacchantes lured. - In these grim rocks bad spirits are immured, - Pent in by Heaven in token of some wrong. - Sure that was Pan who flashed by through the pine, - Followed by boys with passionate eyes, and men - Bedecked with roses! Fainter down the glen - Tramps the mad rabble, caught with song divine. - - Now once again the Lord of life and day - Smites into splendor all the dull waste waves: - Straight Ulysses, his face, sleep-swollen, laves, - Rouses his heroes, and with scant delay - Prows are turned homeward. Hark the measured beat! - Another weary day and vacant sky and heat! - - - - - JOSEPH HOWE - - - - - THE FLAG OF OLD ENGLAND - - A CENTENARY SONG OF THE LANDING OF CORNWALLIS AT HALIFAX - - - All hail to the day when the Britons came over, - And planted their standard, with sea-foam still wet! - Around and above us their spirits will hover, - Rejoicing to mark how we honor it yet. - Beneath it the emblems they cherished are waving, - The Rose of Old England the roadside perfumes; - The Shamrock and Thistle the north winds are braving, - Securely the Mayflower[A] blushes and blooms. - - _Hail to the day when the Britons came over, - And planted their standard, with sea-foam still wet, - Around and above us their spirits will hover, - Rejoicing to mark how we honor it yet. - We'll honor it yet, we'll honor it yet, - The flag of Old England! we'll honor it yet._ - - In the temples they founded, their faith is maintained, - Every foot of the soil they bequeathed is still ours, - The graves where they moulder, no foe has profaned, - But we wreathe them with verdure, and strew them with flowers! - The blood of no brother, in civil strife poured, - In this hour of rejoicing encumbers our souls! - The frontier's the field for the patriot's sword, - And cursed be the weapon that faction controls! - - Then hail to the day! 'tis with memories crowded, - Delightful to trace 'midst the mists of the past, - Like the features of Beauty, bewitchingly shrouded, - They shine through the shadows Time o'er them has cast. - As travellers track to its source in the mountains - The stream which, far swelling, expands o'er the plains, - Our hearts on this day fondly turn to the fountains - Whence flow the warm currents that bound in our veins. - - And proudly we trace them! No warrior flying - From city assaulted, and fanes overthrown, - With the last of his race on the battlements dying, - And weary with wandering, founded our own. - From the Queen of the Islands, then famous in story, - A century since, our brave forefathers came, - And our kindred yet fill the wide world with her glory, - Enlarging her empire, and spreading her name. - - Every flash of her genius our pathway enlightens, - Every field she explores we are beckoned to tread, - Each laurel she gathers our future day brightens-- - We joy with her living, and mourn for her dead. - Then hail to the day when the Britons came over, - And planted their standard, with sea-foam still wet! - Above and around us their spirits shall hover, - Rejoicing to mark how we honor it yet. - -[A] The Trailing Arbutus, the emblem of Nova Scotia. - - - - - THE DESERTED NEST - - - Deserted nest, that on the leafless tree - Waves to and fro with every dreary blast, - With none to shelter, none to care for thee, - Thy day of pride and cheerfulness is past. - - Thy tiny walls are falling to decay, - Thy cell is tenantless and tuneless now, - The winter winds have rent the leaves away, - And left thee hanging on the naked bough. - - But yet, deserted nest, there is a spell, - E'en in thy loneliness, to touch the heart, - For holy things within thee once did dwell, - The type of joys departed now thou art. - - With what assiduous care thy framers wrought, - With what delight they viewed the structure rise, - And how, as each some tiny rafter brought, - Pleasure and hope would sparkle in their eyes. - - Ah! who shall tell, when all the work was done, - The rapturous pleasure that their labors crowned, - The blissful moments Nature for them won, - And bade them celebrate with joyous sound. - - A father's pride, a mother's anxious care, - Her fluttered spirits, and his gentlest tone, - All, all that wedded hearts so fondly share, - To thee, deserted nest, were surely known. - - Then though thy walls be rent, and cold thy cell, - And thoughtless crowds may hourly pass thee by, - Where love and truth and tenderness did dwell, - There's still attraction for the poet's eye. - - - - - CHARLES EDWIN JAKEWAY - - - - - AN UNFINISHED PROPHECY - - -I - - The twilight land toyed with the night - When from the hills with footsteps light - An Indian maiden passed adown - A rugged path o'er boulders brown - Unto the soft gray river sand. - The sweet balsamic breezes fanned - Her bronze-brown cheeks and blue-black hair - With loving wings, and lilies fair - Held up their golden cups to stay - The progress of her paddle's play, - As o'er the quivering ripplets she, - With airy grace and gestures free, - Pulled from the beach a bark canoe, - And threaded reedy mazes through - Toward the river's open breast, - That reached away into the west - Till it caressed the after-glow - Of sunset in the distance low. - - -II - - The river's rippling monotone-- - The low-voiced chants of zephyrs lone, - That swung like censers through the halls - By leafage arched, with leafage walls-- - The lazy hum of insect song-- - All seemed to woo the shades along - The golden rim of eventide, - As back and forth her paddle plied - Through solemn symphonies of gloom - Into the night-enshrouded tomb - Of recent day. The throbbing stars - Rose one by one above the bars - Of dark abysmal to the sea - Of heaven, and the mystery - Of Nature's silence robed her round - With garments threaded by the sound - Of marsh-bird's wail, or pine-wood's moan. - At length she turned, and towards the zone - Of blackness, girding round the stream - As Lethe coils around a dream, - She swerved the course of the canoe, - And through the grasses, damp with dew, - That held their arms down from the bank - To fondle with the rushes rank, - Propelled its prow against the sand, - And silently sprang to the land. - - -III - - She pulled aside a maple screen - That curtained off a weird ravine, - And stepped toward a smouldering flame, - O'er which crouched low an ancient dame - Whose wrinkled face, as leather dry, - Seemed dead, except that either eye - Shone with a fierce, malignant glare, - Like that which lights the wild-cat's lair - When danger pries into its keep. - "Mother, I'm glad you're not asleep," - The maiden said in awesome way. - "I've dared the dark which follows day, - And paddled up through shade and gloom, - And grim, fantastic shapes that loom - Like giant goblins round the road - That leads to your retired abode." - "You're welcome, child, but never dread - That you'll disturb my sleeping bed," - The dame's harsh voice made answer soon, - "I do not sleep till night-tide's noon - Has gone to meet the dawning day. - All night my tireless fancies play - Unceasing gambols with the gnomes - That chase each other 'neath the domes - That roof the wild deer's headlong path - When flying from the hunter's wrath. - Why came you here? Do troubles chase - You from your pillowed resting-place? - Has love bestowed a heart on you, - And come you here to prove it true?" - "No heart has love bestowed on me, - But mine has gone, and I to thee - Come in the anguish of my grief - To seek for solace or relief. - 'Tis said that you can lift the screen - That veils the destinies unseen.... - Until this summer I was free - And happy as the warbling birds; - My thoughts ran on in merry words, - As runnels ripple o'er the rocks, - Or careless as my own dark locks, - Which flung their mane to capture gleams - That glanced from sun-bedizened streams. - I watched the braves return one day - From a victorious foray, - And noted, towering o'er the rest, - A chieftain from the outbound west - With eyes of fire and haughty frown. - I met him ere the sun went down - And saw his frown turn to a smile, - And in his eyes the fire the while - Was fanned to fascination sweet. - The Eagle Eye a lover meet - Would be--" "Hist, child, footsteps approach! - Hide till we see who doth encroach - Within the bounds of my domain. - To yonder bush, and there remain - Until I call you forth again." - - -IV - - The ancient crone revived the blaze - Until its red, uncertain rays - Crept down the hillside dun, and died - Upon the river's misty tide. - Then by the lurid flickering gleams, - That seemed dissolving out of dreams - Among the leafy arcades far, - She caught the glitter of a star - That silver-like shot from its nest - Upon a young brave's stalwart breast, - As up the forest path he came, - Attracted by the pinewood flame. - "Why comest thou?" her voice rang keen - Through shrouded glade and dim ravine. - "I come to pray you'll weave a spell - Whereby the future to foretell. - A chieftain I, in battle skilled, - Full many a foeman I have killed; - I've scalped the locks from many a brow, - And never shirked a task till now. - Through ghostly fogs, o'er leaping brooks, - 'Mid slumbering snakes in dusky nooks, - O'er sullen lairs and reedy shades, - O'er quivering brakes and venomed glades, - O'er gusty hills, sun-flushed and high, - That shook their locks against the sky, - O'er shady stretches long and lone, - O'er rocky ledge, through caverned stone, - Past morning's prime, past twilight gray, - I've tracked my foemen on their way - With heart relentless, and with hand - Ready to hurl the deadly brand - With naught of mercy nor of fear. - And yet to-night I'm standing here, - Afraid to face a maiden's eyes, - Afraid to reach to grasp the prize - My heart desires all else above, - Her precious treasury of love. - I've tried to break the bonds that roll - Their magic coils around my soul, - By daring danger on the lake - When storm-clouds o'er its bosom break-- - By roaming over flood and fell-- - By trying every potent spell - The old magician 'neath the hill - Could summon to assist my will-- - By chasing gravelights over graves, - And rambling where the were-wolf raves - Out threats of torture and of rack - To hapless ones that cross its track. - I've run death's gauntlet, day by day, - Where hungry wild-cats screech for prey, - But everywhere the haunting face - Of Budding Rose in matchless grace - Swims 'fore my eyes. Pray, mother, tell, - Will she return my love? Dispel - My doubts at once and seal my fate!" - "Sit down behind that bush and wait," - The dame replied, "until I call - The wood-sprites up within my thrall." - - -V - - She lit a smoking pine-knot red, - And swayed it thrice around her head, - Then hurled it hissing in the marsh, - The while her voice on air-wings harsh - Passed through the thronging shadows dense, - Unto love's hearing strained and tense. - "I hear the voices of the trees - In answer to the asking breeze, - And this is what the voices say: - 'True love will always have its way!' - Come forth, my children, to the light; - The answer to the breeze is right." - The maiden came with drooping head, - The brave with grave and measured tread, - And joined their hands above the blaze. - "For you, fond lovers, length of days - I prophesy, and happy times. - Your lives shall run like merry rhymes - Through many years of full content, - And when at last your course is spent, - Your children shall revere your name, - Your children's children--" Flashed a flame, - A lightning blast, athwart their eyes, - And death assailed them in the guise - Of Iroquois, the Hurons' dread-- - And seeress, lovers, all were dead! - - - - - E. PAULINE JOHNSON - - - - - (TEKAHIOŃWAKE) - - THE SONG MY PADDLE SINGS - - - West wind, blow from your prairie nest! - Blow from the mountains, blow from the west. - The sail is idle, the sailor too; - O! wind of the west, we wait for you. - Blow, blow! - I have wooed you so, - But never a favor you bestow. - You rock your cradle the hills between, - But scorn to notice my white lateen. - - I stow the sail, unship the mast: - I wooed you long, but my wooing's past; - My paddle will lull you into rest. - O! drowsy wind of the drowsy west, - Sleep, sleep, - By your mountain steep, - Or down where the prairie grasses sweep! - Now fold in slumber your laggard wings, - For soft is the song my paddle sings. - - August is laughing across the sky, - Laughing while paddle, canoe and I, - Drift, drift, - Where the hills uplift - On either side of the current swift. - - The river rolls in its rocky bed; - My paddle is plying its way ahead; - Dip, dip, - While the waters flip - In foam as over their breast we slip. - - And oh, the river runs swifter now; - The eddies circle about my bow. - Swirl, swirl! - How the ripples curl - In many a dangerous pool awhirl! - - And forward far the rapids roar, - Fretting their margin for evermore. - Dash, dash, - With a mighty crash, - They seethe, and boil, and bound, and splash. - - Be strong, O paddle! be brave, canoe! - The reckless waves you must plunge into. - Reel, reel, - On your trembling keel, - But never a fear my craft will feel. - - We've raced the rapid, we're far ahead! - The river slips through its silent bed. - Sway, sway, - As the bubbles spray - And fall in tinkling tunes away. - - And up on the hills against the sky, - A fir tree rocking its lullaby, - Swings, swings, - Its emerald wings, - Swelling the song that my paddle sings. - - - - - AT HUSKING TIME - - - At husking time the tassel fades - To brown above the yellow blades, - Whose rustling sheath enswathes the corn - That bursts its chrysalis in scorn - Longer to lie in prison shades. - - Among the merry lads and maids - The creaking ox-cart slowly wades - 'Twixt stalks and stubble, sacked and torn - At husking time. - - The prying pilot crow persuades - The flock to join in thieving raids; - The sly raccoon with craft inborn - His portion steals; from plenty's horn - His pouch the saucy chipmunk lades - At husking time. - - - - - SHADOW RIVER - - - A stream of tender gladness, - Of filmy sun, and opal-tinted skies; - Of warm midsummer air that lightly lies - In mystic rings, - Where softly swings - The music of a thousand wings - That almost tone to sadness. - - Midway 'twixt earth and heaven, - A bubble in the pearly air, I seem - To float upon the sapphire floor, a dream - Of clouds of snow, - Above, below, - Drift with my drifting, dim and slow, - As twilight drifts to even. - - The little fern-leaf, bending - Upon the brink, its green reflection greets, - And kisses soft the shadow that it meets - With touch so fine, - The border line - The keenest vision can't define; - So perfect is the blending. - - The far fir trees that cover - The brownish hills with needles green and gold, - The arching elms o'erhead, vinegrown and old, - Repictured are - Beneath me far, - Where not a ripple moves to mar - Shades underneath, or over. - - Mine is the undertone; - The beauty, strength, and power of the land - Will never stir or bend at my command; - But all the shade - Is marred or made, - If I but dip my paddle blade; - And it is mine alone. - - O! pathless world of seeming! - O! pathless life of mine whose deep ideal - Is more my own than ever was the real. - For others Fame - And Love's red flame, - And yellow gold: I only claim - The shadows and the dreaming. - - - - - BRIER - - - Because, dear Christ, your tender, wounded arm - Bends back the brier that edges life's long way, - That no hurt comes to heart, to soul no harm, - I do not feel the thorns so much to-day. - - Because I never knew your care to tire, - Your hand to weary guiding me aright, - Because you walk before and crush the brier, - It does not pierce my feet so much to-night. - - Because so often you have hearkened to - My selfish prayers, I ask but one thing now, - That these harsh hands of mine add not unto - The crown of thorns upon your bleeding brow. - - - - - PRAIRIE GREYHOUNDS - - C. P. R. WESTBOUND--No. 1 - - - I swing to the sunset land, - The world of prairie, the world of plain, - The world of promise, and hope, and gain, - The world of gold, and the world of grain, - And the world of the willing hand. - - I carry the brave and bold, - The one who works for the nation's bread, - The one whose past is a thing that's dead, - The one who battles and beats ahead, - And the one who goes for gold. - - I swing to the land to be: - I am the power that laid its floors, - I am the guide to its western stores, - I am the key to its golden doors, - That open alone to me. - - - C. P. R. EASTBOUND--No. 2 - - I swing to the land of morn, - The grey old East, with its grey old seas, - The land of leisure, the land of ease, - The land of flowers and fruits and trees, - And the place where we were born. - - Freighted with wealth I come: - Food, and fortune, and fellow that went - Far out west on adventure bent, - With well-worn pick and a folded tent, - Is bringing his bullion home. - - I never will be renowned - As my twin that swings to the western marts, - For I am she of the humbler parts; - But I am the joy of the waiting hearts, - For I am the homeward bound! - - - - - ROBERT KIRKLAND KERNIGHAN - - - - - THE SONG OF THE THAW - - - My sandalled feet are firm and fleet, - My chariot wheels are splendid; - I rush and run before the sun - With balmy breezes blended; - O'er forest dry, past mountains high, - O'er snowy valleys hollow, - I sweep along with muffled song - And robin red-breasts follow. - - Before my blade the snow wreaths fade, - The frosty blast I cripple; - The frozen stream wakes from its dream, - And straight begins to ripple; - I hush the wail along my trail - Past hamlet, home and hollow, - While on I go with noiseless flow - And robin red-breasts follow. - - And like a psalm, benign and calm, - I blight the brow of winter; - I snap the chains that hold the reins-- - The fields of ice I splinter; - And like the tide I run and ride, - The bated winds I swallow; - Triumphant still past rock and rill, - And robin red-breasts follow. - - A wing of light from night to night - My perfumed chariot passes, - And I can hear in meadows clear - The whispering of the grasses; - With joyous face I onward race - Past hopeless height and hollow, - While swift and strong with simple song - My robin red-breasts follow. - - The north wind bleeds--the rustling reeds - The happy news is telling, - And I can hear in forests near - The juicy leaf-buds swelling; - I onward rush without the thrush, - The red bird or the swallow, - You needn't mind, for close behind - My robin red-breasts follow. - - - - - PEEPY IS NOT DEAD - - - "If Peepy had lived," the mother sighed, - "He'd be of age to-day." - She bowed her head as she softly cried-- - The head that was turning gray. - Now, one would think that Peepy was dead, - Underneath the snow: - One would think that Peepy was dead - Since seventeen years ago. - - 'Tis true they hid poor Peepy away, - Down in the churchyard green, - And ever since that pitiful day - Peepy's never been seen. - No one has seen his curly head - Or heard his laughter flow; - But it doesn't follow that Peepy's been dead - Since seventeen years ago! - - They laid his toddling feet to rest; - They folded his fingers small, - Around the lily upon his breast; - Then laid him away--that's all. - They curtained his vacant trundle bed - In his little room of woe; - They really thought that Peepy was dead - Seventeen years ago. - - But it wasn't Peepy they put to stay - Under the churchyard sod-- - He's young and gay and strong to-day - Up in the realms of God. - He walks in the light by the Saviour's side, - The Saviour that loved him so. - So it's folly to think that Peepy died - Seventeen years ago. - - His form returned to its mother mould, - But his soul began to grow-- - This is the story an angel told, - And I'm sure these things are so. - Creeds and churches bother my head, - But this one thing I know-- - It isn't true that Peepy's been dead - Since seventeen years ago! - - - - - WILLIAM KIRBY - - - - - THE MARQUIS OF LORNE'S VISIT TO THE NORTH-WEST - - - What went ye to the wilderness to see? - A shaking reed? Men in king's houses dwelling? - A prophet? Yea, more than a prophet telling - Of lands new named for Christ--a gift in fee, - And heritage of millions yet to be. - Green prairies like an ocean swelling - From rise to set of sun--great rivers spelling - Their rugged names in Blackfoot and in Cree. - That went you forth to see, and saw it lie, - The glorious land reserved by God till now, - For England's help in need--to drive the plough, - A thousand miles on end--till in the sky - The snowy mountains, from the plains upborne, - Bear on the proudest peak the name of Lorne. - - - - - AT SPENCER GRANGE - - - Upon the heights of Sillery one day, - Led by the dryad of the fairy wood, - A daughter of the land, as bright and good - As spring's first daffodil, bade me survey - Wolfe's cove, the gleaming city with array - Of walls and pinnacles, each in a hood - Of sunset glory, while the shining flood - Swept through the mountains far and far away. - And then the nearer landscape she recalls, - The grove, the Grange, Belle Borne's romantic rill, - Which in a chain of silvery waterfalls - Ran down the cliff and vanished; but she still - Stands there to me. A memory will not fade-- - Part of the glorious vision I surveyed. - - - - - _From_ "THE SPARROWS" - - - So sat I yesterday, with weary eyes - Looking at leafless trees and snow-swept plains, - And broad Ontario's ice-encumbered sea. - My thoughts had wandered in a waking dream - Across the deep abyss of vanished years, - To that dear land I never saw again-- - When suddenly a fluttering of wings - Shook the soft snow--a twittering of birds - Chirping a strange old note, but heard before - In English hedges and on roofs red-tiled, - Of cottage homes that looked on village greens! - An old familiar note! Who says the ear - Forgets a voice once heard? the eye, a charm? - The heart, affection's touch, from man or woman? - Not mine at least! I knew my own birds' language, - And recognised their little forms with joy. - - A flock of English sparrows at my door, - With feathers ruffled in the cold north wind, - Claimed kinship with me--hospitality!-- - Brown-coated things! Not for uncounted gold - Would I have made denial of their claims! - Five! six! ten! twenty! But I lost all count - In my great joy. Whence come I knew not; glad - They came to me, who loved them for the sake - Of that dear land at once both theirs and mine. - - I ran to get the food I knew they liked, - Remembering how--a child--in frost and snow-- - I used to scatter crumbs before the door, - And wheat in harvest gleaned, to feed the birds - Which left us not in winter, but made gay - The bleak, inclement season of the year. - The sparrows chirped and pecked while eyeing me - With little diamond glances, like old friends, - As round my feet they fluttered, hopped and fed, - In perfect confidence and void of fear. - Their forms, their notes, their pretty ways so strange, - Yet so familiar--like a rustic word - Learned in my childhood and not spoken since-- - All, all came back to me! and as I looked - And listened--a thousand memories rose up, - Like a vast audience at the nation's song! - - Old England's hills and dales of matchless charm, - Sweeping in lines of beauty, stood revealed: - Her fragrant lanes where woodbine trailed the hedge, - And little feet with mine ran side by side - As we plucked primroses, or marked the spot - Where blackbird, thrush or linnet reared its young, - While sang the cuckoo on the branching tree. - Those meadows, too! Who can forget them ever? - So green! with buttercups and daisies set, - Where skylarks nested and sprang up at dawn - To heaven's top, singing their rapturous lay! - Those gentle rivers, not too large to grasp - By the strong swimmer of his native streams; - Those landward homes that breed the nation's strength; - Those beaconed cliffs that watch her stormy seas, - Covered with ships that search all oceans round: - Those havens, marts, and high-built cities, full - Of work and wealth and men who rule the world! - All rose before me in supernal light, - As when beheld with childhood's eyes of strength, - And stirred my soul with impulses divine. - - My heart opened its depths--glad tears and sad - Mingled upon my cheek, which forty years' - Strange winds had fanned and heat and cold embrowned. - God's hand is nearer than we think--a touch - Suffices to restore the dead; a word - Becomes a wonder of creative power. - The little sparrows in their rustic speech - Talking a tongue I knew--this message brought - From Christ, who spake it, merciful to man: - "Are not two sparrows for a farthing sold, - And not one falls without the Father's leave? - Fear not, therefore! for of more value, ye, - Than many sparrows, yea, whose very hairs - Are numbered by the loving care of God." - - I blessed the little messengers who brought - These words of comfort to my lonely heart, - To teach me resignation, hope and peace. - Like children in a darkened room we cry, - Despairing of the light when 'tis most nigh.... - The callow bird must wait its wings to fly, - And so must thou! God's love is law in love, - Working in elements of moral strife - That will not yield obedience but with pain. - - "Perfect through suffering." Comprehend'st thou that? - Upon the cross who was it, dying, cried, - In the last agony that rends the soul: - "Eli! Eli! lama sabacthani!" - No other way! Christ, too, must drink that cup - Before His human life was made divine - And our redemption possible from sin! - Or if a gentler lesson thou would'st learn, - Dismayed at those tremendous mysteries, - Think of the birds, the lilies, all things He - Takes care of to the end: why not of thee? - But while their round of life is here complete, - Thine but begins! The law of laws is love, - That needs two worlds to perfect all of man, - And an eternity to teach God's ways!... - - - - - MATTHEW RICHEY KNIGHT - - - - - JACQUES CARTIER - - - No flame of war was he, no flower of grace, - No star of wisdom; but a plain, bold man, - More careful of the end than of the plan. - No mystery was he afraid to face; - No savage strategy, no furious storm, - No stings of climate, no unthought disease: - His master purpose would not bend to these, - But saw, through all, achievement's towering form. - - He first beheld the gloomy Saguenay, - And Stadacona's high, forbidding brow; - His venturous vision too did first survey - Fair Hochelaga, but not fair as now. - St. Malo holds his dust, the world his fame, - But his strong, dauntless soul 'tis ours to claim. - - - - - SOVEREIGN MOMENTS - - - Life has two sovereign moments; - One when we settle down - To some life-worthy purpose,-- - One when we grasp the crown. - - - - - THE MERCY OF GOD - - - They have a saying in the East:-- - Two angels note the deeds of men, - And one is first and one is least. - When men do right, one takes his pen - And magnifies the deed to ten. - This angel is at God's right hand, - And holds the other in command. - He says to him when men do wrong, - "The man was weak, temptation strong,-- - "Write not the record down to-day; - "To-morrow he may grieve and pray." - It may be myth; but this is sooth-- - No ruth is lasting as God's ruth; - The strongest is the tenderest; - He who best knows us loves us best. - - - - - ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN - - - - - THE RAILWAY STATION - - - The darkness brings no quiet here, the light - No waking: ever on my blinded brain - The flare of lights, the rush, and cry, and strain, - The engines' scream, the hiss and thunder smite: - I see the hurrying crowds, the clasp, the flight, - Faces that touch, eyes that are dim with pain: - I see the hoarse wheels turn, and the great train - Move laboring out into the bourneless night. - - So many souls within its dim recesses, - So many bright, so many mournful eyes: - Mine eyes that watch grow fixed with dreams and guesses; - What threads of life, what hidden histories, - What sweet or passionate dreams and dark distresses, - What unknown thoughts, what various agonies! - - - - - OUTLOOK - - - Not to be conquered by these headlong days, - But to stand free: to keep the mind at brood - On life's deep meaning, nature's altitude - Of loveliness, and time's mysterious ways; - At every thought and deed to clear the haze - Out of our eyes, considering only this, - What man, what life, what love, what beauty is, - This is to live, and win the final praise. - - Though strife, ill fortune, and harsh human need - Beat down the soul, at moments blind and dumb - With agony; yet, patience--there shall come - Many great voices from life's outer sea, - Hours of strange triumph, and, when few men heed, - Murmurs and glimpses of eternity. - - - - - AMONG THE MILLET - - - The dew is gleaming in the grass, - The morning hours are seven; - And I am fain to watch you pass, - Ye soft white clouds of heaven. - Ye stray and gather, part and fold; - The wind alone can tame you; - I think of what in time of old - The poets loved to name you. - They called you sheep, the sky your sward, - A field without a reaper; - They called the shining sun your lord, - The shepherd wind your keeper. - Your sweetest poets I will deem - The men of old for moulding, - In simple beauty, such a dream,-- - And I could lie beholding, - Where daisies in the meadow toss, - The wind from morn till even - Forever shepherd you across - The shining field of heaven. - - - - - THE LOONS - - - Once ye were happy, once by many a shore, - Wherever Glooscap's gentle feet might stray, - Lulled by his presence like a dream, ye lay - Floating at rest; but that was long of yore. - He was too good for earthly men; he bore - Their bitter deeds for many a patient day, - And then at last he took his unseen way. - He was your friend, and ye might rest no more. - - And now, though many hundred altering years - Have passed, among the desolate northern meres - Still must ye search and wander querulously, - Crying for Glooscap, still bemoan the light - With weird entreaties, and in agony - With awful laughter pierce the lonely night. - - - - - THE SUN CUP - - - The earth is the cup of the sun, - That he filleth at morning with wine,-- - With the warm, strong wine of his might - From the vintage of gold and of light, - Fills it, and makes it divine. - - And at night when his journey is done, - At the gate of his radiant hall, - He setteth his lips to the brim, - With a long last look of his eye, - And lifts it and draineth it dry,-- - Drains till he leaveth it all - Empty and hollow and dim. - - And then, as he passes to sleep, - Still full of the feats that he did - Long ago in Olympian wars, - He closes it down with the sweep - Of its slow-turning luminous lid, - Its cover of darkness and stars, - Wrought once by Hephaestus of old - With violet and vastness and gold. - - - - - AFTER RAIN - - - For three whole days across the sky, - In sullen packs that loomed and broke, - With flying fringes dim as smoke, - The columns of the rain went by; - At every hour the rain went by; - At every hour the wind awoke; - The darkness passed upon the plain; - The great drops rattled at the pane. - - Now piped the wind, or far aloof - Fell to a sough remote and dull; - And all night long with rush and lull - The rain kept drumming on the roof: - I heard till ear and sense were full - The clash or silence of the leaves, - The gurgle in the creaking eaves. - - But when the fourth day came--at noon, - The darkness and the rain were by; - The sunward roofs were steaming dry; - And all the world was flecked and strewn - With shadows from a fleecy sky. - The haymakers were forth and gone, - And every rillet laughed and shone. - - Then, too, on me that loved so well - The world, despairing in her blight, - Uplifted with her least delight, - On me, as on the earth, there fell - New happiness of mirth and might; - I strode the valleys pied and still; - I climbed upon the breezy hill. - - I watched the gray hawk wheel and drop, - Sole shadow on the shining world; - I saw the mountains clothed and curled, - With forest ruffling to the top; - I saw the river's length unfurled, - Pale silver down the fruited plain, - Grown great and stately with the rain. - - Through miles of shadow and soft heat, - Where field and fallow, fence and tree, - Were all one world of greenery, - I heard the robin singing sweet, - The sparrow piping silverly, - The thrushes at the forest's hem; - And as I went I sang with them. - - - - - JUNE - - - Long, long ago, it seems, this summer morn, - That pale-browed April passed with pensive tread - Through the frore woods, and from its frost-bound bed - Woke the arbutus with her silver horn; - And now May, too, is fled, - The flower-crowned month, the merry laughing May, - With rosy feet and fingers dewy wet, - Leaving the woods and all cool gardens gay - With tulips and the scented violet. - - Gone are the wind-flower and the adder-tongue, - And the sad drooping bellwort, and no more - The snowy trilliums crowd the forest floor; - The purpling grasses are no longer young, - And summer's wide-set door - O'er the thronged hills and the broad panting earth - Lets in the torrent of the later bloom, - Haytime, and harvest, and the after mirth, - The slow soft rain, the rushing thunder plume. - - All day in garden alleys moist and dim, - The humid air is burdened with the rose; - In moss-deep woods the creamy orchid blows; - And now the vesper-sparrow's pealing hymn - From every orchard close - At eve comes flooding rich and silvery; - The daisies in great meadows swing and shine; - And with the wind a sound as of the sea - Roars in the maples and the topmost pine. - - High in the hills the solitary thrush - Tunes magically his music of fine dreams, - In briary dells, by boulder-broken streams; - And wide and far on nebulous fields aflush - The mellow morning gleams. - The orange cone-flowers purple-bossed are there, - The meadow's bold-eyed gypsies deep of hue, - And slender hawkweed tall and softly fair, - And rosy tops of fleabane veiled with dew. - - So with thronged voices and unhasting flight - The fervid hours with long return go by; - The far-heard bugles, piping shrill and high, - Tell the slow moments of the solemn night - With unremitting cry; - Lustrous and large out of the gathering drouth - The planets gleam; the baleful Scorpion - Trails his dim fires along the drousëd south; - The silent world-incrusted round moves on. - - And all the dim night long the moon's white beams - Nestle deep down in every brooding tree, - And sleeping birds, touched with a silly glee, - Waken at midnight from their blissful dreams, - And carol brokenly. - Dim surging motions and uneasy dreads - Scare the light slumber from men's busy eyes, - And parted lovers on their restless beds - Toss and yearn out, and cannot sleep for sighs. - - Oft have I striven, sweet month, to figure thee, - As dreamers of old time were wont to feign, - In living form of flesh, and striven in vain; - Yet when some sudden old-world mystery - Of passion fixed my brain, - Thy shape hath flashed upon me like no dream, - Wandering with scented curls that heaped the breeze, - Or by some hollow of some reeded stream - Sitting waist-deep in white anemones; - - And even as I glimpsed thee thou wert gone, - A dream for mortal eyes too proudly coy, - Yet in thy place for subtle thoughts employ - The golden magic clung, a light that shone - And filled me with thy joy. - Before me like a mist that streamed and fell - All names and shapes of antique beauty passed - In garlanded procession, with the swell - Of flutes between the beechen stems; and, last, - - I was the Arcadian valley, the loved wood, - Alpheus stream divine, the sighing shore, - And through the cool green glades, awake once more, - Psyche, the white-limbed goddess, still pursued, - Fleet-footed as of yore, - The noonday ringing with her frighted peals, - Down the bright sward and through the reeds she ran, - Urged by the mountain echoes, at her heels - The hot-blown cheeks and trampling feet of Pan. - - - - - SEPTEMBER - - - Now hath the summer reached her golden close, - And, lost amid her corn-fields, bright of soul, - Scarcely perceives from her divine repose - How near, how swift, the inevitable goal: - Still, still she smiles, though from her careless feet - The bounty and the fruitful strength are gone, - And through the soft long wandering days goes on - The silent sere decadence sad and sweet. - - The kingbird and the pensive thrush are fled, - Children of light, too fearful of the gloom; - The sun falls low, the secret word is said, - The mouldering woods grow silent as the tomb; - Even the fields have lost their sovereign grace, - The corn-flower and the marguerite; and no more - Across the river's shadow-haunted floor - The paths of skimming swallows interlace. - - Already in the outland wilderness - The forests echo with unwonted dins; - In clamorous gangs the gathering woodmen press - Northward, and the stern winter's toil begins. - Around the long low shanties, whose rough lines - Break the sealed dreams of many an unnamed lake, - Already in the frost-clear morns awake - The crash and thunder of the falling pines. - - Where the tilled earth, with all its fields set free, - Naked and yellow from the harvest lies, - By many a loft and busy granary, - The hum and tumult of the threshers rise; - There the tanned farmers labor without slack, - Till twilight deepens round the spouting mill, - Feeding the loosened sheaves, or with fierce will - Pitching waist-deep upon the dusky stack. - - Still a brief while, ere the old year quite pass, - Our wandering steps and wistful eyes shall greet - The leaf, the water, the beloved grass; - Still from these haunts and this accustomed seat - I see the wood-wrapt city, swept with light, - The blue, long-shadowed distance, and, between, - The dotted farm-lands with their parcelled green, - The dark pine forest and the watchful height. - - I see the broad rough meadow stretched away - Into the crystal sunshine, wastes of sod, - Acres of withered vervain, purple-gray, - Branches of aster, groves of goldenrod; - And yonder, toward the sunlit summit, strewn - With shadowy boulders, crowned and swathed with weed, - Stand ranks of silken thistles, blown to seed, - Long silver fleeces shining like the moon. - - In far-off russet corn-fields, where the dry - Gray shocks stand peaked and withering, half concealed - In the rough earth, the orange pumpkins lie, - Full-ribbed; and in the windless pasture-field - The sleek red horses o'er the sun-warmed ground - Stand pensively about in companies, - While all around them from the motionless trees - The long clean shadows sleep without a sound. - - Under cool elm-trees floats the distant stream, - Moveless as air; and o'er the vast warm earth - The fathomless daylight seems to stand and dream, - A liquid cool elixir--all its girth - Bound with faint haze, a frail transparency, - Whose lucid purple barely veils and fills - The utmost valleys and the thin last hills, - Nor mars one whit their perfect clarity. - - Thus without grief the golden days go by, - So soft we scarcely notice how they wend, - And like a smile half happy, or a sigh, - The summer passes to her quiet end; - And soon, too soon, around the cumbered eaves - Shy frosts shall take the creepers by surprise, - And through the wind-touched reddening woods shall rise - October with the rain of ruined leaves. - - - - - THE GOAL OF LIFE - - - There is a beauty at the goal of life, - A beauty growing since the world began, - Through every age and race, through lapse and strife, - Till the great human soul complete her span. - Beneath the waves of storm that lash and burn, - The currents of blind passion that appal, - To listen and keep watch till we discern - The tide of sovereign truth that guides it all; - So to address our spirits to the height, - And so attune them to the valiant whole, - That the great light be clearer for our light, - And the great soul the stronger for our soul: - To have done this is to have lived, though fame - Remember us with no familiar name. - - - - - MARY JANE KATZMANN LAWSON - - - - - THE FACE IN THE CATHEDRAL - - - It was one of those grand cathedrals, - "A poem in wood and stone," - Fashioned by master-builders, - For the glory of God alone. - The sound of hammer and chisel - From morning till night was there, - As it rose in its Gothic grandeur, - A temple so vast and fair! - - Workmen from every nation - With skill and craft had planned - Column and nave and chancel, - All wrought with cunning hand. - Strength was inlaid with beauty-- - A goodly sight to see - The rainbow light through the mullioned panes - Of that glorious sanctuary! - - One day past the crowd of watchers - Came a man with silver hair, - And asked of the master-builder - For leave to labor there. - The workmen stood in wonder, - For the stranger's eyes were dim, - And the hands so thin and nerveless - Ne'er told of work in him. - - The master smiled as he answered, - "Our men must be strong and true, - Able, as well as willing, - For the work they have to do; - Your skill and your strength are over." - "Try me," the old man said, - "Let me but work in the windowed niche - Of the turret above my head." - - And the master in pity yielded - To the pleading of voice and eye. - The old man climbed the minster stairs, - To the window aslant the sky; - And there where the sunrise glory - Fell first through the diamond pane, - And pillar and arch and chancel - Were bathed in golden rain, - - Day after day on the panel - He had won from the builder's grace, - His trembling hands were busy, - Carving a single face; - Silent, and always keeping - From watchers and workers aloof, - There by the oriel window, - Under the fretted roof. - - But once when the sun was setting, - And the minster's walls were dim, - The workmen waited and listened-- - What had befallen him? - He stood not before the panel, - Nor came down the lofty stair, - Yet the light of the turret window - Was shining upon him there! - - For he lay in the quiet shadow - That follows the setting sun; - His tired hands were folded,-- - The old man's work was done! - And fresh from the shining panel, - Finished with perfect grace, - Looked down on the pale dead artist - A pure, young, tender face, - - Fresh in its dewy softness, - As a rose in the light may glow, - The face that had made the sunshine - Of his life in the long ago; - And the love, through whose perfect fulness - Our nature becomes divine, - Had transferred from his faithful keeping - That face to this holy shrine. - - There in its place of beauty, - Eyes turned to the rising sun, - He had made her face immortal,-- - He died, for his work was done! - - In that grand old English temple - There are marvels of wondrous skill, - Where the brain and hand of the craftsman - Have worked with a perfect will; - But naught has the grace and beauty - Of the face in the niche above;-- - Their work was for gain or glory, - But his was done for Love! - - - - - SOPHIA V. GILBERT LEE - - - - - THE BROOK - - - Ripple, ripple, ripple, - Goes the little brook, - Ripple, ripple, ripple, - Backward casts no look; - On through vale and woodland, - And flowery meadows green, - Staying not its progress - To see or to be seen. - - Ripple, ripple, ripple, - Bubbling on its way, - Ripple, ripple, ripple-- - Hark! I hear it say: - O foolish man, why dwellest thou - On themes of long ago? - Pass by the old, take up the new, - Time's fleeting--let me go! - - - - - LILY ALICE LEFEVRE - - - - - IMPRISONED - - - Within, a panic stricken throng - That sudden fear appals, - In blindest fury crashing close - Wide doors to rigid walls-- - A wild fierce struggle, life or death, - Each holding ground with gasping breath - Until the weaker falls,-- - Each inch of room a battle-field - Where one exults and one must yield. - - Without, the boundless earth and air, - The depths of starry space, - Vast oceans that the strong white moon - Uplifts to her embrace; - Free winds of heaven blowing light, - Far planets wheeling through the night - To their appointed place,-- - Marvels unseen to captives there, - Imprisoned by their own despair. - - Within the gloomy walls of Doubt - Fierce factions wage their war; - Fair Hope lies slain where they have set - Negation's iron bar. - Pent in their narrow bounds they cry, - "No stars, no sky,--we struggle, die, - And know not why we are." - Oh, self-immured! ye cannot see? - Stand back!--your brother shall be free. - - Stand back!--from 'neath your trampling feet - The young, the weak shall rise. - Their white lips breathe in silent pain - The prayer your pride denies; - Their pale hands clasp the faded flowers - Of faith that bloomed in happier hours - Beneath their childhood's skies. - Oh, still for these within your walls - May justice, truth and self-control - Set wide the gateways of the soul - To where, beyond, God's glory calls - Man's spirit to its goal. - - - - - INSPIRATION - - - A lark sprang up to greet the dawn - Close to a rose one day, - The tears upon her glowing cheek - His light wing brushed away, - Her fragrant beauty fresh and fair - He kissed in passing by, - And wove her name into his song - Of rapture in the sky. - - The lonely rose sighed, "Ah, my love, - I cannot follow thee; - Far, far above in golden light - Thou hast forgotten me. - Yet am I blest for evermore - Though but an instant dear,-- - Thou singest now a sweeter song - For all the world to hear!" - - - - - R. E. MULLINS LEPROHON - - - - - THE HURON CHIEF'S DAUGHTER - - - The dusky warriors stood in groups around the funeral pyre; - The scowl upon their knotted brows betrayed their vengeful ire. - It needed not the cords, the stake, the rites so stern and rude, - To tell it was to be a scene of cruelty and blood.... - - O lovely was that winsome child of a dark and rugged line, - And e'en 'mid Europe's daughters fair surpassing might she shine: - For ne'er had coral lips been wreathed by brighter, sunnier smile, - Or dark eyes beamed with lustrous light more full of winsome - wile.... - - And, yet it was not wonderful, that haughty, highborn grace-- - She stood amid her direst foes a Princess of her race; - Knowing they'd met to wreak on her their hatred 'gainst her name, - To doom her to a fearful death, to pangs of fire and flame.... - - One moment,--then her proud glance fled, her form she humbly - bowed, - A softened light stole o'er her brow, she prayed to heaven aloud: - "Hear me, Thou Great and Glorious One, Protector of my race, - Whom in the far-off Spirit Land I'll soon see face to face! - - "Pour down thy blessings on my tribe, may they triumphant rise - Above the guileful Iroquois--Thine and our enemies; - And give me strength to bear each pang with courage high and free, - That, dying thus, I may be fit to reign, O God, with Thee." - - Her prayer was ended, and again, like crowned and sceptered Queen, - She wore anew her lofty smile, her high and royal mien, - E'en though the chief the signal gave, and quick two warriors dire - Sprang forth to lead the dauntless girl to the lit funeral pyre. - - Back with an eye of flashing scorn recoiled she from their grasp, - "Nay, touch me not, I'd rather meet the coil of poisoned asp! - My aged sire and all my tribe will learn with honest pride - That, as befits a Huron's child, their chieftain's daughter died!" - - She dashed aside her tresses dark with bright and fearless smile, - And like a fawn she bounded on the fearful funeral pile; - And even while those blood-stained men fulfilled their cruel part - They praised that maiden's courage rare, her high and dauntless - heart. - - - - - WILLIAM DOUW LIGHTHALL - - - - - THE ARTIST'S PRAYER - - - I know thee not, O Spirit fair! - O Life and flying Unity - Of Loveliness! Must man despair - Forever in his chase of thee! - - When snowy clouds flash silver-gilt, - Then feel I that thou art on high; - When fire o'er all the west is spilt, - Flames at its heart thy majesty. - - Thy beauty basks on distant hills; - It smiles in eve's wine-coloured sea; - It shakes its light on leaves and rills, - In calm ideals it mocks at me. - - Thy glances strike from many a lake - That lines through woodland scapes a-sheen; - Yet to thine eyes I never wake:-- - They glance, but they remain unseen. - - I know thee not, O Spirit fair! - Thou fillest heaven: the stars are thee: - Whatever fleets with beauty rare - Fleets radiant from thy mystery. - - Forever thou art near my grasp; - Thy touches pass in twilight air; - Yet still--thy shapes elude my clasp-- - I know thee not, thou Spirit fair! - - O Ether, proud, and vast, and great, - Above the legions of the stars! - To this thou art not adequate;-- - Nor rainbow's glorious scimitars. - - I know thee not, thou Spirit sweet! - I chained pursue, while thou art free. - Sole by the smile I sometimes meet - I know thou, Vast One, knowest me. - - In old religions hadst thou place: - Long, long, O Vision, our pursuit! - Yea, monad, fish and childlike brute - Through countless ages dreamt thy grace. - - Gray nations felt thee o'er them tower; - Some clothed thee in fantastic dress; - Some thought thee as the unknown Power, - I, e'er the unknown Loveliness. - - To all thou wert as harps of joy; - To bard and sage their fulgent sun: - To priests their mystic life's employ; - But unto me the Lovely One. - - Veils clothed thy might; veils draped thy charm; - The might they tracked, but I the grace; - They learnt all forces were thine Arm, - I that all beauty was thy Face. - - Night spares us little. Wanderers we. - Our rapt delights, our wisdoms rare - But shape our darknesses of thee,-- - We know thee not, thou Spirit fair! - - Would that thine awful Peerlessness - An hour could shine o'er heaven and earth, - And I the maddening power possess - To drink the cup,--O Godlike birth! - - All life impels me to thy search: - Without thee, yea, to live were null; - Still shall I make the dawn thy Church, - And pray thee "God the Beautiful." - - - - - THE SWEET STAR - - - The sweet Star of the Bethlehem night - Beauteous guides and true, - And still, to me and you - With only local, legendary light. - - For us who hither look with eyes afar - From constellations of philosophy, - All light is from the Cradle; the true star, - Serene o'er distance, in the Life we see. - - - - - MY NATIVE LAND - - - Rome, Florence, Venice--noble, fair and quaint, - They reign in robes of magic round me here; - But fading, blotted, dim, a picture faint, - With spell more silent, only pleads a tear. - Plead not! Thou hast my heart, O picture dim! - I see the fields, I see the autumn hand - Of God upon the maples! Answer Him - With weird, translucent glories, ye that stand - Like spirits in scarlet and in amethyst! - I see the sun break over you; the mist - On hills that lift from iron bases grand - Their heads superb!--the dream, it is my native land. - - - - - STUART LIVINGSTON - - - - - THE VOLUNTEERS OF '85 - - - Wide are the plains to the north and the westward; - Drear are the skies to the west and the north-- - Little they cared, as they snatched up their rifles, - And shoulder to shoulder marched gallantly forth. - Cold are the plains to the north and the westward, - Stretching out far to the gray of the sky-- - Little they cared as they marched from the barrack-room, - Willing and ready, if need be, to die. - - Bright was the gleam of the sun on their bayonets; - Firm and erect was each man in his place; - Steadily, evenly, marched they like veterans; - Smiling and fearless was every face; - Never a dread of the foe that was waiting them; - Never a fear of war's terrible scenes; - "Brave as the bravest" was stamped on each face of them; - Half of them boys not yet out of their teens. - - Many a woman gazed down at them longingly, - Scanning each rank for her boy as it passed; - Striving through tears just to catch a last glimpse of him, - Knowing that glimpse might, for aye, be the last. - Many a maiden's cheek paled as she looked at them, - Seeing the lover from whom she must part; - Trying to smile and be brave for the sake of him, - Stifling the dread that was breaking her heart. - - Every heart of us, wild at the sight of them, - Beat as it never had beaten before; - Every voice of us, choked though it may have been, - Broke from huzza to a deafening roar. - Proud! were we proud of them? God! they were part of us, - Sons of us, brothers, all marching to fight; - Swift at their country's call, ready each man and all, - Eager to battle for her and the right. - - Wide are the plains to the north and the westward, - Stretching out far to the gray of the sky-- - Little they cared as they filed from the barrack-room, - Shoulder to shoulder, if need be, to die. - Was there one flinched? Not a boy, not a boy of them; - Straight on they marched to the dread battle's brunt-- - Fill up your glasses and drink to them, all of them, - Canada's call found them all at the front. - - - - - TO E. N. L. - - - Thou sweet-souled comrade of a time gone by - Who in the infinite dost walk to-day, - And lift thy spirit lips in song, while I - Lift up but lips of clay-- - - Oft do I think on thee, thou steadfast heart, - Who, when the summons dread was in thine ear, - Didst raise thy calm brow up and challenge death, - As one that knows no fear. - - And I have wondered if thy passionate lips - Now voice the songs that surged within thy heart; - By the great alchemy of mighty death - Freed to diviner art. - - And didst thou find a welcome on the shore - That rims the vastness of that shadow land? - Did those sweet singing prophet bards of yore - Stretch thee a greeting hand? - - And did they gather round about thee there, - With faces gray against the coming day; - And, with wan fingers on thy trembling lips, - Teach thee their mighty lay?-- - - Till thy enraptured soul, by thine own lips, - Was filled with such great harmony of song - As gave thee place among their matchless selves, - A brother of the throng. - - - - - THE KING'S FOOL - - - In sooth he was a mighty King, - And ruled in splendid state, - Surrounded by a haughty band - Of nobles small and great; - And he was good to one and all, - Yet they were plotting for his fall. - - For though a king be good and great - And generous, I trow - His nobles yet will envy him, - And seek his overthrow; - For so hath been the ancient strife - Since man first took his sovereign's life. - - And thus, to gain their foul design, - They planned to lie in wait, - And drop a deadly poison in - The golden flagon great, - That never more the King should rule; - And no one heard them but the fool. - - So when the King came down that night - Into his hall to dine, - He found his flagon in its place, - And at its side the wine-- - The blood-red wine--at which he said, - "Such wine should put life in the dead!" - - Then poured he full the poisoned cup, - And, raising it on high, - O'er all his courtiers in the hall - He ran his noble eye: - "Oh, I would drink," he said, with zest, - "Unto the man that loves me best!" - - Then mute they sat around the board, - And each looked to the other, - Till rose, with mocking reverence, - The fool, and said, "Good brother, - All round this board, of every guest, - I am the man that loves thee best." - - Then wrothful was the King, and said, - "Thou art no man, I wis, - That makest such a silly jest - At such a time as this. - Give us a better jest," he said, - "Or pay the forfeit with thy head." - - Then quoth the fool, "My good liege lord, - I'll give another jest, - But after it, I tell thee now, - That I will take my rest, - No more to be thy jester," and - He snatched the flagon from his hand. - - Then dark became the King's great brow, - Amazed was every guest, - While with the flagon at his lips - The fool quoth, "This sweet jest - That man, I trow, will best divine - Who poured such strength into this wine"-- - - Then drained the goblet at a draught, - And set it down anon, - While round the board each face grew pale, - And strange to look upon; - Then sank the fool into his place, - And on the table laid his face. - - Amid the silence stood the King, - As if perplexed with doubt; - He looked upon his poor dead fool, - And then looked round about; - And then in thunder called the guard - That near him kept their watch and ward. - - He bid them take the traitors forth - And put them all to death. - "Would God," he cried, "their lives could give - My poor fool back his breath-- - My poor dead fool, whose silent breast - Doth show, too late, he loved me best!" - - This is the legend of a fool - Who died his king to save, - And to its truth a monument - Was built above his grave; - And on it in gold this wording ran, - "He lived a fool, but died a man." - - - - - KEATS - - - A young-eyed seer, amid the leafy ways - Of Latmos' groves, sacred to mighty Pan, - Afar from all the busy marts of man, - Content to seek the beautiful, he strays; - With mild eyes lifted in their starry gaze - Of ravishment divine, a priest, he stands - Before the altar builded by his hands, - And on his pipe, with pallid lip, he plays. - - This night, O god-like singer, have I knelt - Before that altar listening to thy strain, - Till off my soul mortality did melt, - Dissolvëd from all weariness of pain; - And at thy magic melody I felt - All life were mine, could I such rapture drain. - - - - - ARTHUR JOHN LOCKHART - - - - - ACADIE - - - Like mists that round a mountain gray - Hang for an hour, then melt away, - So I, and nearly all my race, - Have vanished from my native place. - - Each haunt of boyhood's loves and dreams - More beautiful in fancy seems; - Yet if I to those scenes repair - I find I am a stranger there. - - O thou belovëd Acadie, - Sweet is thy charmëd world to me! - Dull are these skies 'neath which I range, - And all the summer hills are strange. - - Yet sometimes I discern thy gleam - In sparkles of the chiming stream; - And sometimes speaks thy haunting lore - The foam-wreathed sibyl of the shore. - - And sometimes will mine eyes incline - To hill or wood that seems like thine; - Or, if the robin pipeth clear, - It is thy vernal note I hear. - - And oft my heart will leap aflame - To deem I hear thee call my name,-- - To see thy face with gladness shine, - And find the joy that once was mine. - - - - - THE WATERS OF CARR - - - O do you hear the merry waters falling, - In the mossy woods of Carr? - O do you hear the child's voice, calling, calling, - Through its cloistral deeps afar? - 'Tis the Indian's babe, they say, - Fairy stolen; changed a fay; - And still I hear her, calling, calling, calling, - In the mossy woods of Carr! - - O hear you, when the weary world is sleeping - (Dim and drowsy every star), - This little one her happy revels keeping - In her halls of shining spar? - Clearer swells her voice of glee, - While the liquid echoes flee, - And the full moon through deep green leaves comes peeping, - In the dim-lit woods of Carr. - - Know ye from her wigwam how they drew her, - Wanton-willing, far away,-- - Made the wild-wood halls seem home unto her, - Changed her to a laughing fay? - Never doth her bosom burn, - Never asks she to return;-- - Ah, vainly care and sorrow may pursue her - Laughing, singing, all the day! - - And often, when the golden west is burning, - Ere the twilight's earliest star, - Comes her mother, led by mortal yearning - Where the haunted forests are;-- - Listens to the rapture wild - Of her vanished fairy child: - Ah, see her then, with smiles and tears, returning - From the sunset woods of Carr! - - They feed her with the amber dew and honey, - They bathe her in the crystal spring, - They set her down in open spaces sunny, - And weave her an enchanted ring; - They will not let her beauty die, - Her innocence and purity; - They sweeten her fair brow with kisses many, - And ever round her dance and sing. - - O do you hear the merry waters falling, - In the mossy woods of Carr? - O do you hear the child's voice, calling, calling, - Through its cloistral deeps afar? - Never thrill of plaintive pain - Mingles with that ceaseless strain;-- - But still I hear her joyous calling, calling, - In the morning woods of Carr! - - - - - THE LONELY PINE - - -I - - Remote, upon the sunset shrine - Of a green hill, a lonely pine - Beckons this hungry heart of mine. - - "Draw near," it always seems to say, - Look thither whensoe'er I may - From the dull routine of my way: - - "I hold for thee the heavens in trust; - My priestly branches toward thee thrust. - Absolve thy fret, assoil thy dust." - - -II - - Yet if I come it heeds not me; - The stars amid the branches see - But lonely man and lonely tree,-- - - And lonely earth that holds in thrall - Her creatures, while Eve gathers all - To fold within her shadowy wall. - - Now, with this spell around me thrown, - Dreaming of social pleasures flown, - I grieve, yet joy, to be alone; - - While whispering through its solitude, - Far from its green-robed brotherhood, - The pine tree shares my wonted mood. - - It museth that felicity - Which, being not, we deem may be, - And mingles hope and certainty. - - -III - - In starry senate doth arise - The lumined spirit of the skies, - Walking with radiant ministries. - - Yet in my lonely pine tree dwells, - When 'mid its breast the warm wind swells, - A prophet of sweet oracles. - - Like a faint sea on far-off shore, - With its low elfin roll and roar, - It speaks one language evermore;-- - - One language, unconstrained and free, - The converse of the answering sea, - The old rune of Eternity. - - Then, from this lonely sunset shrine, - I turn to toils and cares of mine, - And, grateful, bless my healing pine. - - - - - BURTON W. LOCKHART - - - - - _From_ "THE RETROSPECT" - - - O brothers! thro' how many lands - We've sought the Holy Grail! - Lo, here is truth! Lo, there she stands!-- - Bow down, and cry, "All hail!" - - Still she looks on us far withdrawn, - With stars and clouds bedight; - The vision of our spirit's dawn, - The watch-fire of our night. - - Trust thy soul's highest vision--trust! - Think not to touch or taste: - Time's ancient mystery--poor dust!-- - For thee will not make haste. - - The noble still must seek the light; - The doctrinaire still raves; - But Faith holds fast, while the long night - Shines o'er our fathers' graves. - - - - - LOVE AND SONG - - - Love sayeth: Sing of me! - What else is worth a song? - I had refrained - Lest I should do Love wrong. - - "Clean hands, and a pure heart," - I prayed, "and I will sing:" - But all I gained - Brought to my word no wing. - - Stars, sunshine, seas and skies, - Earth's graves, the holy hills, - Were all in vain; - No breath the dumb pipe fills. - - I dreamed of splendid praise, - And Beauty watching by - Gray shores of Pain: - My song turned to a sigh. - - I saw in virgin eyes - The mother warmth that makes - The dead earth quick - In ways no Spring awakes. - - No song. In vain to sight - Life's clear arch heavenward sprang. - Heart still, or sick! - --_I loved! Ah, then I sang!_ - - - - - BY THE GASPEREAU - - - Do you remember, dear, a night in June, - So long, so long ago, - When we were lovers, wandering with the moon, - Beside the Gaspereau? - - The river plashed and gurgled thro' its glooms, - Slow stealing to the sea, - A silver serpent; in the apple blooms - The soft air rustled free. - - And o'er the river from afar the sound - Of mellow tinkling bells - From browsing cattle stirred the echo round - In gentle falls and swells. - - No sound of human sorrow, nor of mirth, - Streamed on that peace abroad, - And all the night leaned low upon the earth - Like the calm face of God. - - And in our hearts there breathed, like life, a breath - Of most delicious pain: - It seemed a whisper ran from birth to death, - And back to birth again, - - And bound in airy chains our shining hours, - Past, present, and to come, - In one sweet whole, strong to defy the powers - Of change, till Time be dumb. - - Yes, you remember, dear, that night in June, - So long, so long ago, - When we were lovers, wandering with the moon, - Beside the Gaspereau. - - - - - JOHN E. LOGAN - - - - - THE INDIAN MAID'S LAMENT - - - A blood-red ring hung round the moon, - Hung round the moon. Ah me! Ah me! - I heard the piping of the Loon, - A wounded Loon. Ah me! - And yet the eagle feathers rare - I, trembling, wove in my brave's hair. - - He left me in the early morn, - The early morn. Ah me! Ah me! - The feathers swayed like stately corn, - So like the corn. Ah me! - A fierce wind swept across the plain, - The stately corn was snapt in twain. - - They crushed in blood the hated race, - The hated race. Ah me! Ah me! - I only clasped a cold, blind face, - His cold, dead face. Ah me! - A blood-red ring hangs in my sight, - I hear the Loon cry every night. - - - - - AGNES MAULE MACHAR - - - - - WILLIAM EWART GLADSTONE - - - Sans peur et sans reproche!--our lion-heart - To whom we turn when other hopes betray, - When tyrant-might puts forth her power to slay - Young, struggling Freedom, with her poisoned dart, - And Britain hath forgot the nobler part - She played, as Freedom's champion,--that proud day - She led a world to break one despot's sway,-- - And from her old traditions stands apart. - - Milton hath gone, and Wordsworth,--but, through thee, - Still rings their hate of tyranny defied; - Still breathes the voice whose sound was "of the sea," - And that one "of the mountains;"--far and wide - Their echoes roll, where'er true Britons be, - Or men for liberty have lived and died! - - - - - SCHILLER'S DYING VISION - - ("Many things are growing clearer.") - - -I - - As the light beyond draws nearer, - Streaming from the farther shore, - Many things are growing clearer - I but dimly guessed before,-- - How those legends quaint and olden - Veiled a truth beyond their ken, - In their tales of ages golden, - When immortals walked with men: - - How, in symbol and in shadow, - Light through darkness dimly broke, - Poesy illumed the meadow, - And the woodland's music woke; - And the spirits, softly sighing - Through the forest, in the stream, - On the wind's swift pinions flying, - Were not all an idle dream! - - Now I see how Faith immortal - Oft hath worn a fable's guise, - While she lingered at the portal - Of unfathomed mysteries;-- - How the vague, half-conscious dreamings - Of earth's artless, questioning youth - Were but iridescent gleamings - From the inmost heart of Truth. - - How the clear Hellenic vision - Read the soul in Nature's face, - And the gods of her tradition - Made the earth their dwelling place,-- - Throned on peaks of hoary mountains, - Walking earth in form divine, - While, in spray of silvery fountains, - Naiads' gleaming tresses shine! - - Dryads, in the forest-shadow, - Whispered light at eve and dawn, - And the fairies, on the meadow, - Danced a measure with the Faun: - Radiant forms to earth descending - In the moonlight, with the dew,-- - Earthly grace with heavenly blending,-- - Shone before the poet's view. - - -II - - 'Tis a truth profound that dwelleth - In these bright and broken gleams - Of the glory that excelleth - Noblest poet's fairest dreams! - For, with eyes no longer holden, - We may trace a presence bright - In the sunset's radiance golden, - In the dawn's pale rosy light; - - In the beauty round us glowing, - And in Nature's wondrous course, - We may trace, with surer knowing, - Her eternal spring and source; - And, still more, the deathless story - Through the ages we may read, - How infinite Love and Glory - Bent themselves to human need,-- - - How the asphodel forever - Fades before the amaranth bright-- - Light hath touched the Stygian river, - Dawn the Acherontian night!-- - For we hear a voice supernal - Tell us Pluto's reign is o'er, - And the rays of Love eternal - Light our path for evermore! - - Love and Hope and Truth and Duty - Guide the upward-striving soul, - Still evolving higher beauty - As the ages onward roll; - Till the light of consecration - Glorify earth's radiant clod, - And Life's highest Incarnation-- - God in man--draw man to God! - - - - - LOVE AND FAITH - - - Faith spread her wings to seek the realms of day; - Unfathomable depths before her lay. - Hope drooped beside her, as there stretched afar, - Space beyond space, outreaching endlessly, - The faintest gleam of the remotest star. - Her heart grew faint, her wings flagged heavily; - Vain seemed the quest, and endless seemed the way. - - Then Love cried out, with voice that pierced the night: - "Lo, I am here!" and straight all space was light; - Darkness had vanished, and the weary way - Was all forgotten in the vision bright-- - For Faith had reached the glorious gates of day! - - - - - A MADONNA OF THE ENTRY - - -I - - In a city of churches and chapels, - From belfry and spire and tower, - In the solemn and starlit silence, - The bells chimed the midnight hour. - - Then in silvery tones of gladness - They rang in the Christmas morn-- - The wonderful, mystical season - When Jesus Christ was born. - All thought of the Babe in the manger, - --The Child that knew no sin, - That hung on the breast of the mother - Who found no room in the inn! - All thought of the choir of angels - That swept through the darkness then, - To chant forth the glad evangel - Of peace and love to men! - - -II - - In that city of churches and chapels - A mother crouched, hungry and cold, - In a bleak and cheerless entry, - With a babe in her nerveless hold. - Hungry and cold and weary, - She had paced the streets all night-- - No room for _her_ in the city, - No food, no warmth, no light! - And just as the bells' glad chiming - Pealed in the Christmas day, - The angels came through the darkness, - And carried the babe away! - - No room for one tiny infant - In that city of churches fair,-- - But the Father hath "many mansions" - And room for the baby _there_! - - - - - EVAN MACCOLL - - - - - THE CHILD OF PROMISE - - - She died--as die the roses - On the ruddy clouds of dawn, - When the envious sun discloses - His flame, and morning's gone. - - She died--like snow glad-gracing - Some sea-marge fair, when, lo! - Rude waves, each other chasing, - Quick hide it 'neath their flow. - - She died--like snow fair showering - Some sea-marge, when, anon, - In comes the wave devouring-- - The beautiful is gone. - - She died--as dies the glory - Of music's sweetest swell: - She died--as dies the story - When the best is still to tell! - - She died--as dies moon-beaming - When scowls the rayless wave; - She died--like sweetest dreaming - That hastens to its grave. - - She died--and died she early; - Heaven wearied for its own. - As the dipping sun, my Mary, - Thy morning ray went down! - - - - - GLENORCHY - - - Talk not to me of Tempe's flowery vale, - With fair Glenorchy stretched before my view! - If of _its_ charms he sung, I would right well - Believe the Grecian poet's picture true. - What were his boasted groves in scent and hue - To lady-birches and the stately pine, - The crimsoned heather and the hare-bell blue? - Be his the laurel--the red heath be mine! - No faun nor dryad here I care to see, - More pleased by far to mark the bounding roe - Sport with his mate behind the forest tree; - Nor less the joy when in the glen below - Some milking Hebe sings her _luinneag_ free, - All hearts enchanting by its graceful glow. - - - - - ELIZABETH ROBERTS MACDONALD - - - - - A SONG OF SEASONS - - - Sing a song of Spring-time! - Catkins by the brook, - Adders-tongues uncounted, - Ferns in every nook; - The cataract on the hillside - Leaping like a fawn; - Sing a song of Spring-time,-- - Ah, but Spring-time's gone! - - Sing a song of Summer! - Flowers among the grass, - Clouds like fairy frigates, - Pools like looking-glass, - Moonlight through the branches, - Voices on the lawn; - Sing a song of summer,-- - Ah, but Summer's gone! - - Sing a song of Autumn! - Grain in golden sheaves, - Woodbine's crimson clusters - Round the cottage eaves, - Days of crystal clearness, - Frosted fields at dawn; - Sing a song of Autumn,-- - Ah, but Autumn's gone! - - Sing a song of Winter! - North-wind's bitter chill, - Home and ruddy firelight, - Kindness and good-will, - Hemlock in the churches, - Daytime soon withdrawn; - Sing a song of Winter,-- - Ah, but Winter's gone! - - Sing a song of loving! - Let the seasons go; - Hearts can make their gardens - Under sun or snow; - Fear no fading blossom, - Nor the dying day; - Sing a song of loving,-- - That will last for aye! - - - - - JOHN MACFARLANE - - - - - THE TWO ANGELS - - - I stood and saw the angel of the dawn, - Whose rest had been in heaven the dark night through, - Pressing, with jewelled feet, the silent lawn - In radiant robes of dew. - - And slowly to the west, in ebon gloom, - Upbearing in his lifted hands on high - The scroll of destiny--of life and doom-- - The night-watch passëd by. - - But ere he turned his step from earth away - I gazed upon his countenance again, - And, lo! I thought upon his brow there lay - A shadow as of pain. - - But he, the brother-angel of the day, - Bore on his breast the beaming star of hope, - And in his golden chalice balm, alway, - On bruisëd hearts to drop. - - And so to men there cometh evermore - One angel fraught with promise, making glad; - And one who taketh from the stricken sore - Much anguish, wild and sad. - - - - - A GRAVE IN SAMOA - - - The wild birds strangely call, - And silent dawns and purple eves are here, - Where Southern stars upon his grave look down, - Calm-eyed and wondrous clear! - - No strife his resting mars! - And yet we deem far off from tropic steeps - His spirit cleaves the pathway of the storm, - Where dark Tantallon keeps. - - For still in plaintive woe, - By haunting mem'ry of his yearning led, - The wave-worn Mother of the misty strand - Mourns for her absent dead: - - "_Ah! bear him gently home, - To where Dunedin's streets are quaint and gray, - And ruddy lights across the steaming rains - Shine soft at close of day!_" - - - - - A MIDSUMMER MADRIGAL - - - At the postern gate of Day - Stands Apollo, clad in light, - Trilling forth a summons gay - To the wrinkled warder Night: - - "Ho! old laggard, what has kept? - Dost not hear this challenge mine? - Well I wot thy beard has dipt - In the wassail's ruddy wine. - - Song and story, gibe and jest, - With thy boon companions all; - To the donjon of the West - Now betake thee, Seneschal. - - Ward and watch, and vigil keen, - Still thy beacon fires confest, - Blazing in the blue serene; - Hie thee, warrior, to thy rest!" - - And in armor silver-dight, - As becomes a knight to win, - At the postern held by Night - Crowned Apollo enters in. - - - - - KATE SEYMOUR MACLEAN - - - - - BALLAD OF THE MAD LADYE - - - The rowan tree grows by the tower foot, - (_Flotsam and jetsam from over the sea, - Can the dead feel joy or pain?_) - And the owls in the ivy blink and hoot, - And the sea-waves bubble around its root, - Where kelp and tangle and sea-shells be, - When the bat in the dark flies silently. - (_Hark to the wind and the rain!_) - - The ladye sits in the turret alone, - (_Flotsam and jetsam from over the sea, - The dead--can they complain?_) - And her long hair down to her knee has grown, - And her hand is cold as a hand of stone, - And wan as a hand of flesh may be, - While the bird in the bower sings merrily. - (_Hark to the wind and rain!_) - - Sadly she leans by her casement side, - (_Flotsam and jetsam from over the sea, - Can the dead arise again?_) - And watcheth the ebbing and flowing tide, - But her eye is dim, and the sea is wide; - The fisherman's sail and the cloud flies free, - And the bird is mute in the rowan tree. - (_Hark to the wind and the rain!_) - - The moon shone in on the turret stair, - (_Flotsam and jetsam from over the sea, - The dead are bound with a chain._) - And touched her cheek and brightened her hair, - And found naught else in the world so fair, - So ghostly fair as the mad ladye, - While the bird in the bower sang lonesomely. - (_Hark to the wind and the rain!_) - - The weary days and the months crept on, - (_Flotsam and jetsam from over the sea, - The words of the dead are vain._) - At last the summer was over and gone, - And still she sat in her turret alone, - Her white hands clasping about her knee, - And the bird was mute in the rowan tree. - (_Hark to the wind and the rain!_) - - Wild was the sound of the wind and the sleet, - (_Flotsam and jetsam from over the sea, - The dead--do they walk again?_) - Wilder the roar of the surf that beat; - Whose was the form that it bore to her feet, - Swayed with the swell of the unquiet sea, - While the raven croaked in the rowan tree? - (_Hark to the wind and the rain!_) - - O Ladye, strange is the silent guest-- - (_Flotsam and jetsam cast up by the sea, - Can the dead feel sorrow or pain?_) - With the sea-drenched locks and the pulseless breast, - And the close-shut lips which thine have pressed, - And the wild sad eyes that heed not thee, - While the raven croaks in the rowan-tree. - (_Hark to the wind and the rain!_) - - The tower is dark, and the doors are wide, - (_Flotsam and jetsam cast up by the sea, - The dead are at peace again._) - Into the harbor the fisher boats ride, - But two went out with the ebbing tide, - Without sail, without oar, full fast and free, - And the raven croaks in the rowan tree. - (_Hark to the wind and the rain!_) - - - - - BIRD SONG - - - Art thou not sweet, - Oh, world, and glad to the inmost heart of thee! - All creatures rejoice - With one rapturous voice, - As I, with the passionate beat - Of my over-full heart, feel sweet, - And all things that live, and are part of thee! - - Light, light as a cloud, - Swimming, and trailing its shadow under me, - I float in the deep - As a bird-dream in sleep, - And hear the wind murmuring loud, - Far down, where the tree-tops are bowed,-- - And I see where the secret place of the thunders be. - - Oh! the sky free and wide, - With all the cloud-banners flung out in it! - Its singing wind blows - As a grand river flows, - And I swim down its rhythmical tide, - And still the horizon spreads wide, - With the birds' and the poets' songs like a shout in it! - - Oh, life, thou art sweet! - Sweet, sweet to the inmost heart of thee! - I drink with my eyes - Thy limitless skies, - And I feel with the rapturous beat - Of my wings thou art sweet,-- - And I,--I am alive, and a part of thee! - - - - - ELIZABETH S. MACLEOD - - - - - ALEXANDER MACKENZIE - - - Draw nigh with reverence, Canada! - Beyond all strain of mortal toil - He lieth, with unstainëd crest, - Calm-sleeping on his chosen soil. - No higher boon may patriot crave - Than grateful country's honest tear; - Whilst Faith, outreaching 'yond the grave, - With stainless emblem decks the bier. - - Rare mind! firm as the granite stone - From out thy much-loved Scottish hills; - Soul, clear as sunlight's upper zone - When smiling o'er Canadian rills! - Oh, well for thee, belovëd land, - That, ripening to thy golden prime, - Stout hearts, and faithful, held thine hand - And led thee on to ampler time. - - Embalm his memory, Canada! - Nor taint with ill his honored name, - Who loved thee dearer than his life; - Who, serving thee, rejected fame. - Not now!--through many an after year, - In cool, calm retrospect of time, - Shall all his sterling worth appear, - In grandeur fitting and sublime. - - Though stilled the aims of lofty end, - Though leaders in the field lie low, - Heaven's purposes shall onward tend, - As ocean wavelets shoreward flow. - Wail not! he walketh in the light; - His work, imbued with high intent, - Doth magnify a country's might, - And build his fairest monument. - - - - - A. D. MACNEILL - - - - - THE SEA-GULL - - - Fair bird, whose silvery pinions sweep - The hoary bosom of the deep, - Or braced against the raging gale - Across the vast of heaven sail, - I hold thee as a symbol dear - Of loving hearts who persevere - Amid the woes of life, and brave - Temptation's dark and forceful wave, - That sweeps across us unawares; - And swooping gusts of froward cares - That shrewdly vex us. But again, - When throned upon the tranquil tide - In snowy robe unflecked of stain, - You seem a soul beatified. - - - - - DONALD M'CAIG - - - - - THE TRAMP - - - On a stone by the wayside, half-naked and cold, - And soured in the struggle of life, - With his parchment envelope grown wrinkled and old, - Sat the Tramp, with his crust and his knife. - And the leaves of the forest fell round him in showers,-- - And the sharp, stinging flurries of snow, - That had warned off the robins to summer bowers, - Admonished him, too, he should go. - - But Autumn had gone, having gathered her sheaves, - And the glories of Summer were past; - And Spring, with the swallows that built in the eaves, - Had left him the weakest and last! - So he sat there alone, for the world could not heal - A disease without pain, without care,-- - Without joy, without hope, too insensate to feel,-- - Too utterly lost for despair! - - But he thought, while the night, and the darkness, and gloom, - That gathered around him so fast, - Hid the moon and the stars in their cloud-shrouded tomb, - Of the fair, but the far-distant past! - Around him a vision of beauty arose, - Unpainted, unpencilled by art,-- - His home, father, mother, sweet peace and repose, - From the sad _repertoire_ of the heart. - - And brightly the visions came gliding along - Through the warm golden gates of the day,-- - With voices of childhood, and music and song, - Like echoes from lands far away. - And the glad ringing laughter of girlhood was there, - And one 'mong the others so dear - That o'er his life's record, too black for despair, - Flowed the sad sacred joy of a tear! - - And he held, while he listened, his crust half consumed, - In his cold, shrivelled hand, growing weak, - While a glory shone round him that warmed and illumed - The few frozen tears on his cheek. - In the dark, silent night, thus his spirit had flown, - Like the sigh of a low passing breath;-- - Life's bubble had burst, and another gone down - In the deep, shoreless ocean of death. - - In the bright waking morn, by the side of the way, - On the crisp, frozen leaves shed around, - The knife, and the crust, and the casket of clay, - Which the tramp left behind him, were found! - And bound round his neck, as he lay there alone, - Was the image, both youthful and fair, - Of a sweet, laughing girl, with a blue ribbon zone, - And a single white rose in her hair. - - Was he loved? Was she wed? Was she daughter or wife, - Or sister? The world may not read - Her story or his. They are lost with the life-- - Recorded, "A tramp was found dead!" - "Found dead by the way," in the gloom and the cold-- - The boy whom a mother had kissed, - The son whom a father could proudly enfold, - The brother a sister had missed! - - "Found dead by the way!" whom a maiden's first love - Had hallowed--e'en worshipped in part, - And clothed in a light from the glory above, - To enshrine in her pure virgin heart! - Found dead, and alone, by the way where he died, - To be thrown, like a dog, in his lair! - Yet he peacefully sleeps, as the stone by his side, - And rich as the proud millionaire? - - - - - JAMES M'CARROLL - - - - - A ROYAL RACE - - - Among the fine old kings that reign - Upon a simple wooden throne, - There's one with but a small domain, - Yet, mark you, it is all his own. - - And though upon his rustic towers - No ancient standard waves its wing, - Thick leafy banners, flushed with flowers, - From all the fragrant casements swing. - - And here, in royal homespun, bow - His nut-brown court, at night and morn,-- - The bronzed Field-Marshal of the Plough, - The Chancellor of the Wheat and Corn, - - The Keeper of the Golden Stacks, - The Mistress of the Milking-Pail, - The bold Knights of the Ringing-Axe, - The Heralds of the Sounding Flail, - - The Ladies of the New-Mown Hay, - The Master of the Spade and Hoe, - The Minstrels of the Glorious Lay - That all the Sons of Freedom know. - - And thus, while on the seasons roll, - He wins from the inspiring sod - The brawny arm and noble soul - That serve his country and his God. - - - - - DAWN - - - With folded wings of dusky light - Upon the purple hills she stands, - An angel between day and night, - With tinted shadows in her hands-- - - Till suddenly transfigured there, - With all her dazzling plumes unfurled, - She climbs the crimson-flooded air, - And flies in glory o'er the world. - - - - - THE GRAY LINNET - - - There's a little gray friar in yonder green bush, - Clothed in sackcloth--a little gray friar - Like a druid of old in his temple--but hush! - He's at vespers; you must not go nigher. - - Yet, the rogue! can those strains be addressed to the skies, - And around us so wantonly float, - Till the glowing refrain like a shining thread flies - From the silvery reel of his throat? - - When he roams, though he stains not his path through the air - With the splendor of tropical wings, - All the lustre denied to his russet plumes there - Flashes forth through his lay when he sings; - - For the little gray friar is so wondrous wise, - Though in such a plain garb he appears, - That on finding he can't reach your soul through your eyes, - He steals in through the gates of your ears. - - But the cheat!--'tis not heaven he's warbling about-- - Other passions, less holy, betide-- - For, behold, there's a little gray nun peeping out - From a bunch of green leaves at his side. - - - - - WILLIAM M'DONNELL - - - - - _From_ "MANITA" - - - As time past onwards, day by day - Manita by the grave would stay; - And often she would steal by night - To that lone spot to glad her sight ... - And many came to hear the song - She sung at times the whole day long. - She fancied, too, that flowers and birds - Were listening to its tender words, - And that at night the dreaming moon - Sent echoes to her simple tune-- - It was a loving lay to cheer - While Ogemah lay sleeping near: - - "I have a little friend - Up in the tall pine tree. - In the sunny air he sings, - Sits and sings with folded wings, - Sings low and soft down by the lake, - Lest he should Ogemah awake. - - I have a pretty friend, - The redbreast in the tree. - All day for me he sings, - Word from Ogemah he brings, - And often warbles by the lake - To see if he is yet awake." - - - - - BERNARD M'EVOY - - - - - A PHOTOGRAPH IN A SHOP WINDOW - - - Through a Gethsemane of city streets, - Whose ministering angels seemed from hell, - And ever stabbed me with their venomed darts, - Till soul and body writhed in misery, - I strayed--a hunted mortal--sport of Fate. - Then, when 'twas worst, behold thy pictured face! - Calm, peaceful, resolute; thy comrades true - Around thee, "helmed and tall;" ah! then I knew - How angels strengthen us in time of need, - And from thy face drew solace for my smart. - - - - - REVISED PROOFS - - - I watch the printer's clever hand - Pick up the type from here and there-- - Make it in ordered row to stand, - And gather it with practised care. - - Maybe 'twill make the poet's page, - The leaf of some romantic book, - The sheet that chronicles the age, - The tome on which the sage shall look. - - But ah! not yet; full well he knows - No printer lives from error free; - And in those neat and serried rows - Are letters that ought not to be. - - He takes his proof-sheet with a sigh, - Deleting here, and adding there, - Till not the keenest reader's eye - But must confess the whole is fair. - - And shall the pages of our lives-- - Letter by letter daily set-- - Be subject, when the end arrives, - To no revising process yet? - - Sometimes our eyes are blurred with tears, - Sometimes our hands with passion shake, - Sometimes a tempting Devil leers - At all the errors that we make. - - Forbid, O God! that work so vain - Shall stand in an eternal scroll-- - With faults of sin, and joy, and pain-- - As long as future ages roll! - - - - - THOMAS D'ARCY M'GEE - - - - - OUR LADYE OF THE SNOW - - -I - - If, Pilgrim, chance thy steps should lead - Where, emblem of our holy creed, - Canadian crosses glow-- - There you may hear what here you read, - And seek in witness of the deed - _Our Ladye of the Snow_![A] - - In the old times when France held sway - From the Balize to Hudson's Bay, - O'er all the forest free, - A noble Breton cavalier - Had made his home for many a year - Beside the Rivers three. - - To tempest and to trouble proof - Rose in the wild his glittering roof, - To every traveller dear; - The Breton song, the Breton dance, - The very atmosphere of France, - Diffused a generous cheer. - - Strange sight that on those fields of snow - The genial vine of Gaul should grow - Despite the frigid sky! - Strange power of Man's all-conquering will, - That here the hearty Frank can still - A Frenchman live and die! - -[A] The church of _Notre Dame des Neiges_, (now) behind Mount -Royal. - - -II - - The Seigneur's hair was ashen grey, - But his good heart held holiday, - As when in youthful pride - He bared his shining blade before - De Tracey's regiment on the shore - Which France has glorified. - - Gay in the field, glad in the hall, - The first at danger's frontier call,-- - The humblest devotee - Of God and of St Catharine dear - Was the stout Breton cavalier - Beside the Rivers three. - - When bleak December's chilly blast - Fettered the flowing waters fast, - And swept the frozen plain-- - When with a frightened cry, half heard, - Far southward fled the arctic bird, - Proclaiming winter's reign-- - - His custom was, come foul, come fair, - For Christmas duties to repair, - Unto the _Ville Marie_, - The city of the mount, which north - Of the great River looketh forth - Across its sylvan sea. - - Fast fell the snow, and soft as sleep, - The hillocks looked like frozen sheep, - Like giants grey the hills-- - The sailing pine seemed canvas-spread, - With its white burden over-head, - And marble hard the rills. - - A thick dull light, where ray was none - Of moon or star, or cheerful sun, - Obscurely showed the way-- - While merrily upon the blast - The jingling horse-bells, pattering fast, - Timed the glad roundelay. - - Swift eve came on, and faster fell - The winnowed storm on ridge and dell, - Effacing shape and sign-- - Until the scene grew blank at last, - As when some seaman from the mast - Looks o'er the shoreless brine. - - Nor marvel aught to find ere long - In such a scene the death of song - Upon the bravest lips-- - The empty only could be loud - When Nature fronts us in her shroud - Beneath the sky's eclipse. - - Nor marvel more to find the steed, - Though famed for spirit and for speed, - Drag on a painful pace-- - With drooping crest and faltering foot, - And painful whine, the weary brute - Seems conscious of disgrace; - - Until he paused with mortal fear, - Then plaintive sank upon the mere - Stiff as a steed of stone-- - In vain the master winds his horn, - None save the howling wolves forlorn - Attend the dying roan. - - -III - - Sad was the heart and sore the plight - Of the benumbed, bewildered knight - Now scrambling through the storm. - At every step he sank apace-- - The death dew freezing on his face-- - In vain each loud alarm! - - The torpid echoes of the Rock - Answered with one unearthly mock - Of danger round about! - Then, muffled in their snowy robes, - Retiring sought their bleak abodes, - And gave no second shout. - - Down on his knees himself he cast, - Deeming that hour to be his last, - Yet mindful of his faith-- - He prayed St Catharine and St John, - And our dear Ladye called upon - For grace of happy death. - - When lo! a light beneath the trees, - Which clank their brilliants in the breeze, - And lo! a phantom fair - As God's in heaven! by that blest light - Our Ladye's self rose to his sight, - In robes that spirits wear! - - Oh! lovelier, lovelier far than pen, - Or tongue, or art, or fancy's ken - Can picture, was her face-- - Gone was the sorrow of the sword, - And the last passion of our Lord - Had left no living trace! - - As when the moon across the moor - Points the lost peasant to his door, - And glistens on his pane-- - Or when along her trail of light - Belated boatmen steer at night, - A harbor to regain-- - - So the warm radiance from her hands - Unbind for him Death's icy bands, - And nerve the sinking heart-- - Her presence makes a perfect path. - Ah! he who such a helper hath - May anywhere depart. - - All trembling, as she onward smiled, - Followed that Knight our mother mild, - Vowing a grateful vow-- - Until, far down the mountain gorge, - She led him to the antique forge - Where her own shrine stands now. - - If, Pilgrim, chance thy steps should lead - Where, emblem of our holy creed, - Canadian crosses glow-- - There you may hear what here you read, - And seek, in witness of the deed, - _Our Ladye of the Snow_! - - - - - WILLIAM P. M'KENZIE - - - - - MOONLIGHT - - - So tremulous the flame of thinking burns - Beneath mine eyelids, that I may not keep - My restless couch; I watch the still moon sweep - Through starry space, like some white soul that spurns - Earth-life, and to the sunlight ever turns; - In her cool beams my burning eyes I steep-- - Oh, that my spirit thus may rest in sleep - When my pale ashes mother Earth inurns! - - And as the moonlight quieteth unrest, - Changing thought's scorching glow to truth's pure light, - So Thou, who art my heart's most holy guest, - Dost make its ruddy flame glow spirit white; - And like pure-hearted child 'mid happy dreams, - I rest my heart and soul in Thy love-beams. - - - - - GABRIELLE - - - 'Tis the sound of a silver-toned bell: - _Gabrielle_,-- - And a gladness the chime doth foretell, - _Gabrielle_; - As music that thrilled once floats back to the mind, - And tells of a joy yet to grasp, yet to find, - So thy name seems to come on the wind, - _Gabrielle_! - I find in its musical swell, - _Gabrielle_, - A charm evil passions to quell, - _Gabrielle_; - When I utter thy name all the might is destroyed - Of the glittering shapes in the dark that annoyed, - And they flit back again to the void, - _Gabrielle_! - Thy name holds my heart by a spell, - _Gabrielle_! - In my life thy sweet music shall dwell, - _Gabrielle_! - As one with a vision celestial in sight, - The vision of love hath redoubled my might, - And my eyes mirror heavenly light, - _Gabrielle_! - - - - - THE MOTHER'S SONG - - - _Come, O Sleep, from Chio's isle, - Take my little one awhile._--GREEK FOLK-SONG. - - Come hither, Sleep, from Chio's isle! - My wakeful babe canst thou beguile? - Let rose of dawn be on the cheek, - On sweet lips parted as to speak, - But bring a twilight o'er these eyes - As bright and blue as summer skies. - Then swing the cradle to and fro - Till all the wingëd shadows go; - Like drowsy flower my baby sway - Until my daughter hails the day. - - Come hither, Sleep, from Chio's isle! - Take thou my little one awhile, - And twine soft fabric of the night - O'er merry eyes that glance too bright; - Make silent thou the laughter sound, - But leave the smile, and dimple round, - And rock my baby on thy breast - Like wee bird swaying in the nest; - At morning bring her fresh as day, - Then on a sunbeam fly away. - - - - - LULLABY SONG - - - Where does my sweetheart Baby go - While the cradle is swinging her to and fro,-- - While Mother is singing a lullaby - In a voice like none other, so sweet and low? - - _Lullaby Baby, lullaby dear! - Yield thee to slumber, Mother is near; - Far on Sleep's ocean fear not to go, - God is around thee, loving thee so!_ - - Does she fly away to the home of Night, - When eyelids droop over blue eyes bright? - Does she seek the place where the dreams are born, - Clad in her dreaming-dress of white? - - Her cradle sways like a fairy boat - On the gentle Slumber river afloat, - That bears on its bosom a baby fleet, - As the sunbeam many a shining mote. - - So swiftly the babies are sweeping along - As if a breeze in the sail blew strong, - Yet no waves beat, for it is not the wind - But the crooning of many a mother-song. - - Down Slumber river their course they keep, - Until they come to the sea of Sleep; - And the mermaids tell them of wonderful things, - For they are the dreams that arise from the deep. - - - - - ALEXANDER M'LACHLAN - - - - - INDIAN SUMMER - - - Down from the blue the sun has driven, - And stands between the earth and heaven, - In robes of smouldering flame: - A smoking cloud before him hung, - A mystic veil, for which no tongue - Of earth can find a name; - And o'er him bends the vault of blue, - With shadowy faces looking through - The azure deep profound; - The stillness of eternity,-- - A glory and a mystery, - Encompass him around. - The air is thick with golden haze, - The woods are in a dreamy maze, - The air enchanted seems; - Have we not left the realms of care, - And entered in the regions fair - We see in blissful dreams? - - O, what a sacred stillness broods - Above the awful solitudes! - Peace hangs with dove-like mien; - She's on the earth, she's in the air, - O, she is brooding everywhere-- - Sole spirit of the scene! - And yonder youths and maidens seem - As moving in a heavenly dream, - Through regions rich and rare; - Have not their very garments caught - A tone of spiritual thought, - A still, a Sabbath air? - Yon cabins by the forest side - Are all transformed and glorified! - O, surely grief nor care, - Nor poverty with strife and din, - Nor anything like vulgar sin, - Can ever enter there! - - The ox, let loose to roam at will, - Is lying by the water still; - And on yon spot of green - The very herd forget to graze, - And look in wonder and amaze - Upon the mystic scene. - And yonder Lake Ontario lies, - As if that wonder and surprise - Had hushed her heaving breast-- - And lies there with her awful eye - Fixed on the quiet of the sky - Like passion soothed to rest; - Yon very maple feels the hush-- - That trance of wonder, that doth rush - Through nature everywhere-- - And meek and saint-like there she stands - With upturned eye and folded hands, - As if in silent prayer. - - O Indian Summer, there's in thee - A stillness, a serenity-- - A spirit pure and holy, - Which makes October's gorgeous train - Seem but a pageant light and vain, - Untouched by melancholy! - But who can paint the deep serene-- - The holy stillness of thy mien-- - The calm that's in thy face, - Which make us feel, despite of strife, - And all the turmoil of our life-- - Earth is a holy place? - Here, in the woods, we'll talk with thee, - Here, in thy forest sanctuary - We'll learn thy simple lore; - And neither poverty nor pain, - The strife of tongues, the thirst for gain, - Shall ever vex us more. - - - - - BOBOLINK - - - Merry mad-cap on the tree, - Who so happy are as thee! - Is there aught so full of fun, - Half so happy 'neath the sun, - With thy merry whiskodink-- - Bobolink! Bobolink! - - With thy mates, such merry meetings, - Such queer jokes and funny greetings, - O, such running and such chasing, - O, such banter and grimacing, - Thou'rt the wag of wags the pink-- - Bobolink! Bobolink! - - How you tumble 'mong the hay, - Romping all the summer's day; - Now upon the wing all over - In and out among the clover-- - Far too happy e'er to think-- - Bobolink! Bobolink! - - Now thou'rt on the apple tree, - Crying, "Listen unto me!" - Now upon the mossy banks, - Where thou cuttest up such pranks-- - One would swear thou wert in drink-- - Bobolink! Bobolink! - - Nothing canst thou know of sorrow, - As to-day shall be to-morrow; - Never dost thou dream of sadness-- - All thy life a merry madness, - Never may thy spirits sink-- - Bobolink! Bobolink! - - - - - THE MAN WHO ROSE FROM NOTHING - - - Around the world the fame is blown - Of fighting heroes, dead and gone; - But we've a hero of our own-- - The man who rose from nothing. - - He's a magician great and grand; - The forests fled at his command; - And here he said, "Let cities stand!"-- - The man who rose from nothing. - - And in our legislative hall - He towering stands alone, like Saul, - "A head and shoulders over all,"-- - The man who rose from nothing. - - His efforts he will ne'er relax, - His faith in figures and in facts, - And always calls an axe an axe,-- - The man who rose from nothing. - - The gentleman in word and deed; - And short and simple in his creed; - "Fear God and help the soul in need!" - The man who rose from nothing. - - In other lands he's hardly known, - For he's a product of our own; - Could grace a shanty or a throne,-- - The man who rose from nothing. - - Here's to the land of lakes and pines, - On which the sun of freedom shines, - Because we meet on all our lines - The man who rose from nothing. - - - - - JOHN M'PHERSON - - - - - THE MAYFLOWER - - - Sweet child of an April shower, - First gift of spring to Flora's bower, - Acadia's own peculiar flower, - I hail thee here! - Thou com'st, like hope in sorrow's hour, - To whisper cheer. - - I love to stray with careless feet, - Thy balm on morning breeze to meet-- - Thy earliest opening bloom to greet-- - To take thy stem, - And bear thee to my lady sweet, - Thou lovely gem. - - What though green mosses o'er thee steal, - And half thy lovely form conceal-- - Though but thy fragrant breath reveal - Thy place of birth-- - Gladly I own thy mute appeal, - Of modest worth! - - Thy charms so pure a spell impart, - Thy softening smiles so touch my heart, - That silent tears of rapture start, - Sweet flower of May! - E'en while I sing, devoid of art, - This simple lay. - - - - - IN THE WOODS - - - I come, ye lovely wild-wood groves, - Where placid contemplation roves, - And breathes untroubled air; - I come to woo your genial sweets, - To wander in your green retreats, - And lose the sense of care. - - Unformed to brook the vulgar strife - And heartlessness of worldly life, - I court your silent gloom-- - Where Thought may nurse, without annoy, - The soothing sense of native joy-- - The soul's inherent bloom. - - Receive me to your fostering arms-- - Surround me with your varied charms - Of birds and streams and flowers; - And bless me with the sweet repose - That crowns the simple thoughts of those - Who love your leafy bowers. - - Here in the ancient forest maze, - Remote from Mammon's specious ways, - And wandering at my will, - Herbs, flowers, and trees shall be my friends, - And birds and streamlets make amends - For much of earthly ill. - - Yet give me here a kindred tie-- - Affection's sympathetic eye, - And kind consoling tone; - For though the multitude are cold, - And anxious most for sordid gold, - I would not live alone. - - The heart--the heart is human still, - And yearns for trusting love to fill - Its frequent, aching void; - Unless partaken with our kind, - The sweetest joys of sense and mind - Are not enough enjoyed. - - Then will I seek repose from strife, - The tender ministries of life, - And peace, the timid dove, - In one still calm, one dear retreat, - The circle of my cottage sweet-- - The home of wedded love. - - - - - CHARLES MAIR - - - - - UNTAMED - - - There was a time on this fair continent - When all things throve in spacious peacefulness. - The prosperous forests unmolested stood, - For where the stalwart oak grew, there it lived - Long ages, and then died among its kind. - The hoary pines--those ancients of the earth, - Brimful of legends of the early world-- - Stood thick on their own mountains unsubdued. - And all things else illumined by the sun, - Inland, or by the lifted wave, had rest. - The passionate or calm pageants of the skies - No artist drew; but in the auburn west - Innumerable faces of fair cloud - Vanished in silent darkness with the day. - The prairie realm--vast ocean's paraphrase-- - Rich in wild grasses numberless, and flowers - Unnamed save in mute Nature's inventory, - No civilized barbarian trenched for gain. - And all that flowed was sweet and uncorrupt: - The rivers and their tributary streams, - Undammed, wound on forever, and gave up - Their lonely torrents of weird gulfs of sea, - And ocean wastes unshadowed by a sail. - And all the wild life of this western world - Knew not the fear of man; yet in those woods ... - There lived a soul more wild than barbarous; - A tameless soul--the sunburnt savage free-- - Free, and untainted by the greed of gain: - Great Nature's man content with Nature's food. - - - - - THE VOICE OF THE PINES - - - We fear not the thunder, we fear not the rain, - For our stems are stout and long; - Or the growling winds, though they blow amain, - For our roots are great and strong; - Our voice is eternal, our song sublime, - And its theme is the days of yore-- - Back thousands of years of misty time, - When we first grew old and hoar! - - Deep down in the crevice our roots were hid, - And our limbs were thick and green - Ere Cheops had builded his pyramid, - Or the Sphinx's form was seen. - Whole forests have risen within our ken, - Which withered upon the plain; - And cities, and race after race of men, - Have risen and sunk again. - - We commune with the stars thro' the paly night, - For we love to talk with them; - The wind is our harp, and the marvellous light - Of the moon our diadem. - Like the murmur of ocean our branches stir - When the night air whispers low; - Like the voices of ocean our voices are, - When the hurtling tempests blow. - - We nod to the sun ere the glimmering morn - Prints her sandals on the mere; - We part with the sun when the stars are borne - By the silvery waters clear. - And when lovers are breathing a thousand vows, - With their hearts and cheeks aglow, - We chant a love strain 'mid our breezy boughs, - Of a thousand years ago! - - We stand all aloof, for the giant's strength - Craveth naught from lesser powers; - 'Tis the shrub that loveth the fertile ground, - But the sturdy rock is ours! - We tower aloft where the hunters lag - By the weary mountain side, - By the jaggy cliff, by the grimy crag, - And the chasms yawning wide. - - When the great clouds march in a mountain heap, - By the light of the dwindled sun, - We steady our heads 'gainst their misty sweep, - And accost them one by one. - Then our limbs they jostle in thunder-mirth, - And the storm-fires flash again; - But baffled and weary they sink to earth, - And the monarch-stems remain. - - The passage of years doth not move us much, - And Time himself grows old - Ere we bow to his flight, or feel his touch - In our "limbs of giant mould." - And the dwarfs of the wood, by decay oppressed, - With our laughter grim we mock; - For the burden of age doth lightly rest - On the ancient forest folk. - - Cold Winter, who filches the flying leaf, - And steals the floweret's sheen, - Can injure us not, or work us grief, - Or make our tops less green. - And Spring, who awakens her sleeping train - By meadow, and hill, and lea, - Brings no new life to our old domain, - Unfading, stern, and free. - - Sublime in our solitude, changeless, vast, - While men build, work, and save, - We mock--for their years glide away to the past, - And we grimly look on their grave. - Our voice is eternal, our song sublime, - For its theme is the days of yore-- - Back thousands of years of misty time, - When we first grew old and hoar. - - - - - THE HUMMING BIRD - - - It comes! This strange bird from a distant clime - Has fled with arrowy speed on fluttering wing. - From the sweet south, all sick of revelling, - It wanders hitherward to rest a time, - And taste the hardy flora of the west. - And now, O joy! the urchins hear the mirth - Of its light wings, and crouch unto the earth - In watchful eagerness, contented, blest. - - Bird of eternal summers! thou dost wake, - Whene'er thou comest and where'er thou art, - A new born gladness in my swelling heart. - Go, gentle flutterer, my blessing take! - Less like a bird thou hast appeared to me - Than some sweet fancy in old poesy. - - - - - INNOCENCE - - - Oft I have met her - In openings of the woods and pleasant ways, - Where flowers beset her, - And hanging branches crowned her head with bays. - - Oft have I seen her walk - Through flower-decked fields unto the oaken pass, - Where lay the slumbery flock, - Swoln with much eating of the tender grass. - - Oft have I seen her stand - By wandering brooks o'er which the willows met; - Or where the meadow-land - Balmed the soft air with dew-mist drapery wet. - - Much patting of the wind - Had bloomed her cheek with color of the rose; - Rare beauty was entwined - With locks and looks in movement or repose.... - - The floriage of the spring - And summer coronals were hers in trust, - Till came the winter-king - To droop their sweetness into native dust.... - - The dingle and the glade, - The brown-ribbed mountains, and tall, talking trees - Seemed fairer while she stayed, - And drank of their dim meanings and old ease.... - - And chiefly she did love - To soothe the widow's ruth and orphan's tear; - With counsel from above, - Alleviating woe, allaying fear.... - - There was a quiet grace - In all her actions, tokening gentleness, - Yet firm intent to trace - The paths of duty leading up to bliss.... - - She thought of One who bore - The awful burden of the world's despair-- - What could she give Him more - Than blameless thoughts, a simple life and fair? - - She was and is, for still - She lives and moves upon the grass-green earth, - And, as of old, doth fill - Her heart with peace, still mingling tears with mirth. - - O, could we find her out, - And learn of her this wildering maze to tread! - And, eased of every doubt, - Let deadly passions linger with the dead!... - - - - - GEORGE MARTIN - - - - - SHELLEY - - - Lover of Man, if not of God, the Sea - That took thy latest breath, and fondly bore - Its music round the world from shore to shore, - Will never cease to make lament for thee; - For thou wert of its spirit, tameless, free, - At war with ermined Custom, and the hoar - Enslavements of a venerated lore,-- - At deadly feud with all the Powers that be. - Supreme Enchanter, lord of rhythmic sound, - Child of Imagination, born for flight, - Loved of all poets, and by all men crowned - The foe of every form of savage might, - Thou wert the true Prometheus unbound, - Whose genius shaped an Era's golden height. - - - - - TO MY CANARY BIRD - - - Borne on the wavelets of thy fluent notes, - Impassioned little minstrel of the cage, - My spirit like a happy sea-gull floats, - Unheedful of the clamor and the rage - Of storms that menace ruin as they pass, - Impatient for the freedom of the plain, - Crusted and polished like a sea of glass, - Whereon they shout their wild and weird refrain. - - There is no touch of winter in thy song, - No wail of winds, my yellow-coated friend; - All beauties of the Spring to thee belong, - All bloomy charms and all the scents that lend - A drowsy gladness to the summer hours. - Again I hear swift rivulets descend - The mountain slopes, like children loosed from school; - Again I see the lily on the pool, - And hear the whispered loves of leaves and flowers. - - Not only through the golden hours of day, - From early dawn till dusk, melodious sprite, - Do thy delicious trills and quavers stray - Around the quiet chamber where I write, - But often in the slumbrous hush of night, - When moonbeams silver o'er the pendant swing, - On which thy head thou pillowest 'neath thy wing, - Thou wakest, and again thy transports ring, - As if thy soul wert skyward seeking flight. - - Blow, all ye winds, and at my window tap, - Like sheeted ghosts, with icy finger-tips; - Press hard against the pane your whitened lips, - And at the outer portal louder rap; - My songster hears you not: a higher note, - A more reverbant, more delirious strain, - Issues exultant from his quivering throat, - And reaches to the people on the street, - Who pause, look up, take step, and pause again, - Retiring slowly with unwilling feet. - - O that thou couldst to me this hour impart - The secret of thy unremitting joy! - The music that dilates thy little heart - No frost can chill, no doubt, no fear destroy. - Here, seated listless in my easy chair, - I can but yield to phantasy and dream, - And gird my spirit with a jewelled beam - Of soft enchantment, hopeful that a share - Of thy divine emotion, happy bird, - By which my holiest thoughts are often stirred, - May slip into my verse and warble there. - - - - - LALEET - - - How beautiful she was, the little maiden, - Scarce twelve years old, - Who faded like a fading star, love laden, - Her love untold. - - I knew not, I who far outran her days, - How much I erred - In making much of her endearing ways, - How much I stirred - The fount of her affection with my praise. - - No sunrise fairer is than was her face, - No moonlit skies - More lovely than the tenderness and grace - That filled her eyes. - - Her presence harmonized all dissonance, - And ever wore - A charm akin to music and romance, - And faery lore. - - Poor child! among her hidden notes one said - She dreamed of me, - And fancied that she saw me lying dead, - Drowned in the sea, - But that no dream it was the tears she shed. - - When life's white rose its latest leaf was shedding, - And o'er her broke - The sobs of mourners in her chamber treading, - Vaguely she spoke: - He knew not of my weeping at his wedding! - - Those simple words, in whispered cadence spoken, - All winds repeat; - I shudder at the tale which they betoken, - My lost Laleet! - - I hear them in the surging of the billow, - Through storm and gloom; - They pierce me from the rustle of the willow - That shades her tomb - And drops a denser shadow on my pillow. - - Ye softest harmonies of air and ocean, - Of mount and vale, - Rehearse, to love-led maids, her heart's devotion - Till suns shall fail - And orphaned planets lose the joy of motion. - - - - - HELEN M. MERRILL - - - - - THE BLUE FLOWER - - - Still, though the sun is setting, - She lingers unheeding the hour, - Her face held to its splendor, - Her heart in thrall of its power. - - Her hair is golden burnished; - In her eye the heaven's hue; - Her charm of immortal beauty - Holds me from dawn till dew. - - She has a soul of fire, - Pure as a star's white flame; - I gaze in silence, and wonder - The glory whence it came. - - She is the spirit elusive - Sorrowing poets seek; - I stand rapt in her presence, - And listen to hear her speak. - - All time in the forest olden, - She tells her wondrous chain; - My hope of suns eternal, - Priest of a mighty fane. - - Through the pale light glowing golden, - She watches the day decline; - She sings from her ancient volume, - I interpret line on line. - - Flower or star bright shining, - A bird, or a silver sheaf; - In her great book I discover - An enigma on every leaf. - - Her song is of paradises - Where wheeling fires shine, - To mystic dreams beguiling - Like whispering wind in a pine. - - She would that the spirits of mortals - Wander in amaranth meads; - Never a shadow trembles - On the soul-path where she leads, - - Under the flashing stars - And the splendor of suns in prime, - In a land of new horizons, - In the unknown aftertime. - - - - - AT EDGEWATER - - - One by one they pass away, - Days, like white ships which sail peacefully - From the shore, yet come not back again. - And their freight is Life, and Love, and lesser things, - Yet as beautiful and good. And ever they set sail - Under golden suns for sea, - Till the summer is gone and shadows fall so gloomily, - At Edgewater! - - When the winds of autumn blow - Through the brown vines swinging mournfully, - Calling for the sun disconsolate, - And the rain falls, and the spirit of the deep, - Grieving for the summer, chants its death-song of the sun, - It is lonely by the sea, - And the heart is haunted by unhappy memory, - At Edgewater. - - Yet again a golden day - Gilds the blue wave flowing tranquilly, - And a sudden splendor lights the shore, - And the heart of autumn, trembling, turneth warm, - As though summer loitered in it dreaming of the sun. - By-gone dreams, and dreams to be, - Their white shadows on the soul reflect ceaselessly, - At Edgewater. - - - - - THE PROMISE OF SPRING - - - Blue-black like the breast of the gusty sea, - Cumulus clouds where the sun goes down, - Stormful shadows against the gold, - Under the arches of even blown. - - Nowhere a white bird beating the storm, - Nowhere a sunray gilding the sea; - Bud nor leaf on the orchard bough, - Butterfly, nor blossom, nor bee. - - Yet to-night, where the blue waves beat, - Under the shadows, the storm-winds bring - Omen mysterious out of the dusk, - Out of the darkness the promise of Spring. - - - - - SUN-GOLD - - - All day the sun drops gold, the grassy mead - Like miser olden hoarding underground, - Till soft-shod June will track it, like a hound - Scents the lone covert where the wild deer feed. - - Then from an ample mint, with lavish hand, - In every field, by every fountain-side, - She'll scatter gold-bits round her far and wide, - In flower cups o'er all the fragrant land. - - Wherever butter-flowers and wild daisies blow, - You'll mark her presence in the green lush grasses; - You'll hear her blithely singing as she passes - On sunny uplands where gold violets grow. - - - - - SUSANNA MOODIE - - - - - THE MAPLE-TREE - - - Hail to the pride of the forest--hail - To the maple, tall and green! - It yields a treasure which ne'er shall fail - While leaves on its boughs are seen. - When the moon shines bright - On the wintry night, - And silvers the frozen snow, - And echo dwells - On the jingling bells - As the sleighs dart to and fro, - Then it brightens the mirth - Of the social hearth - With its red and cheery glow. - - Afar, 'mid the bosky forest shades, - It lifts its tall head on high, - When the crimson-tinted evening fades - From the glowing saffron sky; - When the sun's last beams - Light up woods and streams, - And brighten the gloom below; - And the deer springs by - With his flashing eye, - And the shy, swift-footed doe; - And the sad winds chide - In the branches wide, - With a tender plaint of woe. - - The Indian leans on its rugged trunk, - With the bow in his red right-hand, - And mourns that his race, like a stream, has sunk - From the glorious forest land. - But, blithe and free, - The maple-tree, - Still tosses to sun and air - Its thousand arms, - While in countless swarms - The wild bee revels there; - But soon not a trace - Of the red-man's race - Shall be found in the landscape fair. - - When the snows of winter are melting fast, - And the sap begins to rise, - And the biting breath of the frozen blast - Yields to the spring's soft sighs, - Then away to the wood, - For the maple good - Shall unseal its honeyed store; - And boys and girls, - With their sunny curls, - Bring their vessels brimming o'er - With the luscious flood - Of the brave tree's blood, - Into caldrons deep to pour. - - The blaze from the sugar-bush gleams red; - Far down in the forest dark - A ruddy glow on the trees is shed, - That lights up their rugged bark; - And with merry shout - The busy rout - Watch the sap as it bubbles high; - And they talk of the cheer - Of the coming year, - And the jest and the song pass by; - And brave tales of old - Round the fire are told, - That kindle youth's beaming eye. - - Hurrah! for the sturdy maple-tree! - Long may its green branch wave - In native strength, sublime and free, - Meet emblem for the brave. - May the nation's peace - With its growth increase, - And its worth be widely spread; - For it lifts not in vain - To the sun and rain - Its tall, majestic head. - May it grace our soil, - And reward our toil, - While the nation's day is sped! - - - - - THE FISHERMAN'S LIGHT - - - The air is still, the night is dark, - No ripple breaks the dusky tide; - From isle to isle the fisher's bark, - Like fairy meteor, seems to glide,-- - Now lost in shade, now flashing bright; - On sleeping wave and forest tree, - We hail with joy the ruddy light, - Which far into the darksome night - Shines red and cheerily. - - With spear high poised and steady hand, - The centre of that fiery ray, - Behold the skilful fisher stand, - Prepared to strike the finny prey. - "Now, now!" the shaft has sped below,-- - Transfixed the shining prize we see; - On swiftly glides the birch canoe, - The woods send back the long halloo - In echoes loud, and cheerily! - - Around yon bluff, whose pine crest hides - The noisy rapids from our sight, - Another bark! another glides! - Red spirits of the murky night! - The bosom of the silent stream - With mimic stars is dotted free; - The tall woods lighten in the beam, - Through darkness shining cheerily. - - - - - MARY MORGAN - - - - - "IN APPREHENSION, SO LIKE A GOD." - - - Take the mouldering dust, - Wake it into life,-- - Matter is but servant of the mind. - - Touch the silent keys: - Genius can evoke - Music wherein gods commune with men. - - Read the soul of man, - And the farthest star; - Truth is one, and is forever true. - - Think the wildest thought, - Hope the utmost hope-- - Time shall be when all shall be fulfilled. - - Wonder not at deed, - Wonder more at thought, - Wonder at the hope that feeds itself. - - Genius is divine, - Genius is the true: - Man becomes that which he worships,--God! - - - - - CHARITY - - - Thou askest not to know the creed, - The rank or name is naught to thee; - Where'er the human heart cries "Help!" - Thy kingdom is, O Charity! - - - - - LIFE - - - Mysterious Life! we speak as if we knew - What meant this vortex: Ah, what doth it mean? - A spirit of unrest is Life--hath been - Alluring made with many-tinted hue. - From darkest chasm it lifts man to a peak - Where he may see ideal flowers blow; - But as he learns to love them, it will show - Him other heights that he is forced to seek. - Enchantress, Disenchantress,--both in one! - Surrounding us to-day with dazzling light, - To-morrow hiding every ray of sun - Till we are sunk in the abyss of night. - The oracles are dumb: whate'er Life be, - Man walks by faith alone; he cannot see. - - - - - IRENE ELDER MORTON - - - - - BROWNING - - - He sits at last among his peers, - While we stand chilled with eyes grown dim - In looking over life's grey fields, - And feel the heart-light folded in. - - O great soul! entered in to know - The fulness of the Central Life! - O giant leader of the race, - Who never with the world made strife, - - But led it surely, grandly on, - Scaling clear heights with leap and bound,-- - Then, beckoning with a strong man's hand, - He kept his way to higher ground! - - No maudlin cry he gave the world,-- - "Behold my grief, pity my pain;" - Strong as the breath of Alpine hills, - Sweet as the sound of summer rain, - - The songs he gave us. Evermore - The deathless might of English speech - Shall sound their notes from shore to shore, - And to the coming nations teach - - That it is nobler to endure, - And smother back the cry of pain-- - Shall call us onward to the heights, - To press ahead and bear the strain. - - He wore no caste-bound fetters here; - A man of men he proved his soul; - The mighty pulse within his words - Beat full and free above control. - - The illumined fringes of his thoughts - Have set the world's face after him, - As one would follow clear flute notes - Heard in cool aisles of forests dim. - - With loving face of child and friend - To look on as the last of earth, - God wrapt him in a robe of light, - And gave him strong immortal birth. - - He looks again in the clear eyes - Of her, the love-dream of his youth, - The moonlit side of his great heart, - To whom he gave his manhood's truth. - - Perfect conditions of new life - Are vibrant to his being there,-- - Gone in to feel the wider thrill, - Gone in to breathe the purer air. - - - - - COMPLETENESS - - - Life gives us better than it takes away,-- - In brighter hope, and broader, fuller day. - - There is no past, but all things move and blend - In sure fulfilment of a promised end. - - We leave the misty capes and vales we trod, - For the glad sunshine on the Hills of God. - - To slow grand measure up the aisle of years - Move truths enfranchised from long bonds and tears. - - Hands that groped darkly for the truth of things - Hold the clear signet of the King of Kings. - - Broad waves that tossed in fierce white passion-heat - Fall into psalm and kiss the resting feet. - - - - - MY GARDEN WALL - - -I - - It comforts me through all my days - To know that on this strange old earth, - On which we two found human birth, - I have a friend who cares for me. - - Not a high God, serene and just, - Who from His calm sure place of bliss - Looks down from His world into this, - And burns me that I grow more white. - - But just a man, so strong and dear-- - How dear the stars know in the sky, - And the sweet birds as home they fly, - When evening comes, to the warm nest! - - He can do things that I can not: - He builds a wall around my heart; - Some day we will not dwell apart-- - A man is stronger than a girl. - - -II - - Within the wall that he has made - I plant the seeds of life's queen flowers; - I watch them grow through pleasant hours,-- - Be sure they neither droop nor fade. - - Perhaps some passers-by may think: - "It only is a common wall, - Solid and square, not very tall"-- - But could they look over the brink, - - And see the rose and mignonette, - Spicy carnations red and white, - That pulse their perfume in the light, - With tall pale lilies firmly set! - - -III - - Now while the sweet wild autumn rain - Is falling on the world outside, - How safely does my heart abide - In the dear shelter of my wall! - - - - - IN JUNE - - - Some glad thing comes to me - Always in June, - Some new joy gladly set - To a sweet tune. - - Is it that earth so thrills - With bud and bloom, - That the sad heart of life - Lets go its gloom? - - Some dear long absent face - Answers some prayers, - Or may be just a token - That some one cares. - - Some glad thing hidden long - In some old room, - Says, "Let us go to her, - For it is June. - - "Why cheat her any more, - For we are hers, - Unlock the dusty door, - My being stirs - - "With longing to behold - A human face, - And with a touch of joy - Add some new grace." - - Far back in earth's grey dawn, - Before God's words - Had crystalized in suns, - Or stars had heard - - That clear creative call, - "Let there be light - On all My works below, - For day and night"-- - - When first earth's wrinkled face - Saw the white moon - Gleam on unfinished work, - There was no June,-- - - But as the thoughts of God - Shewed perfect spheres, - We think He called up June - To gem the years! - - When we are inward drawn - To God's dear heart, - And the white silence falls - As we depart, - - And the new air seems filled - With some rare tune, - How sweet our last earth-look - If it were June! - - - - - SONG OF THE PAGAN PRINCESS - - - The rivers that sweep to the sea - Bear to it the heart of the land-- - The eyes of the gods in the stars - The thoughts of my heart understand. - - And the joy in the heart of the rose, - The song in the heart of the rain, - The glory of gladness that flows - O'er the billows of tall ripened grain, - - The strength in the heart of the hills, - The unmeasured lament of the sea, - The low happy laugh of the rills,-- - All answer to something in me, - To something in me! - - - - - SONG - - - Where the soft shadows fall, - Where the wind's voices call, - Softly and low,-- - - Mother earth, cover me! - Daisies, grow over me! - Bury me low. - - Far from the sound of strife, - From the rude voice of life, - Bury me deep! - - Where the soft summer rain - Soothes all my weary pain, - There let me sleep. - - Wild are earth's hopes and vain, - Even love touches pain-- - Bury me low! - - Mother earth, cover me! - Daisies, grow over me! - Bury me low! - - - - - CHARLES PELHAM MULVANEY - - - - - POPPŒA - - (_At the Theatre_) - - - Dark tresses made rich with all treasures, - Earth's gold-dust, and pearls of the sea-- - She is splendid as Rome that was Cæsar's, - And cruel as Rome that was free! - - Could I paint her but once as I found her! - From her porphyry couch let her lean, - With the reek of the circus around her-- - Who is centre and soul of the scene: - - Grey eyes that glance keen as the eagle - When he swoops to his prey from on high; - Bold arms by the red gold made regal-- - White breast never vexed with a sigh: - - And haughty her mien as of any - Her sires whom the foemen knew well, - As they rode through the grey mist at Cannæ, - Ere consul with consular fell. - - Unabashed in her beauty of figure-- - Heavy limbs, and thick tresses uncurled - To our gaze, give the grace and the rigor - Of the race that has conquered the world. - - And fierce with the blood of the heroes-- - In their sins and their virtues sublime-- - Sits the Queen of the world that is Nero's, - And as keen for a kiss as a crime! - - But the game that amuses her leisure - Loses zest as the weaker gives way; - And the victor looks up for her pleasure-- - Shall he spare with sword-point or slay? - - Half-grieving she gathers her tresses, - Now the hour for the games has gone by, - And those soft arms, so sweet for caresses, - Point prone, as she signs, "Let him die!" - - - - - GEORGE MURRAY - - - - - THE THISTLE - - A LEGENDARY BALLAD - - - 'Twas midnight! Darkness, like the gloom of some funereal pall, - Hung o'er the battlements of Slaines,--a fortress grim and tall. - The moon and stars were veiled in clouds, and from the Castle's - height - No gleam of torch or taper pierced the shadows of the night; - Only the rippling of the Dee blent faintly with the sound - Of weary sentry-feet that paced their slow, unvarying round. - - The Earl was sleeping like a child that hath no cause for fear; - The Warder hummed a careless song his lonely watch to cheer; - Knight, squire, and page, on rush-strewn floors, were stretched in - sound repose, - While spear and falchions, dim with dust, hung round in idle rows; - And none of all those vassals bold, who calmly dreaming lay, - Dreamed that a foe was lurking near, impatient for the fray. - - But in that hour,--when Nature's self serenely seemed to sleep,-- - In the dim valley of the Dee, a bow-shot from the keep, - A ghost-like multitude defiled in silence from the wood - That with its stately pines concealed the Fort for many a rood,-- - The banner of that spectral host is soiled with murderous stains-- - They are the "Tigers of the Sea," the cruel-hearted Danes! - - Far o'er the billows they have swept to Caledonia's strand; - They carve the record of their deeds with battle-axe and brand; - Their march each day is tracked with flame, their path with - carnage strewn, - For Pity is an angel-guest their hearts have never known. - And now the caitiffs steal by night to storm the Fort of Slaines-- - They reck not of the fiery blood that leaps in Scottish veins! - - Onward they creep with noiseless tread--their treacherous feet are - bare, - Lest the harsh clang of iron heels their slumbering prey should - scare. - "Yon moat," they vow, "shall soon be crossed, yon rampart soon be - scaled, - And all who hunger for the spoil with spoil shall be regaled. - Press on, press on, and high in air the Raven Standard wave; - Those drowsy Scots this night shall end their sleep within the - grave!" - - Silent as shadows, on they glide; the gloomy fosse is nigh-- - "Glory to Odin, Victory's Lord! its shelving depths are dry. - Speed, warriors, speed!"--but, hark! a shriek of agonizing pain - Bursts from a hundred Danish throats--again it rings, again! - Rank weeds had overgrown the moat, now drained by summer's heat, - And bristling crops of thistles pierced the raiders' naked feet! - - That cry, like wail of pibroch, stirred the sentry's kindling - soul, - And, shouting "Arms! to arms!" he sped the Castle bell to toll. - But ere its echoes died away upon the ear of night, - Each clansman started from his couch and armed him for the fight; - The drawbridge falls,--and, side by side, the banded heroes fly - To grapple with the pirate-horde and conquer them or die! - - As eagles, on avenging wings, from proud Ben Lomond's crest - Swoop fiercely down and dash to earth the spoilers of their nest; - As lions bound upon their prey, or as the burning tide - Sweeps onward with resistless might from some volcano's side-- - So rushed that gallant band of Scots, the garrison of Slaines, - Upon the Tigers of the Sea, the carnage-loving Danes. - - The lurid glare of torches served to light them to their foes: - They hewed those felons, hip and thigh, with stern, relentless - blows; - Claymore and battle-axe and spear were steeped in slaughter's - flood, - While every thistle in the moat was splashed with crimson blood; - And when the light of morning broke, the legions of the Danes - Lay stiff and stark, in ghastly heaps, around the Fort of Slaines! - - Nine hundred years have been engulfed within the grave of Time - Since those grim Vikings of the North by death atoned their crime. - In memory of that awful night, the thistle's hardy grace - Was chosen as the emblem meet of Albin's dauntless race; - And never since, in battle's storm, on land or on the sea, - Hath Scotland's honor tarnished been--God grant it ne'er may be! - - - - - M. H. NICKERSON - - - - - A RECOLLECTION - - - O'er the white waste of drifted sands unstable - We climbed the sedgy dune, - Where, like a sleeping giant, old Cape Sable - Basked at the feet of June. - - Beneath the summer noon the shore birds twittered - Around in glancing flocks, - And, like a fair display of jewels, glittered - The foam-bells on the rocks. - - Deep peace was in the air and on the billows, - That in smooth slumber lay, - Or gently tossed upon their sandy pillows - As infants wake to play. - - The breeze moved landward, scarcely felt in blowing, - But such the fisher hails - With joy when, after weary hours of rowing, - It swells his spritted sails. - - The brave flotilla then, like snowy sprinkles, - Far outward we could trace; - The sight was fair and seemed to have smoothed the wrinkles - From out old Ocean's face. - - No envious shadow on the flood descended; - Unflecked, the sky's broad sweep - In silent grandeur with the horizon blended, - Deep calling unto deep. - - And every shadow, from my life retreating, - Left free the placid mind; - The finite with the infinite was meeting - Undimmed and unconfined. - - How many times my eager gaze had rested - Upon that sea and shore; - But never, never had they been invested - With such a charm before. - - They wear it still in calm ideal perfection, - Though years since then have flown; - That summer day's unclouded recollection - Shall ever be my own. - - - - - CORNELIUS O'BRIEN - - - - - ST CECILIA - - - A shell lies silent on a lonely shore; - High rocks and barren stand with frowning brow; - Hither no freighted ships e'er turn their prow - Their treasures on the fated sand to pour; - Afar the white-robed sea-gull loves to soar; - But, pure as victim for a nation's vow, - A lovely maiden strikes the shell, and now - Its music charms, and sadness reigns no more. - Thus, Christian poesy, thus on pagan coasts - For ages mute had lain thy sacred lyre, - Untouched since from the prophet's hand it fell, - Till fair Cecilia, taught by angel hosts, - Attuned its music to the heavenly choir, - And gave a Christian voice to Clio's shell. - - - - - THOMAS O'HAGAN - - - - - RIPENED FRUIT - - - I know not what my heart has lost, - I cannot strike the chords of old; - The breath that charmed my morning life - Hath chilled each leaf within the wold. - - The swallows twitter in the sky, - But bare the nest beneath the eaves; - The fledglings of my care are gone, - And left me but the rustling leaves. - - And yet, I know my life hath strength, - And firmer hope and sweeter prayer, - For leaves that murmur on the ground - Have now for me a double care. - - I see in them the hope of spring, - That erst did plan the autumn day; - I see in them each gift of man - Grow strong in years, then turn to clay. - - Not all is lost--the fruit remains - That ripened through the summer's ray; - The nurslings of the nest are gone, - Yet hear we still their warbling lay. - - The glory of the summer sky - May change to tints of autumn hue; - But faith that sheds its amber light - Will lend our heaven a tender blue. - - O altar of eternal youth! - O faith that beckons from afar! - Give to our lives a blossomed fruit-- - Give to our morns an evening star! - - - - - THE SONG MY MOTHER SINGS - - - O sweet unto my heart is the song my mother sings - As eventide is brooding on its dark and noiseless wings! - Every note is charged with memory--every memory bright with rays - Of the golden hours of promise in the lap of childhood's days. - The orchard blooms anew, and each blossom scents the way, - And I feel again the breath of eve among the new-mown hay; - While through the halls of memory in happy notes there rings - All the life-joy of the past in the song my mother sings. - - I have listened to the dreamy notes of Chopin and of Liszt, - As they dripped and drooped about my heart and filled my eyes with - mist; - I have wept strong tears of pathos 'neath the spell of Verdi's - power, - As I heard the tenor voice of grief from out the donjon tower; - And Gounod's oratorios are full of notes sublime - That stir the heart with rapture thro' the sacred pulse of time; - But all the music of the past, and the wealth that memory brings, - Seem as nothing when I listen to the song my mother sings. - - It's a song of love and triumph, it's a song of toil and care, - It is filled with chords of pathos, and it's set in notes of - prayer; - It is bright with dreams and visions of the days that are to be, - And as strong in faith's devotion as the heart-beat of the sea; - It is linked in mystic measure to sweet voices from above, - And is starred with ripest blessing thro' a mother's sacred love. - O sweet and strong and tender are the memories that it brings, - As I list in joy and rapture to the song my mother sings! - - - - - GILBERT PARKER - - - - - I LOVED MY ART - - - I loved my Art. I loved it when the tide - Was sweeping back my hopes upon the sand; - When I had missed the hollow of God's hand - Held over me, and there was none to guide. - I set my face towards it, raising high - My arm in token that I would be true - To all great motives, though I sorely knew - That there was one star wanting in my sky. - Touching the chords of many harmonies, - I needed one to make them all complete. - I heard it sound like thunder-gathered seas, - What time my soul knelt at my lady's feet. - And there transfigured in her light I grew - In stature to the work that poets do. - - - - - IT IS ENOUGH - - - It is enough that in this burdened time - The soul sees all its purposes aright. - The rest--what does it matter? Soon the night - Will come to whelm us, then the morning chime. - What does it matter, if but in the way - One hand clasps ours, one heart believes us true; - One understands the work we try to do, - And strives through Love to teach us what to say? - Between me and the chilly outer air - Which blows in from the world, there standeth one - Who draws Love's curtains closely everywhere, - As God folds down the banners of the sun. - Warm is my place about me, and above, - Where was the raven, I behold the dove. - - - - - THEIR WAVING HANDS - - - Since I rose out of child-oblivion - I have walked in a world of many dreams, - And noble souls beside the shining streams - Of fancy have with beckonings led me on. - Their faces oft, mayhap, I could not see, - Only their waving hands and noble forms. - Sometimes there sprang between quick-gathered storms, - But always they came back again to me. - Women with smiling eyes and star-spun hair - Spake gentle things, bade me look back to view - The deeds of the great souls who climbed the stair - Immortal, and for whom God's manna grew: - Dante, Anacreon, Euripides, - And all who set rich wine upon the lees. - - - - - AMY PARKINSON - - - - - THE MESSENGER HOURS - - -I - - I thought as I watched in the dawning dim - The hours of the coming day, - That each shadow form was surely robed - In the selfsame hue of gray; - And that sad was each half-averted face, - Unlit by a cheering ray. - - But as one by one they drew near to me, - And I saw them true and clear, - I found that the hours were all messengers, - Sent forth by a Friend most dear, - To bring me whatever I needed most-- - Of chastening or of cheer. - - And though some of them, truly, were grave and sad, - And moved with reluctant feet, - There were others came gladly, with smiling eyes, - And footsteps by joy made fleet; - But whatever with gladness or sorrow fraught, - The message each bore was sweet. - - For even the saddest, and weighted most - With trial and pain for me, - Yet breathed in my ear, ere it passed from sight, - "This cross I have brought to thee - Comes straight from the Friend Who, of all thy friends, - Doth love thee most tenderly; - - "He would rather have sent thee a joyous hour, - And fraught with some happy thing, - But He saw that naught else could so meet thy need - As this strange, sad gift I bring; - And He loved thee too well to withhold the gift, - Though it causes thee suffering." - - -II - - So, now, as I watch in the dawning dim - The hours of each coming day, - I remember that golden threads of love - Run all through their garments gray; - And I know that each face as it turns to me - Will be lit with a friendly ray. - - And whether they most be sombre or glad, - No hour of all the band - But will bring me a greeting from Him I love, - And reach out a helping hand - To hasten my steps, as I traverse the road - That leads to the better land. - - For the Lord of that land is the Friend I love, - And I know He keeps for me - A home of delight in His kingdom fair, - That I greatly long to see; - And the hours that shall speed me on my way - I must welcome gratefully. - - -III - - And soon I shall trace through the dawning dim, - 'Mid the hours of some coming day, - A figure unlike to its sister forms, - With garments more gold than gray; - And the face of that one, when it meets my gaze, - Will send forth a wondrous ray. - - So I watch for that latest and brightest hour - Which my Lord will send to me; - I know that its voice will be low and sweet, - And this shall its message be: - "Come quickly, and enter thy Home of joy, - For the King is calling thee." - - I shall go to Him soon! I have waited long - To behold His beauty rare; - But I surely shall see Him and hear His voice, - And a part in His glory share, - When I answer the summons, solemn yet glad, - Which the last sweet hour shall bear. - - - - - FRANK L. POLLOCK - - - - - AD BELLONAM - - - Mother of Swords! while the river runs, - Or the steamer seeks the sea; - While the North wind blows from the chill of snows, - And the South from the scented Key, - So long, so long will live the song - That thy lilting bugles sing, - As the warship rides down the deep sea tides, - Where the green foams white on her armored sides, - And the wind'ard gun-shields ring. - - There be they who sing that the song will cease, - The song that thy sons began; - That the good old World will loll in peace, - In the bond of the Peace of Man. - They sing,--and clear 'twixt the notes we hear - The clink of the warrior's trade, - And the thund'rous call where the hammers fall, - And the steam-power shrieks o'er the factory wall, - Where the rifled guns are made. - - The Breath of the Lord may rule the sea, - And the Lies of Men the land; - And the craft of the tongue may hold in fee - The strength of the heavy hand; - But though tongues may quicken and strength may sicken, - And hands grow soft and small, - Year upon year the day draws near - Of the unsheathed sword and the shaken spear, - That shall make amends for all. - - When the Armageddon sunrise breaks - On the iron-clads' smoking line, - When the last dawn lights on that last of fights - Where the strength of man shall shine, - One great grim day of the world at play, - With bugle and tuck of drum, - While the red drops beat on the shattered fleet, - Till the red sun sinks on the last defeat, - Then--let the Millennium come! - - - - - THE TRAIL OF GOLD - - - Under the ward of the Polar Star, - Where the great auroras snap and blaze, - There are crashing blows on the icy bar - That is set at the end of the open ways. - There are axes ringing across the crest, - The sluices shackle the streams that rolled, - As the gamesters gather from East and West,-- - The men that follow the Trail of Gold. - - A black line crawls o'er the glacier's face, - Where the worn pack-horses scrape and slide; - The muskeg swallows and leaves no trace, - The boats go down in the snow-swelled tide. - Blood and bones on the snow and sod, - From the cañons black to the barrens gray, - Blaze the trail that the vanguard trod, - That those who follow may find the way. - - There are strange ships west of the lonely isles - Where the red volcanoes burn and freeze; - There's a fading wake o'er the misty miles, - There are smokes that trouble the Smoky Seas. - There are corpses swept from the sinking hull, - As the steamer dips to the swelling gale, - For the rising shark and the wheeling gull - That hunt the sea on the Golden Trail. - - The storm sweeps out from its Polar den, - Till the air grows dense with the cutting snow; - The North makes mock of the sons of men, - As the diggers lie in the drifts below. - The workers lie where the last work ceased, - The strong men scatter the lifeless wold; - And the tall wolves howl at the gathered feast-- - The hounds that hunt on the Scent of Gold. - - - - - ANDREW RAMSAY - - - - - JEPHTHA'S DAUGHTER - - - After her bath, yet early in the day, - She donned a ketonet or tunica; - With gems enclasped it, close as a caress, - And smoothed its folds out o'er her loveliness - In fondly fashioned outlines. It was made - Of Persian satin, opaline and white, - Like moving mists around the moon arrayed, - Thro' which she shone, a lovelier light in light - Almost immortal: on a low divan - A fleecy texture tinted Tyrian, - Alone reclining, on each pliant knee - Her white feet poised by turns to sandalled be. - The sandal buckles were with gems aflame, - And those fine bands that bound each knee the same. - On restless anklets tinkled bells of gold, - A symbol which of princely lineage told. - Their music summoning a tiring maid - Who all her glorious midnight hair arrayed: - A purple black it was, alive and long, - And seemed, if such could be, like a carved song, - Some Hebrew pæan of triumphant power - Arrested, and remaining her rare dower. - 'Twas girt in frequent fillets of fine gold, - Bestarred with sardon flashing manifold. - And o'er her shoulders, exquisitely graced, - A sedijin, encircled at the waist. - This sedijin was sleeveless, but both arms - Had aspen bands that blazed in jasper charms. - Her zone was also wonderful with these, - As round her neck a circlet, carved to please - In imitated foliage of lush hues - Such as Ezekiel sanctified for use. - And over these, with garnet bangles hung - And opaline, a splendid shimla clung, - Marvel of strangely interfusing sheen, - And beautiful as all that might have been. - A little scarf of white and henna dyes - Crowned her dark head for dreadful sacrifice. - Pensive her oriental eyes, and large, - Looking their last on Judah's hills, the charge - Of Israel's honor in them, and the praise - Of many a maid desponding since those days - When Jephtha's daughter wended forth to mourn - Her immature virginity forlorn. - - - - - I WILL NOT TELL - - - I will not tell thee why the land - With so much glory glows; - There is but one in all the world - My sacred secret knows. - - O, she is fairer than the flowers - Of rosy June or May, - When every bird is singing near - And every blossom gay! - - I asked her eyes to let their beams - Make life supremely grand: - Their answer like a flood of light - Flushed all the flowery land. - - The sunbeams gleamed among the grass, - Warm-waving in the breeze, - A new life gladdened every bloom, - More vivid grew the trees. - - I shall not tell thee why the land - With so much glory glows; - There is but one in all the world - My sacred secret knows. - - - - - ATKINSON'S MILL - - - This river of azure with many a weed in - Comes far from the past as those famous of old; - Its dawns are the same as made blossoms in Eden, - And still it remembers their crimson and gold. - As vivid this valley with forests around it, - And low, waving evergreens shading the hill, - But color has gone from the cottage that crowned it-- - The alders have faded by Atkinson's mill. - - This stream is the same with its tinting of azure, - Yet the old bridge is moved from its mooring of stone; - Departed are those who once made it a pleasure - To sail here, or skate when the summer had gone. - This pathway through cedar is trampled no longer - By feet that went daily to school 'gainst their will; - The fragrance of hope in the springtime is stronger - And sweeter than summer by Atkinson's mill. - - No more will the big wheel revolve with a clatter, - No more the bolts turn with a turbulent clank, - Nor down the dim flume rush the wonderful water - To burst forth in foam by the green-colored bank. - The blue flag has gone from the shore that we cherish, - The song of the gray bird in autumn is still, - Yet memory kindles the blossoms that perish - Like hope that was happy by Atkinson's mill. - - - - - THEODORE HARDING RAND - - - - - THE DRAGONFLY - - -I - - Winged wonder of motion - In splendor of sheen, - Cruising the shining blue - Waters all day, - Smit with hunger of heart - And seized of a quest - Which nor beauty of flower - Nor promise of rest - Has charm to appease - Or slacken or stay,-- - What is it you seek, - Unopen, unseen? - - -II - - Are you blind to the sight - Of the heavens of blue, - Or the wind-fretted clouds - On their white, airy wings, - Or the emerald grass - That velvets the lawn, - Or glory of meadows - Aflame like the dawn? - Are you deaf to the note - In the woodland that rings - With the song of the whitethroat, - As crystal as dew? - - -III - - Winged wonder of motion - In splendor of sheen, - Stay, stay a brief moment - Thy hither and thither - Quick-beating wings, - Thy flashes of flight; - And tell me thy heart, - Is it sad, is it light, - Is it pulsing with fears - Which scorch it and wither, - Or joys that up-well - In a girdle of green? - - -IV - - "O breather of words - And poet of life, - I tremble with joy, - I flutter with fear! - Ages it seemeth, - Yet only to-day - Into this world of - Gold sunbeams at play, - I came from the deeps. - O crystalline sphere! - O beauteous light! - O glory of life! - - -V - - "On the watery floor - Of this sibilant lake, - I lived in the twilight dim. - 'There's a world of Day,' - Some pled, 'a world - Of ether and wings athrob - Close over our head.' - 'It's a dream, it's a whim, - A whisper of reeds,' they said,-- - And anon the waters would sob. - And ever the going - Went on to the dead - Without the glint of a ray, - And the watchers watched - In their vanishing wake. - - -VI - - "The passing - Passed for aye, - And the waiting - Waited in vain! - Some power seemed to enfold - The tremulous waters around, - Yet never in heat - Nor in shrivelling cold, - Nor darkness deep or gray,-- - Came token of sound or touch,-- - A clear unquestioned 'Yea!' - And the scoffers scoffed, - In swelling refrain, - 'Let us eat and drink, - For to-morrow we die.' - - -VII - - "But, O, in a trance of bliss, - With gauzy wings I awoke! - An ecstasy bore me away - O'er field and meadow and plain. - I thought not of recent pain, - But revelled, as splendors broke - From sun and cloud and air, - In the eye of golden Day. - - -VIII - - "I'm yearning to break - To my fellows below - The secret of ages hoar; - In the quick-flashing light - I dart up and down, - Forth and back, everywhere, - But the waters are sealed - Like a pavement of glass,-- - Sealed that I may not pass. - O for waters of air! - Or the wing of an eagle's might - To cleave a pathway below!" - - -IX - - And the Dragonfly in splendor - Cruises ever o'er the lake, - Holding in his heart a secret - Which in vain he seeks to break. - - - - - BEAUTY - - -I - - "Had I two loaves of bread--ay, ay! - One would I sell and hyacinths buy - To feed my soul."--"Or let me die!" - - Beauty, dew-sweet, of heavenly birth, - Thy flower is writ of grief, not mirth, - Thy rainbow's footed on the earth. - - Rainbows and Hyacinths! O seers, - Your voices call across the years: - "The bread of Beauty's wet with tears!" - - -II - - The living words from Beauty's mien, - Than blade by swordsman swung more keen, - Spirit and soul divide between: - - "Pure as the sapphire-blue from blame, - Humble as glad, of holiest aim-- - Love's sevenfold beam a flashing flame!" - - -III - - It yearns me sore, so near, so far! - My heart moans like the harbor-bar, - For coming of the morning star. - - Buy Hyacinths--a goodly share! - Ascend, O soul, Love's iris-stair, - The bridegroom waiteth for thee there! - - - - - LOVE - - - The blooming flowers, the galaxies of space, - Lie pictured in a sheeny drop of even; - And globed in one round word, on lips of grace, - Shine out the best of earth and all of heaven. - - - - - THE HEPATICA - - - Hail, first of the spring, - Pearly sky-tinted thing - Touched with pencil of Him - Who rollest the year! - Lo, thy aureole rim - No painter may limn-- - Vision thou hast, and no fear! - - Fair child of the light, - What fixes thy sight? - Wide-open thy roll - From the seal of the clod, - And thy heaven-writ scroll - Glows, beautiful soul, - With the shining of God! - - Thou look'st into heaven - As surely as Stephen, - So steadfast thy will is! - And from earth's inglenook - Seest Christ of the lilies - And daffadowndillies, - And catchest His look. - - And a portion is mine, - Rapt gazer divine, - From thy countenance given-- - Angel bliss in thy face! - I've looked into heaven - As surely as Stephen, - From out of my place! - - - - - "I AM" - - - I am, and therefore these, - Existence is by me,-- - Flux of pendulous seas, - The stable, free. - - I am in blush of the rose, - The shimmer of dawn; - Am girdle Orion knows, - The fount undrawn. - - I am earth's potency, - The chemic ray's, the rain's, - The reciprocity - That loads the wains. - - I am, or the heavens fall! - I dwell in my woven tent, - Am immanent in all,-- - Suprámanent! - - I am the Life in life, - Impact and verve of thought, - The reason's lens and knife, - The ethic "ought." - - I am of being the stress, - I am the brooding Dove, - I am the blessing in "bless," - The Love in love. - - I am the living thrill - And fire of poet and seer, - The breath of man's goodwill, - The Father near; - - Am end of the way men grope, - Core of the ceaseless strife, - I am man's bread of hope, - Water of life. - - I am the root of faith, - Substance of vision, too, - The spirit shadowed in wraith, - Urim in dew. - - I am the soul's white Sun, - Love's slain, enthronëd Lamb, - I am the Holy One, - I am I AM. - - - - - THE VEILED PRESENCE - - - An ashen gray touched faint my night-dark room, - I flung my window wide to the whispering lawn-- - Great God! I saw the mighty globe from gloom - Roll with its sleeping millions to the dawn. - - No tremor spoke its motion swift and vast, - In hush it swept the awful curve adown, - The shadow that its rushing speed did cast - Concealed the Father's hand, the Kingly crown. - - Into the deeps an age has passed since then, - Yet evermore for me, more humble grown, - The vision of His awesome presence veiled - Burns in the flying spheres, still all unknown, - In nature's mist-immantled seas unsailed, - And in the deeper shadowed hearts of men. - - - - - THE GHOST FLOWER - - - Like Israel's seer I come from out the earth - Confronting with the question air and sky, - _Why dost thou bring me up?_ White ghost am I - Of that which was God's beauty at its birth. - In eld the sun kist me to ruby red, - I held my chalice up to heaven's full view, - The wistful stars dropt down their golden dew, - And skyey balms exhaled about my bed. - Alas, I loved the darkness, not the light! - The deadly shadows, not the bending blue, - Spoke to my trancëd heart, made false seem true, - And drowned my spirit in the deeps of night. - O Painter of the flowers, O God most sweet, - _Dost say my spirit for the light is meet_? - - - - - GLORY-ROSES - - - "Only a penny, Sir!"-- - A child held to my view - A bunch of "glory-roses," red - As blood, and wet with dew. - - (O earnest little face, - With living light in eye, - Your roses are too fair for earth, - And you seem of the sky!) - - "My beauties, Sir!" he said, - "Only a penny, too!"-- - His face shone in their ruddy glow - A Rafael cherub true. - - "Yestreen their hoods were close - About their faces tight, - But ere the sun was up, I saw - That God had come last night. - - O, Sir, to see them then! - The bush was all aflame!-- - O yes, they're glory-roses, Sir, - That is their holy name. - - Only a penny, sir!"-- - Heaven seemed across the way! - I took the red, red beauties home-- - Roses to me for aye! - - For aye, that radiant voice - As if from heaven it came-- - "O yes, they're glory-roses, Sir, - That is their holy name!" - - - - - THE CARVEN SHORES - - - How bold the Imagination and how strong - That makes so rich with carven-work these shores! - More gorgeous they than Oriental throng-- - What altar-pomps, and rough with beaten ores! - - These great events, once fluid as a song, - Now gates uplift, e'en His authentic doors! - (His stay no tent is for-a-night along - The murmuring floods and boisterous battle-roars.) - - The wedge of frost, and beetle wave, sand blast, - With stroke of pencil-sun, and wash of rain, - Outline unsearchable and shadow vast! - And evermore, as moons grow or decline, - The whirl and speed of tidal lathe and plane - Shaping chaotic mass to forms divine! - - - - - WALTER A. RATCLIFFE - - - - - WANTED - - - Wanted, a stalwart man! - The man who, when he knows the Right, - The same pursues against all Might; - The man who dares to stand alone - For Conscience' sake when Hope is gone; - Who dares to leave a beaten path, - And live within the light he hath, - Nor shrinks to strike a deadly blow - At Error found in friend or foe: - This is the stalwart man. - - Wanted, an honest man! - A man may live within the laws, - Or 'scape their grasp through flimsy flaws, - But he who scorns an action mean, - Is honest where he is not seen, - Nor dares advance at others' cost, - Counts all ill-gotten wealth as lost, - Ne'er grudges each his fullest due, - Whose word as is his oath is true: - This is the honest man. - - Wanted, a noble man! - Not one who from a favored place - Claims kindred with a worn-out race; - Whose empty titles, ancient name, - Are all his wealth, are all his fame; - But one whose usefulness men see, - Though humble may his station be; - For such will bless on every hand - His friend, his home, his native land: - This is the noble man. - - Wanted, the broader man! - Untrammelled by a narrow creed - That loves to make its doubters bleed; - The man who learns from nature's plan - That man should love his fellowman; - The man whose soul, so deep and true, - Embraces all as brothers too; - The man whom none may buy with pelf, - The man delivered from himself: - Such is the needed man. - - - - - JOHN READE - - - - - RIZPAH - - - It is growing dark. - At such a sunset I have been with Saul-- - But saw it not. I only saw his eyes - And the wild beauty of his roaming locks, - And--oh! there never was a man like Saul! - Strong arm, and gentle heart and tender ways - To win a woman's very soul, were his. - When he would take my hand and look on me, - And whisper "Rizpah"--ah! those days are gone! - Why should I weep? was I not loved by Saul? - And Saul was king of all the Land of God. - - "God save the king!" But, hush! what noise was that? - Oh heaven! to think a mother's eyes should look - On such a sight! Away! vile carrion-beast! - Those are the sons of Saul,--poor Rizpah's sons. - O my dead darlings! O my only joy! - O sweet twin treasure of my lonely life, - Since that most mournful day upon Gilboa, - Torn from me thus! - I have no tears to shed. - O God! my heart is broken! Let me die! - - * * * * * - - Gilboa! David wrote a song on it, - And had it put in _Jasher_--"Weep for Saul." - Armoni used to sing it to his harp. - Poor blackened lips!... - I wonder if they dream, - My pretty children.... - Come, Mephibosheth, - Here is your father; say "God save the king!" - The Gibeonites! Ah! that was long ago. - Why should they die for what they never did? - No; David never would consent to that? - - * * * * * - - Whose son is he, this youth? Dost know him, Abner? - Ha, ha! they shout again "God save the king!" - - * * * * * - - Was I asleep? I came not here to sleep. - O poor old eyes, sorrow has made you weak. - My sons! No, nought has touched them. O, how cold! - Cold, cold! O stars of God, have pity on me, - Poor lonely woman! O my sons, Saul's sons! - Kind stars, watch with me; let no evil beast - Rend that dear flesh. O God of Israel, - Pardon my sins! My heart is broken! - - - - - PICTURES OF MEMORY - - -I - - Here is the old church. Now I see it all-- - The hills, the sea, the bridge, the waterfall. - The dear old sleepy town is still abed - Although the eastern clouds are tinged with red. - And everything is as this graveyard still, - Except the soldiers at their morning drill, - And in the Pool a fishing boat or two - Belated, homeward pulled with weary oar, - And the dim curlews on the distant shore, - And the lark soaring through the ether blue. - But now the lazy smoke curls through the air-- - I will go down and see who tenant there, - And meet old friends. "First, wanderer, look around - And see what friends of thine are underground!" - - -II - - The mountains gather round thee as of yore, - O holy lake, across whose tranquil breast - Was borne the saint who to the farthest west - Brought the sweet knowledge that transcends all lore. - There on the islet at the chapel door - The penitents are kneeling, while along - There flows the mystic tide of sacred song - To where I stand upon the rugged shore. - But now there is a silence weird and dread-- - And utter loneliness is in my heart. - I came to seek the living but the dead-- - This is _their_ welcome. Slowly I depart, - Nor read the name beneath a single cross-- - He still is rich who doth not know his loss. - - -III - - There is the school-house; there the lake, the lawn; - And there, just fronting it, the barrack square; - But of all those I knew not one is there-- - Even the old gate-keeper--he is gone. - Ah, me! ah, me! when last I stood upon - This grassy mound, with what proud hopes elate - I was to wrestle with the strength of fate - And conquer! Now--I live and that is all. - Oh! happier those whose lot it was to fall - In noble conflict with their country's foes - Far on the shores of Taurie Chersonese! - Nay, all are blest who answer duty's call. - But--do I dream or wake? What ghosts are these? - Hush, throbbing heart! _these_ are the sons of _those_. - - -IV - - Oh! what could wake to life that first sweet flame - That warmed my heart when by the little bay - On blissful summer evenings I lay - Beneath our thorn-bush, waiting till she came - Who was to me far more than wealth or fame, - But yet for whom I wished all fair things mine, - To make her, if she could be, more divine - By outer splendor and a noble name. - Now I may wait in vain from early morn - Till sunset for the music of her feet. - And yet how little change has come upon - This fairy scene her beauty made so sweet! - It weareth still the glory of her smile. - Ah! if she were but here a little while. - - - - - IN MY HEART - - - In my heart are many chambers through which I wander free; - Some are furnished, some are empty, some are sombre, some are - light; - Some are open to all comers, and of some I keep the key, - And I enter in the stillness of the night. - - But there's one I never enter,--it is closed to even me! - Only once its door was opened, and it shut forevermore; - And though sounds of many voices gather round it, like a sea, - It is silent, ever silent as the shore. - - In that chamber long ago my love's casket was concealed, - And the jewel that it sheltered I knew only one could win; - And my soul foreboded sorrow, should that jewel be revealed, - And I almost hoped that none might enter in. - - Yet day and night I lingered by that fatal chamber door, - Till--she came at last, my darling one, of all the earth my own; - And she entered--and she vanished with my jewel, which she wore; - And the door was closed--and I was left alone. - - She gave me back no jewel, but the spirit of her eyes - Shone with tenderness a moment, as she closed that chamber door, - And the memory of that moment is all I have to prize-- - But that, at least, is mine forevermore. - - Was she conscious, when she took it, that the jewel was my love? - Did she think it but a bauble she might wear or toss aside? - I know not, I accuse not, but I hope that it may prove - A blessing, though she spurn it in her pride. - - - - - TO LOUIS FRECHETTE[A] - - - O gifted son of our dear land and thine, - We joy with thee on this thy joyous day, - And in thy laurel crown would fain entwine - A modest wreath of our own simple bay! - Shamrock and thistle and sweet roses gay, - Both red and white, with parted lips that smile, - Like some bright maiden of their native isle-- - These, with the later maple, take, we pray, - To mingle with thy laurelled lily, long - Pride of the brave and theme of poet's song. - They err who deem us aliens. Are not we - Bretons and Normans, too? North, south and west - Gave us, like you, of blood and speech their best, - Here, re-united, one great race to be. - -[A] On the occasion of his poems being crowned by the French -Academy. - - - - - KINGS OF MEN - - - As hills seem Alps, when veiled in misty shroud, - Some men seem kings, through mists of ignorance; - Must we have darkness, then, and cloud on cloud, - To give our hills and pigmy kings a chance? - Must we conspire to curse the humbling light, - Lest some one, at whose feet our fathers bowed, - Should suddenly appear, full length, in sight, - Scaring to laughter the adoring crowd? - Oh, no! God send us light!--Who loses then? - The king of slaves, and not the king of men. - True kings are kings for ever, crowned of God, - The King of Kings,--we need not fear for them. - 'Tis only the usurper's diadem - That shakes at touch of light, revealing fraud. - - - - - DOMINION DAY - - - Canada, Canada, land of the maple, - Queen of the forest and river and lake, - Open thy soul to the voice of thy people, - Close not thy heart to the music they make. - Bells, chime out merrily, - Trumpets, call cheerily, - Silence is vocal, and sleep is awake! - - Canada, Canada, land of the beaver, - Labor and skill have their triumph to-day; - Oh! may the joy of it flow like a river, - Wider and deeper as time flies away. - Bells, chime out merrily, - Trumpets, call cheerily, - Science and industry laugh and are gay. - - Canada, Canada, land of the snow-bird, - Emblem of constancy change cannot kill, - Faith, that no strange cup has ever unsobered, - Drinketh, to-day, from love's chalice her fill. - Bells, chime out merrily, - Trumpets, call cheerily, - Loyalty singeth and treason is still! - - Canada, Canada, land of the bravest, - Sons of the war-path, and sons of the sea, - Land of no slave-lash, to-day thou enslavest - Millions of hearts with affection for thee. - Bells, chime out merrily, - Trumpets, call cheerily, - Let the sky ring with the shout of the free. - - Canada, Canada, land of the fairest, - Daughters of snow that is kissed by the sun, - Binding the charms of all lands that are rarest, - Like the bright cestus of Venus in one! - Bells, chime out merrily, - Trumpets, call cheerily, - A new reign of beauty on earth is begun! - - - - - ROBERT REID - - - - - POESIE - - - Whence comes the charm that broods along thy shore, - O sunny land of song? What potent thrall, - Reckless of ocean's rise, or flow, or fall, - Holds us about thy marge for evermore? - Here, where the long wave breaks in measured time, - And fills our being with its rhythmic moan, - From far inland the glories of thy zone - Burst on our view, and beckon us to climb. - - Shades of the mighty dead! whose snowy towers - Stud the deep gorges and the wooded braes, - Is there no nook for cots so small as ours? - No tree whereof we yet might gather bays? - But to be with thee, and to hear the wave - Roll music round the land, is all we crave. - - - - - A SONG OF CANADA - - - Sing me a song of the great Dominion! - Soul-felt words for a patriot's ear! - Ring out boldly the well-turned measure, - Voicing your notes that the world may hear; - Here is no starveling--Heaven-forsaken-- - Shrinking aside where the Nations throng; - Proud as the proudest moves she among them-- - Worthy is she of a noble song! - - Sing me the might of her giant mountains, - Baring their brows in the dazzling blue; - Changeless alone, where all else changes, - Emblems of all that is grand and true: - Free as the eagles around them soaring; - Fair as they rose from their Maker's hand; - Shout, till the snow-caps catch the chorus-- - The white-topp'd peaks of our mountain land! - - Sing me the calm of her tranquil forests, - Silence eternal, and peace profound, - Into whose great heart's deep recesses - Breaks no tempest, and comes no sound; - Face to face with the death-like stillness, - Here, if at all, man's soul might quail: - Nay! 'tis the love of that great peace leads us - Thither, where solace will never fail! - - Sing me the pride of her stately rivers, - Cleaving their way to the far-off sea; - Glory of strength in their deep-mouth'd music-- - Glory of mirth in their tameless glee. - Hark! 'tis the roar of the tumbling rapids; - Deep unto deep through the dead night calls; - Truly, I hear but the voice of Freedom - Shouting her name from her fortress walls! - - Sing me the joy of her fertile prairies, - League upon league of the golden grain: - Comfort, housed in the smiling homestead-- - Plenty, throned on the lumbering wain. - Land of Contentment! May no strife vex you, - Never war's flag on your plains unfurl'd; - Only the blessings of mankind reach you-- - Finding the food for a hungry world! - - Sing me the charm of her blazing camp-fires; - Sing me the quiet of her happy homes, - Whether afar 'neath the forest arches, - Or in the shade of the city's domes; - Sing me her life, her loves, her labors; - All of a mother a son would hear; - For when a lov'd one's praise is sounding, - Sweet are the strains to the lover's ear. - - Sing me the worth of each Canadian-- - Roamer in wilderness, toiler in town-- - Search earth over you'll find none stauncher, - Whether his hands be white or brown; - Come of a right good stock to start with, - Best of the world's blood in each vein; - Lords of ourselves, and slaves to no one, - For us or from us, you'll find we're--MEN! - - Sing me the song, then; sing it bravely; - Put your soul in the words you sing; - Sing me the praise of this glorious country-- - Clear on the ear let the deep notes ring. - Here is no starveling--Heaven-forsaken-- - Crouching apart where the Nations throng; - Proud as the proudest moves she among them-- - Well is she worthy a noble song! - - - - - CHARLES GEORGE DOUGLAS ROBERTS - - - - - A NOCTURNE OF CONSECRATION - - - I talked about you, Dear, the other night, - Having myself alone with my delight. - Alone with dreams and memories of you, - All the divine-houred summer stillness through - I talked of life, of love the always new, - Of tears, and joy,--yet only talked of you. - - To the sweet air - That breathed upon my face - The spirit of lilies in a leafy place, - Your breath's caress, the lingering of your hair, - I said--"In all your wandering through the dusk, - Your waitings on the marriages of flowers - Through the long, intimate hours - When soul and sense, desire and love confer, - You must have known the best that God has made. - What do you know of Her?" - - Said the sweet air-- - "Since I have touched her lips, - Bringing the consecration of her kiss, - Half passion and half prayer, - And all for you, - My various lore has suffered an eclipse. - I have forgot all else of sweet I know." - - To the wise earth, - Kind, and companionable, and dewy cool, - Fair beyond words to tell, as you are fair, - And cunning past compare - To leash all heaven in a windless pool, - I said--"The mysteries of death and birth - Are in your care. - You love, and sleep; you drain life to the lees; - And wonderful things you know. - Angels have visited you, and at your knees - Learned what I learn forever at her eyes, - The pain that still enhances Paradise. - You in your breast felt her first pulses stir; - And you have thrilled to the light touch of her feet, - Blindingly sweet. - Now make me wise with some new word of Her." - - Said the wise earth-- - "She is not all my child. - But the wild spirit that rules her heart-beats wild - Is of diviner birth, - And kin to the unknown light beyond my ken. - All I can give to Her have I not given? - Strength to be glad, to suffer, and to know; - The sorcery that subdues the souls of men; - The beauty that is as the shadow of heaven; - The hunger of love - And unspeakable joy thereof. - And these are dear to Her because of you. - You need no word of mine to make you wise - Who worship at her eyes - And find there life and love forever new!" - - To the white stars, - Eternal and all-seeing, - In their wide home beyond the wells of being, - I said--"There is a little cloud that mars - The mystical perfection of her kiss. - Mine, mine, She is, - As far as lip to lip, and heart to heart, - And spirit to spirit when lips and hands must part, - Can make her mine. But there is more than this,-- - More, more of Her to know. - For still her soul escapes me unaware, - To dwell in secret where I may not go. - Take, and uplift me. Make me wholly Hers." - - Said the white stars, the heavenly ministers,-- - "This life is brief, but it is only one. - Before to-morrow's sun - For one or both of you it may be done. - This love of yours is only just begun. - Will all the ecstasy that may be won - Before this life its little course has run - At all suffice - The love that agonizes in your eyes? - Therefore be wise. - Content you with the wonder of love that lies - Between her lips and underneath her eyes. - If more you should surprise, - What would be left to hope from Paradise? - In other worlds expect another joy - Of Her, which blundering fate shall not annoy, - Nor time nor change destroy." - - So, Dear, I talked the long, divine night through, - And felt you in the chrismal balms of dew. - The thing then learned - Has ever since within my bosom burned-- - One life is not enough for love of you. - - - - - A NOCTURNE OF SPIRITUAL LOVE - - - Sleep, sleep, imperious heart! Sleep, fair and undefiled! - Sleep, and be free! - Come in your dreams at last, comrade and queen and child,-- - At last to me. - - Come, for the honeysuckle calls you out of the night. - Come, for the air - Calls with a tyrannous remembrance of delight, - Passion and prayer. - - Sleep, sovereign heart! And now--for dream and memory - Endure no door,-- - My spirit undenied goes where my feet, to thee, - Have gone before. - - A moonbeam or a breath, above thine eyes I bow, - Silent, unseen, - But not, ah not unknown! Thy spirit knows me now - Where I have been. - - Surely my long desire upon thy soul hath power. - Surely for this - Thy sleep shall breathe thee forth, soul of the lily flower, - Under my kiss. - - Sleep, body wonderful! Wake, spirit wise and wild, - White and divine! - Here is our heaven of dreams, O dear and undefiled, - All thine, all mine. - - - - - AN ODE FOR THE CANADIAN CONFEDERACY - - - Awake, my country, the hour is great with change! - Under this gloom which yet obscures the land, - From ice-blue strait and stem Laurentian range - To where giant peaks our western bounds command, - A deep voice stirs, vibrating in men's ears - As if their own hearts throbbed that thunder forth, - A sound wherein who hearkens wisely hears - The voice of the desire of this strong North,-- - This North whose heart of fire - Yet knows not its desire - Clearly, but dreams, and murmurs in the dream. - The hour of dreams is done. Lo, on the hills the gleam! - - Awake, my country, the hour of dreams is done! - Doubt not, nor dread the greatness of thy fate. - Tho' faint souls fear the keen confronting sun, - And fain would bid the morn of splendor wait; - Tho' dreamers, rapt in starry visions, cry - "Lo, yon thy future, yon thy faith, thy fame!" - And stretch vain hands to stars, thy fame is nigh, - Here in Canadian hearth, and home, and name;-- - This name which yet shall grow - Till all the nations know - Us for a patriot people, heart and hand - Loyal to our native earth, our own Canadian land! - - O strong hearts, guarding the birthright of our glory, - Worth your best blood this heritage that ye guard! - These mighty streams resplendent with our story, - These iron coasts by rage of seas unjarred,-- - What fields of peace these bulwarks will secure! - What vales of plenty those calm floods supply! - Shall not our love this rough, sweet land make sure, - Her bounds preserve inviolate, though we die? - O strong hearts of the North, - Let flame your loyalty forth, - And put the craven and base to an open shame, - Till earth shall know the Child of Nations by her name! - - - - - CANADIAN STREAMS - - - O rivers rolling to the sea - From lands that bear the maple tree, - How swell your voices with the strain - Of loyalty and liberty! - - A holy music, heard in vain - By coward heart and sordid brain, - To whom this strenuous being seems - Naught but a greedy race for gain. - - O unsung streams--not splendid themes - Ye lack to fire your patriot dreams! - Annals of glory gild your waves, - Hope freights your tides, Canadian streams! - - St Lawrence, whose wide water laves - The shores that ne'er have nourished slaves! - Swift Richelieu of lilied fame! - Niagara of glorious graves! - - Thy rapids, Ottawa, proclaim - Where Daulac and his heroes came! - Thy tides, St John, declare La Tour, - And, later, many a loyal name! - - Thou inland stream, whose vales, secure - From storm, Tecumseh's death made poor! - And thou, small water, red with war, - 'Twixt Beaubassin and Beauséjour! - - Dread Saguenay, where eagles soar, - What voice shall from the bastioned shore - The tale of Roberval reveal, - Or his mysterious fate deplore? - - Annapolis, do thy floods yet feel - Faint memories of Champlain's keel, - Thy pulses yet the deed repeat - Of Poutrincourt and d'Iberville? - - And thou far tide, whose plains now beat - With march of myriad westering feet, - Saskatchewan, whose virgin sod - So late Canadian blood made sweet? - - Your bulwark hills, your valleys broad, - Streams where de Salaberry trod, - Where Wolfe achieved, where Brock was slain,-- - Their voices are the voice of God! - - O sacred waters! not in vain, - Across Canadian height and plain, - Ye sound us in triumphant tone - The summons of your high refrain. - - - - - THE SILVER THAW - - - There came a day of showers - Upon the shrinking snow; - The south wind sighed of flowers, - The softening skies hung low. - Midwinter for a space - Foreshadowing April's face, - The white world caught the fancy, - And would not let it go. - - In reawakened courses - The brooks rejoiced the land; - We dreamed the Spring's shy forces - Were gathering close at hand. - The dripping buds were stirred, - As if the sap had heard - The long-desired persuasion - Of April's soft command. - - But antic Time had cheated - With hope's elusive gleam; - The phantom Spring, defeated, - Fled down the ways of dream. - And in the night the reign - Of winter came again, - With frost upon the forest - And stillness on the stream. - - When morn in rose and crocus - Came up the bitter sky, - Celestial beams awoke us - To wondering ecstasy. - The wizard Winter's spell - Had wrought so passing well, - That earth was bathed in glory, - As if God's smile were nigh. - - The silver'd saplings, bending, - Flashed in a rain of gems; - The statelier trees, attending, - Blazed in their diadems. - White fire and amethyst - All common things had kissed, - And chrysolites and sapphires - Adorned the bramble-stems. - - In crystalline confusion - All beauty came to birth; - It was a kind illusion - To comfort waiting earth-- - To bid the buds forget - The Spring so distant yet, - And hearts no more remember - The iron season's dearth. - - - - - EPITAPH FOR A SAILOR BURIED ASHORE - - - He who but yesterday would roam - Careless as clouds, and currents range, - In homeless wandering most at home, - Inhabiter of change; - - Who wooed the West to win the East, - And named the stars of North and South, - And felt the zest of Freedom's feast - Familiar in his mouth; - - Who found a faith in stranger-speech, - And fellowship in foreign hands, - And had within his eager reach - The relish of all lands-- - - How circumscribed a plot of earth - Keeps now his restless footsteps still, - Whose wish was wide as ocean's girth, - Whose will the water's will! - - - - - THE TRAIN AMONG THE HILLS - - - Vast, unrevealed, in silence and the night - Brooding, the ancient hills commune with sleep. - Inviolate the solemn valleys keep - Their contemplation. Soon from height to height - Steals a red finger of mysterious light, - And lion-footed through the forests creep - Strange mutterings; till suddenly, with sweep - And shattering thunder of resistless flight - And crash of routed echoes, roars to view, - Down the long mountain gorge, the Night Express, - Freighted with fears and tears and happiness.... - The dread form passes; silence falls anew. - And lo! I have beheld the thronged, blind world - To goals unseen from God's hand onward hurled. - - - - - A SONG OF GROWTH - - - In the heart of a man - Is a thought upfurled, - Reached its full span - It shakes the world, - And to one high thought - Is a whole race wrought. - - Not with vain noise - The great work grows, - Nor with foolish voice, - But in repose,-- - Not in the rush - But in the hush. - - From the cogent lash - Of the cloud-herd wind - The low clouds dash, - Blown headlong, blind; - But beyond, the great blue - Looks moveless through. - - O'er the loud world sweep - The scourge and the rod; - But in deep beyond deep - Is the stillness of God;-- - At the Fountains of Life - No cry, no strife. - - - - - SLEEPY MAN - - - When the Sleepy Man comes with dust in his eyes - (Oh, weary, my Dearie, so weary!) - He shuts up the earth, and he opens the skies. - (So hush-a-by, weary, my Dearie!) - - He smiles through his fingers, and shuts up the sun; - (Oh, weary, my Dearie, so weary!) - The stars that he loves he lets out one by one. - (So hush-a-by, weary, my Dearie!) - - He comes from the castles of Drowsy-boy Town; - (Oh, weary, my Dearie, so weary!) - At the touch of his hand the tired eyelids fall down. - (So hush-a-by, weary, my Dearie!) - - He comes with a murmur of dreams in his wings - (Oh, weary, my Dearie, so weary!) - And whispers of mermaids and wonderful things. - (So hush-a-by, weary, my Dearie!) - - When the top is a burden, the bugle a bane, - (Oh, weary, my Dearie, so weary!) - When one would be faring down Dream-a-way Lane, - (So hush-a-by, weary, my Dearie!) - - When one would be wending in Lullaby Wherry - (Oh, weary, my Dearie, so weary!) - To Sleepy Man's Castle by Comforting Ferry. - (So hush-a-by, weary, my Dearie!) - - - - - NIGHT IN A DOWN-TOWN STREET - - - Not in the eyed, expectant gloom, - Where soaring peaks repose - And incommunicable space - Companions with the snows; - - Not in the glimmering dusk that crawls - Upon the clouded sea, - Where bourneless wave on bourneless wave - Complains continually; - - Not in the palpable dark of woods - Where groping hands clutch fear, - Does Night her deeps of solitude - Reveal unveiled as here. - - The street is a grim cañon carved - In the eternal stone, - That knows no more the rushing stream - It anciently has known. - - The emptying tide of life has drained - The iron channel dry, - Strange winds from the forgotten day - Draw down, and dream, and sigh. - - The narrow heaven, the desolate moon - Made wan with endless years, - Seem less immeasurably remote - Than laughter, love, or tears. - - - - - THE FALLING LEAVES - - - Lightly He blows, and at His breath they fall, - The perishing kindreds of the leaves; they drift, - Spent flames of scarlet, gold aërial, - Across the hollow year, noiseless and swift. - Lightly he blows, and countless as the falling - Of snow by night upon a solemn sea, - The ages circle down beyond recalling, - To strew the hollows of Eternity. - He sees them drifting through the spaces dim, - And leaves and ages are as one to Him. - - - - - AN EPITAPH FOR A HUSBANDMAN - - - He who would start and rise - Before the crowing cocks-- - No more he lifts his eyes, - Whoever knocks. - - He who before the stars - Would call the cattle home,-- - They wait about the bars - For him to come. - - Him at whose hearty calls - The farmstead woke again, - The horses in their stalls - Expect in vain. - - Busy, and blithe, and bold, - He labored for the morrow,-- - The plough his hands would hold - Rusts in the furrow. - - His fields he had to leave, - His orchards cool and dim; - The clods he used to cleave - Now cover him. - - But the green, growing things - Lean kindly to his sleep,-- - White roots and wandering strings, - Closer they creep. - - Because he loved them long - And with them bore his part, - Tenderly now they throng - About his heart. - - - - - ORIGINS - - - Out of the dreams that heap - The hollow hand of sleep,-- - Out of the dark sublime, - The echoing deeps of time,-- - From the averted Face - Beyond the bournes of space, - Into the sudden sun - We journey, one by one. - Out of the hidden shade - Wherein desire is made,-- - Out of the pregnant stir - Where death and life confer,-- - The dark and mystic heat - Where soul and matter meet,-- - The enigmatic Will,-- - We start! and then are still. - - Inexorably decreed - By the ancestral deed, - The puppets of our sires, - We work out blind desires, - And for our sons ordain - The blessing or the bane. - In ignorance we stand - With fate on either hand, - And question stars and earth - Of life, and death, and birth. - With wonder in our eyes - We scan the kindred skies, - While through the common grass - Our atoms mix and pass. - We feel the sap go free - When spring comes to the tree; - And in our blood is stirred - What warms the brooding bird. - The vital fire we breathe - That bud and blade bequeathe, - And strength of native clay - In our full veins hath sway. - - But in the urge intense - And fellowship of sense, - Suddenly comes a word - In other ages heard. - On a great wind our souls - Are borne to unknown goals, - And past the bournes of space - To the unaverted Face. - - - - - THE WRESTLER - - - When God sends out His company to travel - through the stars, - There is every kind of wonder in the show; - There is every kind of animal behind its prison bars; - With riders in a many-colored row. - The master showman, Time, has a strange trick of rhyme, - And the clown's most ribald jest is a tear; - But the best drawing card is the Wrestler huge and hard, - Who can fill the tent at any time of year. - - His eye is on the crowd, and he beckons with his hand, - With authoritative finger, and they come. - The rules of the game they do not understand, - But they go as in a dream, and are dumb. - They would fain say him nay, and they look the other way, - Till at last to the ropes they cling; - But he throws them one by one till the show for them is done, - In the blood-red dust of the ring. - - There's none to shun his challenge--they must meet him soon or - late, - And he knows a cunning trick for all heels. - The king's haughty crown drops in jeers from his pate - As the hold closes on him, and he reels. - The burly and the proud, the braggarts of the crowd, - Every one of them he topples down in thunder. - His grip grows mild for the dotard and the child, - But alike they must all go under. - - Oh, many a mighty foeman would try a fall with him-- - Persepolis and Babylon and Rome, - Assyria and Sardis, they see their fame grow dim, - As he tumbles in the dust every dome. - At length will come an hour when the stars shall feel his power, - And he shall have his will upon the sun. - Ere we know what he's about, the stars will be put out, - And the wonder of the show will be undone. - - - - - RECESSIONAL - - - Now along the solemn heights - Fade the Autumn's altar-lights; - Down the great earth's glimmering chancel - Glide the days and nights. - - Little kindred of the grass, - Like a shadow in a glass - Falls the dark and falls the stillness; - We must rise and pass. - - We must rise and follow, wending - Where the nights and days have ending,-- - Pass in order pale and slow - Unto sleep extending. - - Little brothers of the clod, - Soul of fire and seed of sod, - We must fare into the silence - At the knees of God. - - Little comrades of the sky - Wing to wing we wander by, - Going, going, going, going, - Softly as a sigh. - - Hark, the moving shapes confer, - Globe of dew and gossamer, - Fading and ephemeral spirits - In the dusk astir. - - Moth and blossom, blade and bee, - Worlds must go as well as we, - In the long procession joining - Mount, and star, and sea. - - Toward the shadowy brink we climb - Where the round year rolls sublime, - Rolls, and drops, and falls forever - In the vast of time; - - Like a plummet plunging deep - Past the utmost reach of sleep, - Till remembrance has no longer - Care to laugh or weep. - - - - - ASCRIPTION - - - O Thou who hast beneath Thy hand - The dark foundations of the land,-- - The motion of whose ordered thought - An instant universe hath wrought; - - Who hast within Thine equal hand - The rolling sun, the ripening seed, - The azure of the speedwell's eye, - The vast solemnities of sky,-- - - Who hear'st no less the feeble note - Of one small bird's awakening throat - Than that unnamed, tremendous chord - Arcturus sounds before his Lord,-- - - More sweet to Thee than all acclaim - Of storm and ocean, stars and flame, - In favor more before Thy face - Than pageantry of time and space, - - The worship and the service be - Of him Thou madest most like Thee,-- - Who in his nostrils hath Thy breath, - Whose spirit is the lord of death! - - - - - THEODORE ROBERTS - - - - - THE SPEARS OF KAN-MAR - - - Eyes that we look into--so, - Hands that we kiss ere we go, - Keep us,--remember us, hold us a night and a day; - For the white road stretches ahead, - And our spears have a vision of red, - And our horses champ with their bits, and rear at the way. - - The tussocks of grass in the glare - Are brown as a dream-maiden's hair, - And over them, white in the sun, the spears of Kan-Mar; - The curbs, and the froth at the lips-- - The bridle chains snapping like whips, - And our plumes tossed red, and scenting the heels of war. - - The eyes that twinkle and burn-- - The wrists like elk-thongs that turn - With the balancing, pausing, slender, murderous spear; - The swords that lead us along, - The thrust, the shriek and the song-- - Sights not fit for their eyes, nor sounds for their ears to hear. - - The city gates in the sun, - The glory of brave deeds done, - The clatter of horning hoofs and the song of old Kan-Mar, - The roar of the narrow street - Filled with clanging of feet-- - The white hands over the balconies, and the kiss on the burning - scar! - - - - - COLD - - - "Cold," cried the wind on the hill, - "Cold," sang the tree; - Your eyes were blue-grey and still - And cold as the sea. - - Cold lay the snow on the land; - Cold stood the pine; - But neither as cold as your hand - Lying in mine. - - Ah, Love, has the fire died so soon-- - Just smoldered and gone; - A kiss by the light of the moon, - A parting by dawn. - - - - - THE MEN OF MY HEART'S DESIRE - - - Where are the men of my heart's desire? - Of the British blood and the loyal names? - Some are North, at the home hearth-fire, - Where the hemlock glooms and the maple flames, - And some are tramping the old world round - For the pot of gold they have never found. - - Oh, leal are the men of my heart's desire-- - Their fathers were leal in the days gone by-- - And their blood is blithe with the subtle fire - The purple breeds, and their hearts are high,-- - Poor, and gallant, and dear to me, - With a strong hand each, and a pedigree. - - Good men are bred in the East and the West, - And ripe, true gentles in Boston town, - But the men of my blood to my blood seem best-- - Who still hold the honor of Mitre and Crown. - Though empty their cellars and worn their attire, - These are the men of my heart's desire. - - So, gentles, these stumbling rhymes I send - To our spruce-clad hills, for a word of cheer,-- - Where there's ever a welcome and ever a friend, - And the brown coat covers the cavalier. - Take them, I pray you, for what they are worth, - For I swear by my soul you're the salt of the earth. - - - - - THE CHASE - - - Down the long lanes of Arcadie - My lady canters merrily; - The grain is bleaching in the sun, - The russet hickories confer, - And mounted on old Cheveron - With laughing call I follow her. - - The maples stand in flaming red, - The sturdy brakes are sere and dead; - But still my lady canters on - Through field and wood and busy town, - And mounted on old Cheveron - I try to ride her down. - - Through the long lanes of Arcadie - The crickets skip and chirp to me; - My lady's just 'round yonder bend, - Methinks I hear her call to me-- - Methinks our chase is at an end - Through these long lanes of Arcadie! - - Nay, still she canters down the lane - With floating skirt and loosened rein. - We've traveled all this summer land, - And still we mount and gallop on; - Sometimes she turns and waves her hand, - A challenge to old Cheveron. - - Through all this land of Arcadie - She leads old Cheveron and me, - And how her good mount stands it so - Is really more than I can see; - The valleys now are white with snow, - Yet still we ride through Arcadie. - - Old Cheveron has cast his shoes! - The Chase is up, my Lady Muse! - - - - - WILLIAM CARMAN ROBERTS - - - - - HISTORY - - - Her gold hair fallen about her face - Made light within that shadowy place, - But on her garments lay the dust - Of many a vanished race. - - Her deep eyes, gazing straight ahead, - Saw years and days and hours long dead, - While strange gems glimmered at her feet, - Yellow, and green, and red. - - And ever from the shadows came - Voices to pierce her heart like flame. - The great bats fanned her with their wings, - The voices called her name. - - But yet her look turned not aside - From the black deep where dreams abide, - Where worlds and pageantries lay dead - Beneath that viewless tide. - - Her elbow on her knee was set, - Her strong hand propt her chin, and yet - No man might name that look she wore, - Nor any man forget. - - - - - AN EASTER MEMORY - - - The chime of bells across the waking year - Peals out "The White Christ risen from the dead"-- - The gospel that the April winds have spread, - The mystery the golden-wing makes clear. - - The tender sky smiles over it; the air - Is kind with love to comfort all the earth. - The brown parks have forgotten winter's dearth - Since daffodils and sunlight made them fair. - - But still the gray church from the crowded street - Allures me with the spell of broken dreams. - O heart, my heart, to you and me it seems - That God has left His glory incomplete. - - Can we not see her, as a year ago, - Beyond that sunlight flaked in colored fire-- - The upturned face, the eyes of still desire, - The dusk-gold hair that now the angels know? - - What means this tender April sky to her, - With bells that chime against the winds of spring? - Does memory move her when the blue birds sing, - Or does she feel the old sweet pulses stir? - - The organ lays its voice across our strife. - What is it that the sobbing notes would say? - For you and me, my heart, another day! - For her--the Resurrection and the Life! - - - - - MY COMRADE CANOE - - - True comrade, we have tasted life together; - With the wild joy at heart have slipped the tether - To follow, follow, to strange wildernesses, - The frank enticement of the wind and weather. - - Joy of the quivering pole, the thrilling sinew, - When mad black rapids shook the soul within you. - As climbing toward the lakes of inland silence - I laughed to see the fanged rocks strain to win you. - - Joy of the moonlight on the quiet reaches, - Where loitering we caught the word that teaches - The poise of Godhead to the questing spirit, - The urge of springtime to the budding beeches. - - When through the dusk the serried clouds were massing, - Where some lost lake among the hills was glassing - The stormy fire above the western spruces, - The looming moose would wonder at our passing. - - Then, when the outland voices ceased to hold us, - When winds would tell no more what once they told us, - We dreamed how far away a little village - Lay waiting with its welcome to infold us. - - - - - GEORGE JOHN ROMANES - - - - - I ASK NOT FOR THY LOVE, O LORD - - - I ask not for thy Love, O Lord; the days - Can never come when anguish shall atone. - Enough for me were but Thy pity shown - To me, as to the stricken sheep that strays, - With ceaseless cry for unforgotten ways-- - Oh, lead me back to pastures I have known, - Or find me in the wilderness alone, - And slay me as the hand of mercy slays. - I ask not for Thy love; nor e'en so much - As for a hope on Thy dear breast to lie; - But be Thou still my shepherd--still with such - Compassion as may melt to such a cry; - That so I hear Thy feet, and feel Thy touch, - And dimly see Thy face ere yet I die. - - - - - CARROLL RYAN - - - - - _From_ "MALTA" - - - _O, bella fior del mondo!_ to-morrow - I'll leave thee to follow the path of the sun, - No more to return, yet departing in sorrow-- - The stranger may go as the stranger hath done. - I've met the hot breath of the scorching siroc - As I guarded thy ramparts that frown on the sea, - I've lain 'neath the shade of the vine-covered rock - Weaving bright fancies of glory and thee.... - - Old Notabile[A] stands upon a hill - With olive groves and vineyards at its base, - Its lofty wall, half-ruined, beareth still - Of siege and battle many a cruel trace; - The centre of this lovely isle,-- - The home of song and story,-- - Whose tranquil beauty seems to smile - Forgetful of its glory. - Deserted streets of marble halls, - And temples grand and olden, - Where startled Echo rarely calls - Strange sounds thro' sunlight golden: - High convent walls in ivy wrapt, - Shrines of our blessed Lady, - In melancholy silence lapt, - In lanes of cypress shady. - And now and then - Queer aged men - Pass where the bastions moulder, - And seem to me, - So strange they be, - Old as the place or older. - - And carved in stone above each door - Is many a knightly crest, - That flamed in hostile fields of yore-- - But now the sparrow's nest. - The wingëd hand still grasps the sword - Before the ancient palace; - In dungeons underneath is stored - Verdala's burning chalice. - And Bellfiorè's ruined wall - Frowns on the peasant's labor, - While from its brow strange echoes call - Of song, and pipe, and tabor. - Oh! what a host of shadows wait - Before yon dark unopened gate; - Heroes from the east and west, - In their iron armor drest, - The white cross gleaming on each breast; - Stern warriors of the cross are they-- - Those shadows of a former day! - - But hark! - In the dark - The bells are tolling, - While, up from the Levant, - The night cloud is rolling. - O, those bells! those Malta bells, - Loudly, wildly ringing, - High their deafening chorus swells, - All my spirit winging. - - Now higher, higher, - The iron choir - Like tongues of fire - From earth ascend; - The wide air beating, - Their notes repeating, - Like spirits meeting - They rise and blend! - Now coming softly - From belfrys lofty - Sweet silver voices float thro' the gloom, - Then, loud as thunder, - From Cassels under - Rush sounds of wonder - As if from the tomb! - - They cease, and slowly from afar, - Where Dhingli's vale reposes, - I hear a voice and see a star - That beams on paths of roses! - -[A] Citta Vecchia - - - - - CHARLES SANGSTER - - - - - ENGLAND AND AMERICA - - - Greatest twain among the nations, - Bound alike by kindred ties-- - Ties that never should be sundered - While your banners grace the skies-- - But united, stand and labor, - Side by side, and hand in hand, - Battling with the sword of Freedom - For the peace of every land. - Yours the one beloved language, - Yours the same religious creed, - Yours the glory and the power, - Great as ever was the meed - Of old Rome, or Greece, or Sparta, - When their arms victoriously - Proved their terrible puissance - Over every land and sea. - - Let the son respect the sire, - Let the father love the son, - Both unitedly supporting - All the glories they have won: - Thus in concert nobly wrestling, - They may work the world's release, - And when having crushed its tyrants, - Stand the Sentinels of Peace-- - Stand the mighty twin Colossus' - Giants of the latter days, - Straightening for the coming kingdom - All the steep and rugged ways, - Down which many a lofty nation-- - Lofty on the scroll of fame-- - Has been swept to righteous judgment, - Naught remaining but its name. - - What! allied to Merrie England, - Have ye not a noble birth? - Yours, America, her honors, - Yours her every deed of worth. - Have ye not her Norman courage? - Wear ye not her Saxon cast? - Boast ye not her love of Freedom? - Do ye not revere the past - When her mighty men of genius-- - Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, Pope-- - Glorified that self-same language, - Since become your pride and hope?... - - There will come a time, my Brothers, - And a dread time it will be, - When your swords will flash together, - For your faith in jeopardy. - Not for crowns, or lands, or sceptres, - Will the fight be fought and won, - Not for fame, or treaties broken, - But for God and God alone: - For the mind with which He blessed us, - That a false creed would keep down, - Shackle--bind it to its purpose-- - To uphold a falling crown. - See that then ye fail not, Brothers! - Set the listening skies aglow - With such deeds as live in heaven, - If your Faith be worth a blow. - - Proud, then, of each other's greatness, - Ever struggle side by side; - Noble Son! time-honored Parent! - Let no paltry strife divide - Hearts like yours, that should be mindful - Only of each other's worth-- - Mindful of your high position - 'Mongst the powers of the earth. - Mightiest twain among the nations! - Bound alike by kindred ties-- - Ties that never should be sundered, - While your banners grace the skies: - Hearts and destinies once united, - Steadfast to each other prove, - Bind them with enduring fetters-- - Bind them with the Bonds of Love. - - - - - A LIVING TEMPLE - - - I sat within the temple of her heart, - And watched the living soul as it passed through, - Arrayed in pearly vestments, white and pure. - The calm, immortal presence made me start. - It searched through all the chambers of her mind - With one mild glance of love, and smiled to view - The fastnesses of feeling, strong--secure - And safe from all surprise. It sits enshrined - And offers incense in her heart, as on - An altar sacred unto God. The dawn - Of an imperishable love passed through - The lattice of my senses, and I, too, - Did offer incense in that solemn place-- - A woman's heart made pure and sanctified by grace. - - - - - THE ILLUMINED GOAL - - - Slowly rose the dædal Earth - Through the purple-hued abysm, - Glowing like a gorgeous prism, - Heaven exulting o'er its birth. - - Still the mighty wonder came - Through the jasper-colored sphere, - Ether-winged, and crystal-clear, - Trembling to the loud acclaim. - - In a haze of golden rain - Up the heavens rolled the sun, - Danäe-like the earth was won, - Else his love and light were vain. - - So the heart and soul of man - Own the light and love of heaven; - Nothing yet in vain was given, - Nature's is a perfect plan. - - - - - LOVE'S RENEWAL - - - Love's sun, like that of day, may set, and set, - It hath as bright a rising in the morn. - True love has no grey hairs; his golden locks - Can never whiten with the snows of time. - Sorrow lies drear on many a youthful heart, - Like snow upon the evergreens; but love - Can gather sweetest honey by the way, - E'en from the carcass of some prostrate grief.-- - We have been spoiled with blessings. Though the world - Holds nothing dearer than the hope that's fled, - God ever opens up new founts of bliss-- - Spiritual Bethsaidas where the soul - Can wash the earth-stains from its fevered loins. - We carve our sorrows on the face of joy, - Reversing the true image; we are weak - Where strength is needed most, and most is given. - - - - - 'TIS SUMMER STILL - - - 'Tis Summer still, yet now and then a leaf - Falls from some stately tree. True type of life! - How emblematic of the pangs that grief - Wrings from our blighted hopes, that one by one - Drop from us in our wrestle with the strife - And natural passions of our stately youth. - And thus we fall beneath life's summer sun. - Each step conducts us through an opening door - Into new halls of being, hand in hand - With grave Experience, until we command - The open, wide-spread autumn fields, and store - The full ripe grain of Wisdom and of Truth. - As on life's tottering precipice we stand, - Our sins, like withered leaves, are blown about the land. - - - - - DUNCAN CAMPBELL SCOTT - - - - - THE FIFTEENTH OF APRIL - - - Pallid saffron glows the broken stubble, - Brimmed with silver lie the ruts, - Purple the ploughed hill; - Down a sluice with break and bubble - Hollow falls the rill; - Falls and spreads and searches, - Where, beyond the wood, - Starts a group of silver birches, - Bursting into blood. - - Under Venus sings the vesper sparrow, - Down a path of rosy gold - Floats the slender moon; - Ringing from the rounded barrow - Rolls the robin's tune; - Lighter than the robin--hark! - Quivering silver-strong - From the field a hidden shore-lark - Shakes his sparkling song. - - Now the dewy sounds begin to dwindle, - Dimmer grow the burnished rills, - Breezes creep and halt, - Soon the guardian night shall kindle - In the violet vault, - All the twinkling tapers, - Touched with steady gold, - Burning through the lawny vapors - Where they float and fold. - - - - - ABOVE ST IRÉNÉE - - - I rested on the breezy height, - In cooler shade and clearer air, - Beneath a maple tree; - Below, the mighty river took - Its sparkling shade and sheening light - Down to the sombre sea, - And clustered by the leaping brook - The roofs of white St Irénée. - - The sapphire hills on either hand - Broke down upon the silver tide, - The river ran in streams, - In streams of mingled azure-grey, - With here a broken purple band, - And whorls of drab, and beams - Of shattered silver light astray, - Where far away the south shore gleams. - - I walked a mile along the height - Between the flowers upon the road, - Asters and golden-rod; - And in the gardens pinks and stocks, - And gaudy poppies shaking light, - And daisies blooming near the sod, - And lowly pansies set in flocks, - With purple monkshood overawed. - - And there I saw a little child, - Between the tossing golden-rod, - Coming along to me; - She was a tender little thing, - So fragile-sweet, so Mary-mild, - I thought her name Marie; - No other name methought could cling - To any one so fair as she. - - And when we came at last to meet, - I spoke a simple word to her, - "Where are you going, Marie?" - She answered, and she did not smile, - But oh! her voice,--her voice so sweet, - "Down to St Irénée," - And so passed on to walk her mile, - And left the lonely road to me. - - And as the night came on apace, - With stars above the darkened hills, - I heard perpetually, - Chiming along the falling hours, - On the deep dusk that mellow phrase, - "Down to St Irénée:" - It seemed as if the stars and flowers - Should all go there with me. - - - - - OFF RIVIÈRE DU LOUP - - - O ship incoming from the sea - With all your cloudy tower of sail, - Dashing the water to the lee, - And leaning grandly to the gale; - - The sunset pageant in the west - Has filled your canvas curves with rose, - And jewelled every toppling crest - That crashes into silver snows! - - You know the joy of coming home - After long leagues to France or Spain; - You feel the clear Canadian foam - And the gulf water heave again. - - Between these sombre purple hills - That cool the sunset's molten bars, - You will go on as the wind wills, - Beneath the river's roof of stars. - - You will toss onward toward the lights - That spangle over the lone pier, - By hamlets glimmering on the heights, - By level islands black and clear: - - You will go on beyond the tide, - Through brimming plains of olive sedge, - Through paler shallows light and wide, - The rapids piled along the ledge. - - At evening off some reedy bay - You will swing slowly on your chain, - And catch the scent of dewy hay, - Soft blowing from the pleasant plain. - - - - - THE END OF THE DAY - - - I hear the bells at eventide - Peal slowly one by one, - Near and far off they break and glide; - Across the stream float faintly beautiful - The antiphonal bells of Hull; - The day is done, done, done, - The day is done. - - The dew has gathered in the flowers, - Like tears from some unconscious deep: - The swallows whirl around the towers, - The light runs out beyond the long cloud bars, - And leaves the single stars; - 'Tis time for sleep, sleep, sleep, - 'Tis time for sleep. - - The hermit thrush begins again,-- - Timorous eremite-- - That song of risen tears and pain, - As if the one he loved was far away: - 'Alas! another day--' - 'And now Good Night, Good Night,' - 'Good Night.' - - - - - A FLOCK OF SHEEP - - - Over the field the bright air clings and tingles - In the gold sunset, while the red wind swoops; - Upon the nibbled knolls, and from the dingles, - The sheep are gathering in frightened groups. - - From the wide field the laggards bleat and follow, - A drover hurls his cry and hooting laugh; - And one young swain, too glad to whoop or hollo, - Is singing wildly as he whirls his staff. - - Now crowding into little groups and eddies - They swirl about and charge and try to pass; - The sheep-dog yelps and heads them off and steadies - And rounds and moulds them in a seething mass. - - They stand a moment with their heads uplifted - Till the wise dog barks loudly on the flank, - They all at once roll over and are drifted - Down the small hill toward the river bank. - - Covered with rusty marks and purple blotches - Around the fallen bars they flow and leap; - The wary dog stands by and keenly watches - As if he knew the name of every sheep. - - Now down the road the nimble sound decreases, - The drovers cry, the dog delays and whines, - And now with twinkling feet and glimmering fleeces - They round and vanish past the dusky pines. - - The drove is gone, the ruddy wind grows colder, - The singing youth puts up the heavy bars, - Beyond the pines he sees the crimson smoulder, - And catches in his eyes the early stars. - - - - - MEMORY - - - I see a schooner in the bay - Cutting the current into foam; - One day she flies and then one day - Comes like a swallow veering home. - - I hear a water miles away - Go sobbing down the wooded glen; - One day it falls and then one day - Comes sobbing on the wind again. - - Remembrance goes but will not stay; - That cry of unpermitted pain - One day departs and then one day - Comes sobbing to my heart again. - - - - - HOME SONG - - - There is rain upon the window, - There is wind upon the tree; - The rain is slowly sobbing, - The wind is blowing free: - It bears my weary heart - To my own country. - - I hear the whitethroat calling, - Hid in the hazel ring; - Deep in the misty hollows - I hear the sparrows sing; - I see the bloodroot starting, - All silvered with the spring. - - I skirt the buried reed-beds, - In the starry solitude: - My snowshoes creak and whisper, - I have my ready blood. - I hear the lynx-cub yelling - In the gaunt and shaggy wood. - - I hear the wolf-tongued rapid - Howl in the rocky break; - Beyond the pines at the portage - I hear the trapper wake - His _En roulant ma boulé_, - From the clear gloom of the lake. - - O! take me back to the homestead, - To the great rooms warm and low, - Where the frost creeps on the casement, - When the year comes in with snow. - Give me, give me the old folk - Of the dear long ago. - - Oh, land of the dusky balsam, - And the darling maple tree, - Where the cedar buds and berries, - And the pine grows strong and free! - My heart is weary and weary - For my own country. - - - - - LIFE AND DEATH - - - I thought of death beside the lonely sea, - That went beyond the limit of my sight, - Seeming the image of his mastery, - The semblance of his huge and gloomy might. - - But firm beneath the sea went the great earth, - With sober bulk and adamantine hold, - The water but a mantle for her girth, - That played about her splendor fold on fold. - - And life seemed like this dear familiar shore, - That stretched from the wet sands' last wavy crease, - Beneath the sea's remote and sombre roar, - To inland stillness and the wilds of peace. - - Death seems triumphant only here and there; - Life is the sovereign presence everywhere. - - - - - OTTAWA - - - City about whose brow the north winds blow, - Girdled with woods and shod with river foam, - Called by a name as old as Troy or Rome, - Be great as they, but pure as thine own snow; - - Rather flash up amid the auroral glow, - The Lamia city of the northern star, - Than be so hard with craft or wild with war, - Peopled with deeds remembered for their woe. - - Thou art too bright for guile, too young for tears, - And thou wilt live to be too strong for Time; - For he may mock thee with his furrowed frowns, - But thou wilt grow in calm throughout the years, - Cinctured with peace and crowned with power sublime, - The maiden queen of all the towered towns. - - - - - GEORGE FREDERICK SCOTT - - - - - A REVERIE - - - O tender love of long ago, - O buried love, so near me still - On tides of thought that ebb and flow, - Beyond the empire of the will; - To-night with mingled joy and pain - I fold thee to my heart again. - - And down the meadows, dear, we stray, - And under woods still clothed in green, - Though many springs have passed away - And many harvests there have been, - Since through the youth-enchanted land - We wandered idly hand in hand. - - Then every brook was loud with song, - And every tree was stirred with love, - And every breeze that passed along - Was like the breath of God above;-- - And now to-night we go the ways - We went in those sweet summer days. - - Dear love, thy dark and earnest eyes - Look up as tender as of yore, - And, purer than the evening skies, - Thy cheeks have still the rose they wore; - I--I have changed, but thou art fair - And fresh as in life's morning air. - - What little hands these were to chain - So many years a wayward heart; - How slight a girlish form to reign - As queen upon a throne apart - In a man's thought, through hopes and fears, - And all the changes of the years. - - Dear girl, behold, thy boy is now - A man, and grown to middle-age; - The lines are deep upon his brow, - His heart hath been griefs hermitage; - But hidden where no eye can see, - His boyhood's love still lives for thee,-- - - Still blooms above thy grave to-day, - Where death hath harvested the land, - Though such long years have passed away - Since down the meadows hand in hand - We went, with hearts too full to know - How deep their love was long ago. - - - - - EASTER ISLAND - - - There lies a lone isle in the tropic seas,-- - A mountain isle, with beaches shining white, - Where soft stars smile upon its sleep by night, - And every noonday fans it with a breeze. - Here on a cliff, carved upward from the knees, - Three uncouth statues of gigantic height, - Upon whose brows the circling sea-birds light, - Stare out to ocean over the tall trees. - - Forever gaze they at the sea and sky, - Forever hear the thunder of the main, - Forever watch the ages die away; - And ever round them rings the phantom cry - Of some lost race that died in human pain, - Looking towards heaven, yet seeing no more than they. - - - - - A DREAM OF THE PREHISTORIC - - - Naked and shaggy, they herded at eve by the sound of the seas, - When the sky and the ocean were red as with blood from the - battles of God, - And the wind like a monster sped forth with its feet on the rocks - and the trees, - And the sands of the desert blew over the wastes of the - drought-smitten sod. - - Here, mad with the torments of hunger, despairing they sank to - their rest, - Some crouching alone in their anguish, some gathered in groups - on the beach; - And with tears almost human the mother looked down at the babe on - her breast, - And her pain was the germ of our love, and her cry was the root - of our speech. - - Then a cloud from the sunset arose, like a cormorant gorged with - its prey, - And extended its wings on the sky till it smothered the stars in - its gloom, - And ever the famine-worn faces were wet with the wind-carried - spray, - And dimly the voice of the deep to their ears was a portent of - doom. - - And the dawn that rose up on the morrow, apparelled in gold like a - priest, - Through the smoke of the incense of morning, looked down on a - vision of death; - For the vultures were gathered together and circled with joy to - their feast - On hearts that had ceased from their sorrow, and lips that had - yielded their breath. - - Then the ages went by like a dream, and the shoreline emerged from - the deep, - And the stars as they watched through the years saw a change on - the face of the earth; - For over the blanket of sand that had covered the dead in their - sleep - Great forests grew up with their green, and the sources of - rivers had birth. - - And here in the aftertimes, man, the white faced and - smooth-handed, came by, - And he built him a city to dwell in and temples of prayer to his - God; - He filled it with music and beauty, his spirit aspired to the sky, - While the dead by whose pain it was fashioned lay under the - ground that he trod. - - He wrenched from great Nature her secrets, the stars in their - courses he named, - He weighed them and measured their orbits; he harnessed the - horses of steam; - He captured the lightnings of heaven, the waves of the ocean he - tamed,-- - And ever the wonder amazed him as one that awakes from a dream. - - But under the streets and the markets, the banks and the temples - of prayer, - Where humanity laboured and plotted, or loved with an instinct - divine, - Deep down in the silence and gloom of the earth that had shrouded - them there - Were the fossil remains of a skull and the bones of what once - was a spine. - - Enfolded in darkness forever, untouched by the changes above, - And mingled as clay with the clay which the hands of the ages - had brought, - Were the hearts in whose furnace of anguish was smelted the gold - of our love, - And the brains from whose twilight of instinct has risen the - dawn of our thought. - - But the law, that was victor of old with its heel on the neck of - the brute, - Still tramples our hearts in the darkness, still grinds down our - face in the dust; - We are sown in corruption and anguish--whose fingers will gather - the fruit? - Our life is but lent for a season--for whom do we hold it in - trust? - - In the vault of the sky overhead, in the gulfs that lie under our - feet, - The wheels of the universe turn, and the laws of the universe - blend; - The pulse of our life is in tune with the rhythm of forces that - beat - In the surf of the furthest star's sea, and are spent and - regathered to spend. - - Yet we trust in the will of the Being whose fingers have spangled - the night - With the dust of a myriad worlds, and who speaks in the thunders - of space; - Though we see not the start or the finish, though vainly we cry - for the light, - Let us mount in the glory of manhood and meet the God-Man face - to face. - - - - - DAWN - - - The immortal spirit hath no bars - To circumscribe its dwelling-place; - My soul hath pastured with the stars - Upon the meadow-lands of space. - - My mind and ear at times have caught, - From realms beyond our mortal reach, - The utterance of Eternal Thought, - Of which all nature is the speech. - - And high above the seas and lands, - On peaks just tipped with morning light, - My dauntless spirit mutely stands - With eagle wings outspread for flight. - - - - - VAN ELSEN - - - God spake three times and saved Van Elsen's soul; - He spake by sickness first, and made him whole; - Van Elsen heard Him not, - Or soon forgot. - - God spake to him by wealth; the world outpoured - Its treasures at his feet, and called him lord; - Van Elsen's heart grew fat - And proud thereat. - - God spake the third time when the great world smiled, - And in the sunshine slew his little child; - Van Elsen like a tree - Fell hopelessly. - - Then in the darkness came a voice which said, - "As thy heart bleedeth, so My heart hath bled; - As I have need of thee, - Thou needest Me." - - That night Van Elsen kissed the baby feet, - And kneeling by the narrow winding sheet, - Praised Him with fervent breath - Who conquered death. - - - - - CHARLES DAWSON SHANLY - - - - - THE WALKER OF THE SNOW - - - Speed on, speed on, good Master! - The camp lies far away; - We must cross the haunted valley - Before the close of day. - - How the snow-blight came upon me - I will tell you as I go,-- - The blight of the Shadow hunter, - Who walks the midnight snow. - - To the cold December heaven - Came the pale moon and the stars, - As the yellow sun was sinking - Behind the purple bars. - - The snow was deeply drifted - Upon the ridges drear, - That lay for miles around me - And the camps for which we steer. - - 'Twas silent on the hill-side, - And by the solemn wood, - No sound of life or motion - To break the solitude, - - Save the wailing of the moose-bird - With a plaintive note and low, - And the skating of the red leaf - Upon the frozen snow. - - And said I, "Though dark is falling, - And far the camp must be, - Yet my heart it would be lightsome - If I had but company." - - And then I sang and shouted, - Keeping measure, as I sped, - To the harp-twang of the snow-shoe - As it sprang beneath my tread. - - Nor far into the valley - Had I dipped upon my way, - When a dusky figure joined me, - In a capuchon of grey, - - Bending upon the snow-shoes, - With a long and limber stride; - And I hailed the dusky stranger - As we travelled side by side. - - But no token of communion - Gave he by word or look, - And the fear-chill fell upon me - At the crossing of the brook. - - For I saw by the sickly moonlight - As I followed, bending low, - That the walking of the stranger - Left no footmarks on the snow. - - Then the fear-chill gathered o'er me, - Like a shroud around me cast, - As I sank upon the snow-drift - Where the Shadow-hunter passed. - - And the other-trappers found me, - Before the break of day, - With my dark hair blanched and whitened - As the snow in which I lay. - - But they spoke not as they raised me; - For they knew that in the night - I had seen the Shadow-hunter, - And had withered in his blight. - - Sancta Maria speed us! - The sun is falling low,-- - Before us lies the valley - Of the Walker of the Snow! - - - - - FRANCIS SHERMAN - - - - - THE BUILDER - - - Come and let me make thee glad - In this house that I have made! - Nowhere (I am unafraid!) - Canst thou find its like on Earth: - Come, and learn the perfect worth - Of the labor I have had. - - I have fashioned it for thee, - Every room and pictured wall; - Every marble pillar tall, - Every door and window-place; - All were done that thy fair face - Might look kindlier on me. - - Here, moreover, thou shalt find - Strange, delightful, far-brought things: - Dulcimers, whose tightened strings - Once dead women loved to touch; - (Deeming they could mimic much - Of the music of the wind!) - - Heavy candlesticks of brass; - Chess-men carved of ivory; - Mass-books written perfectly - By some patient monk of old; - Flagons wrought of thick, red gold, - Set with gems and colored glass; - - Burnished armor, once some knight - (Dead, I deem, long years ago!) - Its great strength was glad to know - When his lady needed him: - (Now that both his eyes are dim - Both his sword and shield are bright!) - - Come, and share these things with me, - Men have died to leave to us! - We shall find life glorious - In this splendid house of love; - Come, and claim thy part thereof,-- - I have fashioned it for thee! - - - - - BETWEEN THE BATTLES - - - Let us bury him here, - Where the maples are red! - He is dead, - And he died thanking God that he fell with the fall of the leaf - and the year. - - Where the hillside is sheer, - Let it echo our tread - Whom he led; - Let us follow as gladly as ever we followed who never knew fear. - - Ere he died they had fled; - Yet they heard his last cheer - Ringing clear,-- - When we lifted him up, he would fain have pursued, but grew dizzy - instead. - - Break his sword and his spear! - Let this last prayer be said - By the bed - We have made underneath the wet wind in the maple trees moaning so - drear: - - "O Lord God, by the red - Sullen end of the year - That is here, - We beseech Thee to guide us and strengthen our swords till his - slayers be dead!" - - - - - _From_ "A PRELUDE" - - - O covering grasses! O unchanging trees! - Is it not good to feel the odorous wind - Come down upon you with such harmonies - - Only the giant hills can ever find? - O little leaves, are ye not glad to be? - Is not the sunlight fair, the shadow kind, - - That falls at noontide over you and me? - O gleam of birches lost among the firs, - Let your high treble chime in silverly - - Across the half-imagined wind that stirs - A muffled organ-music from the pines! - Earth knows to-day that not one note of hers - - Is minor. For, behold, the loud sun shines - Till the young maples are no longer gray, - And stronger grows their faint, uncertain lines; - - Each violet takes a deeper blue to-day, - And purpler swell the cones hung overhead, - Until the sound of their far feet who stray - - About the wood, fades from me; and, instead, - I hear a robin singing--not as one - That calls unto his mate, uncomforted-- - But as one sings a welcome to the sun. - - - - - A LITTLE WHILE BEFORE THE FALL WAS DONE - - - A little while before the fall was done - A day came when the frail year paused and said: - "Behold! a little while and I am dead; - Wilt thou not choose, of all the old dreams, one?" - Then dwelt I in a garden, where the sun - Shone always, and the roses all were red; - Far off the great sea slept, and overhead - Among the robins matins had begun. - And I knew not at all it was a dream - Only, and that the year was near its close; - Garden and sunshine, robin-song and rose, - The half-heard murmur and the distant gleam - Of all the unvext sea, a little space - Were as a mist above the Autumn's face. - - - - - GOLDWIN SMITH - - - - - FLOSSY (WITH HER OWN PORTRAIT) TO HER MISTRESS - - ON HER WEDDING DAY - - - Of all the tiny race of Skye, - The prettiest, so friends say, am I; - My name is Flossy, well-bestowed, - A silkier coat Skye never shewed! - With sable back, and silver head, - Blue bow, and feathery paws outspread, - As on my crimson rug I lie, - What fairer sight for painter's eye? - Short are my legs, yet mark my pace - Whene'er I cats or postmen chase! - In human language if I fail, - What so expressive as my tail? - See how it wags, as if to say, - "Dear mistress, a glad wedding day!" - Though bounded is my being's range, - And knows no world beyond The Grange-- - A universe by half-a-span - Less than the universe of man-- - Yet am I Queen of all I see, - The household are but slaves to me. - Let others toil the livelong day, - I play and sleep, and sleep and play; - Or in my carriage proudly ride - With two fair ladies at my side. - Gaily I live, by all caressed, - And in a doting mistress blessed! - Affection's happiness I prove, - And see no fault in those I love; - Nor when my little bones are laid - Beneath the turf on which I played, - Nor when the rug which now I press - Each winter's eve is Flossieless, - Shall Flossy die; but pictured here - To her loved mistress still be dear. - - - - - LYMAN C. SMITH - - - - - CANADA TO COLUMBIA - - - O elder sister, though thou didst of yore - Forsake thy mother's ancient hall and flee - To be the chosen bride of Liberty, - She cherishes her grief and wrath no more, - Nor seeks her broken circle to restore, - Yet fain would clasp thee to her breast again, - But thou aloof uncertain dost remain. - - O canst thou not the one mistake forget - Of her that bore thee, taught thy lips to frame - Thy early words, thy God in prayer to name; - That in the paths of right and justice set - Thy feet, where not infrequent walk they yet; - That stood devoted at thy youthful side, - Nor e'en her blood in thy defence denied? - - But if thy younger sister yet abide - Content and happy in her mother's hall, - Nor feel the bond of blood a menial thrall, - But, leaning heart to heart, of choice confide - In mother yet as dearest guard and guide-- - If thou wilt not thy mother's love regain, - Why must thy cradle sister plead in vain? - - Yet all the best that bubbles in our veins - We sisters drew from that one Saxon breast. - Where oftentimes thy maiden cheek has pressed, - Mine resting still in loving trust remains. - Our bonds of blood should be unbroken chains! - Obey thy heart and grasp the proffered hand, - Then all the world our wills may not withstand. - - - - - _From_ "A DAY WITH HOMER" - - - Methought the stream of Time had backward rolled, - And I was standing on the fruitful plain - That lay between the sea and ancient Troy. - I saw one standing on the curving beach - Whose hoary locks were playthings for the wind - That freshening came across the swelling waves. - I listened to the mystic music of a voice - That chanted to their measured beat, in tones - Now whispering soft and low as rustling leaves, - Now rolling with the boom of tumbling waves, - Now clanging as the clash of brazen arms. - - * * * * * - - There sat the virgin queen whose buskined feet - Are swift to chase at early dawn, across - The breezy hills, the flying stag that falls - By wingëd shaft shot from her sounding bow; - And Venus, favored child of mighty Jove, - With perfect moulded arm and breast of snow, - Mirth-lighted eye and soft-caressing hand;-- - Love, fairest form that ever found a home - On earth, or in the golden halls of heaven. - - - - - WILLIAM WYE SMITH - - - - - THE CANADIANS ON THE NILE - - - O, the East is but the West, with the sun a little hotter; - And the pine becomes a palm by the dark Egyptian water; - And the Nile's like many a stream we know that fills its brimming - cup; - We'll think it is the Ottawa as we track the batteaux up! - Pull, pull, pull! as we track the batteaux up! - It's easy shooting homeward when we're at the top. - - O, the cedar and the spruce line each dark Canadian river; - But the thirsty date is here, where the sultry sunbeams quiver; - And the mocking mirage spreads its view afar on either hand; - But strong we bend the sturdy oar towards the Southern land! - Pull, pull, pull! as we track the batteaux up! - It's easy shooting homeward when we're at the top! - - O, we've tracked the Rapids up, and o'er many a portage crossing; - And it's often such we've seen, though so loud the waves are - tossing! - Then it's homeward when the run is o'er! o'er stream and ocean - deep-- - To bring the memory of the Nile, where the maple shadows sleep! - Pull, pull, pull! as we track the batteaux up! - It's easy shooting homeward when we're at the top! - - And it yet may come to pass that the hearts and hands so ready - May be sought again to help when some poise is off the steady! - And the Maple and the Pine be matched with British Oak the while, - As once beneath Egyptian suns the Canadians on the Nile! - Pull, pull, pull! as we track the batteaux up! - It's easy shooting homeward when we're at the top! - - - - - ALBERT E. S. SMYTHE - - - - - THE FORGOTTEN POET - - - With fragrance flown, as of a long-plucked bud, - The little song I sing with so much care, - Sweet for a day, will swoon upon the flood - Of days that will forget my song was fair. - The master-song is mighty rushing wind - Mixed with all fragrance, strong with a great breath - From cloudland, and the climes that win the mind, - And full of pulses to awaken death. - Full well I know the storm will smite my flower, - My tiny short-stemmed blossom of the sod; - But when my flower and I have lived an hour - I'll bear it on the wind away to God: - And wind and flower and spirit may adorn - Some Eden-garden where new worlds are born. - - - - - DEATH THE REVEALER - - - I know that death is God's interpreter: - His quiet voice makes gracious meanings clear - In grievous things that vex us deeply here - Between the cradle and the sepulchre. - We, gazing into darkness, greatly err, - And fear the shrouded shadow of a fear - Till dawn reveals the vestments of a Seer - With gifts of gold and frankincense and myrrh. - There is a mystery I cannot read - Around the mastery I no more dread; - For love is but a heart to brood and bleed, - And life is but a dream among the dead - Whose wisdom waits for us. God give me heed - Till the day break and shadows all be fled! - - - - - HIRAM LADD SPENCER - - - - - THE RIVER - - - By cliffs grown gray, as men grow gray - With weariness and sorrow, - Awhile I pause, and then away, - And in the wild and restless Bay - I lose myself to-morrow. - - I turn the wheels of many mills, - By many islands dally; - I gossip with the daffodils, - And to my bosom take the rills - That from the woodlands sally. - - I love the songs that childhood sings-- - Its smiles and roguish glances,-- - A picture paint of many things - That o'er the mind a halo flings - As onward time advances. - - I listen to the tender chime - Of city bells a-swaying: - O dower of youth! O wealth of time! - O pleasant dreams! O hopes sublime, - When all the world's a-swaying! - - By cliffs grown gray, as men grow gray - With weariness and sorrow, - Awhile I pause, and then away, - Like you who loiter here to-day, - And lose myself to-morrow. - - - - - A HUNDRED YEARS TO COME - - - Where, where will be the birds that sing, - A hundred years to come? - The flowers that now in beauty spring, - A hundred years to come? - The rosy cheek, - The lofty brow, - The heart that beats - So gaily now: - Where, where will be our hopes and fears, - Joy's pleasant smiles and Sorrow's tears, - A hundred years to come? - - Who'll press for gold this crowded street, - A hundred years to come? - Who'll tread yon aisles with willing feet, - A hundred years to come? - Pale, trembling Age, - And fiery Youth, - And Childhood with - Its brow of truth; - The rich, the poor, on land and sea, - Where will the mighty millions be, - A hundred years to come? - - We all within our graves will sleep, - A hundred years to come; - No living soul for us will weep, - A hundred years to come; - But other men - Our homes will fill, - And others then - Our lands will till, - And other birds will sing as gay, - And bright the sunshine as to-day, - A hundred years to come. - - - - - EZRA HURLBURT STAFFORD - - - - - CHINOOK - - (_At Stampede Pass_) - - - Mildly through the mists of night - Floats a breath of flowers sweet, - Warmly through the waning light - Wafts a wind with perfumed feet, - Down the gorge and mountain brook, - With the sound of wings--Chinook! - - By no trail his spirits go, - Through the mountain passes high, - Where the moon is on the snow - And the screaming eagles fly, - Where the yawning canyon roars - With memories of misty shores. - - On still prairies, mountain-locked, - Frost lies white upon the grass, - But where the witch of winter walked, - Now the summer's masquers pass; - And at May's refreshing breath - Tender flowers rose from death. - - And the breeze, that on the Coast - Wakened softly at the morn, - Is on snowy prairies lost - When the twilight pales forlorn; - Sweet Chinook! who breathes betimes - Summer's kiss in winter climes. - - - - - THE STRANGE VESSEL - - (_Quebec, 1759_) - - - And no one saw, while it was dark, - The outline of a sweeping barque, - Without a flag or light; - And no one counted, one by one, - Along her decks each silent gun, - That glimmered through the night. - - And far above the water's swell, - Upon a guarded citadel, - Arose the laugh of men; - But some upon the ramparts there - Felt Evil hurrying through the air, - And never laughed again. - - The creak of sail, the splash of oar, - Were heard by none upon the shore; - And in the forest vale - None knew the ambush that was kept, - Nor saw a thousand men who crept - Along the narrow trail. - - When day at last was breaking forth - There came two eagles flying north, - And on the morn awoke - The solemn pageantry of war, - And o'er the shining hills afar - Floated the rolling smoke. - - - - - THE LAST ORISON - - - Shaper of breathing lives, and Lord of all above, - Thy name I learned beside my mother's knee; - She drew me to her arms, and said that Thou wert Love-- - Oh, art Thou Love to me? - - I cannot rear my thoughts amid the golden spheres, - Where roll the stars about Thy throne on high, - But here in lowly wise I call on Thee with tears, - And feel Thy presence nigh. - - Childlike to Thee I looked when came the night of fear, - On Thee I laid my sorrows of the day; - The whole earth spake of One who seemed to be so near, - It was not hard to pray. - - The bolted doors that lock the corridors of Time, - And bar the awful avenues of Space, - My soul at last shall pass, and then, O dream sublime! - I shall gaze on Thy face. - - - - - ALEXANDER CHARLES STEWART - - - - - _From_ "THE WANDERER" - - - Adieu to these!--Niagara, thy roar - Is as the voice of freedom sounding far, - And thundering Liberty to either shore, - With boom that puts to shame the breath of war. - The clouds which hover softly o'er thee are - Symbolical of peace; while thou, fierce flood, - Hast all the fury of a plunging star, - Churning its liquid flames to foaming blood, - And overturning worlds that have for ages stood. - - Forever pour thy dashing speed along - Between the homes of Freedom and the Free; - And chant forever thy resounding song - To hearts that may re-echo liberty. - The first who dares destroy thy purity, - Or bridge thee for enslavers, may thy roar - Cease like a thunderbolt, and o'er thy sea - The chill of horror fall and wrap him o'er, - Dry up thy foaming flood and be thy voice no more! - - - - - PHILLIPS STEWART - - - - - HOPE - - - In shadowy calm the boat - Sleeps by the dreaming oar, - The green hills are afloat - Beside the silver shore. - - Youth hoists the white-winged sail, - Love takes the longing oar-- - The oft-told fairy tale - Beside the silver shore. - - Soft lip to lip, and heart - To heart, and hand to hand, - And wistful eyes depart - Unto another strand. - - And lovely as a star - They tremble o'er the wave, - With eager wings afar, - Unto the joys they crave. - - In a sweet trance they fare - Unto the wind and rain, - With wind-tossed waves of hair, - And ne'er return again. - - And at the drifting side, - Changed faces in the deep - They see, a changing tide, - Like phantoms in a sleep. - - Slow hands furl the torn sail - Without one silver-gleam, - And, sad and wan and pale, - They gaze into a dream. - - - - - _From_ "CORYDON AND AMARYLLIS" - - - Pale melancholy, faithfully thou lov'st - The human soul when youth and passion fail; - How precious all things grow beneath thy smile! - Sad sister of the poet's lonely hours, - Thy clinging arms embrace us all, thy feet - Are in all paths, and Nature saddens 'neath - Thine eyes. The lotus and the poppy have - Thee in their dreamy veins; thine image dwells - For ever in the jewelled wine; thou art - The hungry beauty of Love's crescent eyes, - The tremor of white hands, the ashy gleam - Of noble brows, and thou dost startle Love's - Young dream into a dying swoon, and strew - A flowery sadness on some new-made grave. - - - - - _From_ "DE PROFUNDIS" - - - I hear the wondrous lyre - Of the blind bard, and see the Grecian throng - About Troy's lofty walls, and Hector slain, - The white-stained face and blackened crest, - And great Achilles crumbling on his pyre. - Then comes Ulysses sighing for his home - Afar, leaving the ruins of old Troy - For Ithaca, where oft, a glad-faced boy, - He played amid the ripening vines and heard - His father's voice ere he began to roam - The weary waves. His heart is stirred - With thoughts of home, and son, and wife, - And ever Circe holds him in her arms. - How have I longed to drift on some fair isle, - Like thee, from feverish alarms, - And voices of reproach, and earth's vain strife-- - Some urnless land beyond the wile - Of grief and gold, where man can quite forget - All pain, and sleep and dream not of regret. - - - - - BARRY STRATON - - - - - LOVE'S HARVEST - - - The furrows of life Time is plowing, - But we mourn not the Spring which departs, - For the husbandman Fate, in his sowing, - Scattered love in the soil of our hearts. - - The sunshine of virtue and beauty - Shall wake the sweet seedlings to bloom; - The warm dews of mercy and duty - Shall moisten the tractable loam. - - Oh, blow, grains of love to the binding! - Oh, blush, golden fruit on the hill! - 'Tis a dreary, long day to the grinding, - But a short, pleasant way from the mill. - - But fondness and faith will be growing, - Be the sky clear or cloudy above. - When fortune is ripe to the mowing - We shall gather our harvest of love! - - - - - CHARITY - - - Come! walk with the world and go down to the destitute homes of - the poor, - Where weeping is louder than laughter, where sorrow and famine - abide; - Where Azrael reaps a full harvest and darkens each desolate door; - And learn of the lowly and meek to lessen your thoughtless pride. - - I have seen my Lady flash by--a beauteous vision of ease; - I have seen the widow at work till the shadows of night fled the - day; - I have seen God's poor drink the cup of sorrow and toil to the - lees; - I have seen the wicked get wealth, and the good go empty away. - - "The poor are unworthy, and sinning is found in the homes of the - low. - If we give we but pander to vice: the beggars our gifts will - abuse." - - So say you, and pass in your pride, but your heart cries out as - you go, - "The vile are the first to ape virtue; the wicked the first to - accuse!" - Communist? Not I! But I hold that the miser who hugs to his heart - What for him is but clay and a curse, but to some would be - blessing and bread, - Is selling his merciful Saviour. Better throw down the price and - depart; - Better, belike, do as Judas, put a rope to his miserable head. - - 'Twould be well with you, Midas, to pity the poor who are tarrying - here. - They may count to your just condemnation the tears which their - hungry babes weep. - Though you harden your heart for a lifetime, and turn an adamant - ear, - Their wails may pierce through to your coffin and trouble your - long, last sleep. - - How read you the Scriptures? What say they? "These three with the - world now abide, - Hope, charity, faith, and the greatest is charity--blessed above - all." - Our hands should be fruitful and open; the field for our giving is - wide, - And blessing shall follow the gifts, though the power to give may - be small. - - Then time may toil on with its tumults, its troubles and tempests - of tears; - The sweet, voiceless shadows shall hold us till striving and - sorrow are past. - We shall wake full refreshed to the judgment, though we slumber - for eons of years; - And the Lord shall shew us His glory, we shall be like to God at - the last. - - - - - AMERICA - - - Columbus came to thee and called thee new! - New World to him, but thy rich blood, bright gold, - Lay cold where once the fires manifold - Raged fiercely. New? Primeval forests grew, - Had fallen, and were coal! Thine eagles flew - Undaunted then as now, and where the bold - South Rocky Mountains rise in fold on fold - The Aztec to his God the victim slew. - The tropic verdure of thy far north world - Had passed forever, moon-like fading out. - Sky-piercing mounts have reared them from the seas-- - The lost Atlantis has been depth-ward hurled, - Since thou wert new!--Old! all thy landmarks shout, - And bid us read thy waiting mysteries. - - - - - ARTHUR J. STRINGER - - - - - A SONG IN AUTUMN - - - O love, can the tree lure the summer bird - Again to the bough where it used to sing, - When never a throat in the autumn is heard, - And never the glint of a vagrant wing? - - Love, Love, can the lute lure the old-time touch - Unto fingers forgetful of melody? - And we, who have loved for a time overmuch, - Bring back the old life as it used to be? - - Nay, though there is little in me to love, - Come back as the bird to a songless bough: - Back now as you came when the blue was above, - And summer gleamed soft on your girlish brow. - - Come home, O Heart, for the autumn is grey, - And I, who have looked for your coming so long, - En-isled in your arms, in the old lost way - Shall dream our December estranged by a song. - - So come, Vernal-Heart, now summer is flown; - Let autumn elude the return of the rime, - And the sad sea change with the season alone: - Not us who have loved--loved well in our time. - - * * * * * - - Shall summer not know the autumnal touch? - Shall love when forlorn of the spring be green? - Or we, who were lovers of old overmuch, - Regain what is lost, or relume what has been? - - - - - BESIDE THE MARTYR'S MEMORIAL - - (OXFORD) - - - Their very gods, it seems, we have forgot; - And drawing back the riven veil once more, - Too late we learn that theirs the happier lot - Who had their foolish gods to perish for. - - - - - CANADA TO ENGLAND - - - Sang one of England in his island home: - "Her veins are million, but her heart is one;" - And looked from out his wave-bound homeland isle - To us who dwell beyond its western sun. - - And we among the northland plains and lakes, - We youthful dwellers on a younger land, - Turn eastward to the wide Atlantic waste, - And feel the clasp of England's outstretched hand. - - For we are they who wandered far from home - To swell the glory of an ancient name; - Who journeyed seaward on an exile long, - When fortune's twilight to our island came. - - But every keel that cleaves the midway waste - Binds with a silent thread our sea-cleft strands, - Till ocean dwindles and the sea-waste shrinks, - And England mingles with a hundred lands. - - And weaving silently all far-off shores - A thousand singing wires stretch round the earth, - Or sleep still vocal in their ocean depths, - Till all lands die to make one glorious birth. - - So we remote compatriots reply, - And feel the world-task only half begun: - "We are the girders of the ageing earth, - Whose veins are million, but whose heart is one." - - - - - BEETHOVEN - - - He wandered down, an Orpheus wilder-souled, - From some melodious world of love and song, - And through our earthly vales strange music rolled. - Who heard that alien note could only long, - As pale Eurydice once longed, to know again - The happier ways, the more harmonious air, - Where once they heard that half-remembered strain,-- - Where once their exiled feet were wont to fare. - A gleam of some strange golden life now gone, - A sad remembrance of celestial things, - Some old-time glory, like the gods', outshone - From men's rapt souls, wherein a memory clings - Of that diviner day, from them withdrawn. - For all the dreams that smouldered in man's breast, - And all the clearer ways he yearned to reach,-- - The fugitive ideal, the old unrest,-- - Found utterance in song, that slept in speech. - And like a minstrel in an alien land, - Who sings his native strains while men crowd round - And hearken long, but cannot understand, - He sang to us, and through the unknown sound - We caught a passing glimmer of the soul - Those foreign runes concealed, and strove to glean - From out the uninterpretable whole - Some earthlier harmony. - - It must have been - He heard far-off that low uranian strain - That only maddens him who vainly hears; - For they, the gods, soon saw the god-like pain - That mocked a man, and closed his listening ears. - - - - - ALAN SULLIVAN - - - - - VENICE - - - If you would see Venice as she is, - Wander by night in silence and alone - Among her towers and sculptured palaces, - And read the story she has writ in stone; - Then, as you read, she will upon you cast - The fascination of her wondrous past. - - Muse on, and let the silent gondolier - Wind at his will 'mid tortuous, twisting ways - And broad lagoons, with waters wide and clear, - On whose unruffled breast the moonbeam plays; - And move not, speak not, for the mystery - Of Venice is with you on the sea. - - Pass, if you will, beneath the five great domes - Of old Saint Mark's; watch how the glittering height - Soars in quick curves; see how each sunbeam roams - And fills the nave with soft pure amber light; - This is the heart of Venice, and the tomb - Which folds her story in its sacred gloom. - - So leave her sunlight, enter now her cells, - By frowning black-browed ports and massy bars, - Where pestilence in foul dank vapor dwells, - Far, far from sun and day, from moon and stars; - The only sound when whispering waters glide - In on the bosom of a sluggish tide. - - Then turn again into her solitudes,-- - Things of to-day will faint and fade like smoke,-- - Drift through the darkened nooks where silence broods, - Let memory fall upon you like a cloak: - Venice will rise around you as of old, - Decked out in marble, amethyst, and gold. - - But that was years ago; to-day the notes - Of wild free song have left her silver streets; - Her blazoned banner now no longer floats - In aureate folds, no more the sunrise greets; - She lives but in a past so strong and brave - It serves alike for monument and grave. - - - - - THE WHITE CANOE - - - There's a whisper of life in the gray dead trees, - And a murmuring wash on the shore, - And a breath of the south in the loitering breeze, - To tell that a winter is o'er. - While, free at last from its fetters of ice, - The river is clear and blue, - And cries with a tremulous, quivering voice - For the launch of the White Canoe. - - Oh, gently the ripples will kiss her side, - And tenderly bear her on; - For she is the wandering phantom bride - Of the river she rests upon; - She is loved with a love than cannot forget, - A passion so strong and true - That never a billow has risen yet - To peril the White Canoe. - - So come when the moon is enthroned in the sky, - And the echoes are sweet and low, - And Nature is full of the mystery - That none but her children know. - Come, taste of the rest that the weary crave, - But is only revealed to a few: - When there's trouble on shore, there's peace on the wave, - Afloat in the White Canoe. - - - - - BERTRAM TENNYSON - - - - - GORDON - - - Son of Britannia's isle, - There by the storied Nile, - The dust has claimed him e'er his work was done; - But not for that alone - Has Fame's clear trumpet blown - Most mournful music o'er her bravest son. - Alas! for England, when the dead - Fell by a coward's hand her honor fled! - - No English squadrons broke - Through the thick battle smoke, - At that last hour when the hero fell; - He hoped to see again - (But ah! that hope was vain) - Those English colors he had served so well; - He fell, forsaken, undismayed, - True to the land that thus his trust betrayed. - - His was the hardest part, - That tries the staunchest heart; - Better the headlong charge when hundreds die, - Than the relentless foe - Watching to strike the blow, - And the slow waiting while the bullets fly-- - No friends, no hope, but, like a star, - High duty shining through the clouds of war. - - No stately Gothic fane - Roofs in the hero slain, - But the wide sky above the desert sands; - No graven stone shall tell - Where at the last he fell, - And, if interred at all, by alien hands,-- - Thrust in a shallow grave to wait - The last loud summons to the fallen great. - - No more can England boast - Her name from coast to coast - Shall be a passport to her wandering sons; - Once they could freely roam, - As in their Island home, - Safe far abroad as underneath her guns; - Or, should mishap for vengeance call, - Swift would her anger on the oppressor fall. - - But let the meed of blame - Fall with its weight of shame - On those who lacked the courage to command; - The heart of England beats - In London's thronging streets, - And in the quiet places of the land, - Still to its old traditions true, - In spite of all our rulers failed to do. - - - - - EDWARD WILLIAM THOMSON - - - - - A DAY-DREAM - - - When, high above the busy street, - Some hidden voice poured Mary's song. - Oh, then my soul forgot the heat - And roaring of the city's throng: - Then London bells and cries fell low, - Blent to a far and murmured tone - That changed and chimed in mystic flow, - Weaving a spell for me alone. - - No more the towering blocks were there, - No longer pressed the crowds around: - All freely roamed a magic air - Within what vast horizon's bound: - Beneath a sky of lucent gray - Far stretched my circled northern plain, - Wild sunflowers decked a prairie gay, - And one dear Autumn came again. - - Before me trod a winsome maid, - And oh, the mien with which she stept! - Her soft brown hair, without a braid, - Hiding the shoulders where it swept; - And glancing backward now she gave - To me the smile so true and wise, - The radiant look from eyes so grave - That spoke her inmost Paradise. - - Divinely on my daughter went, - The wild flowers leaning from her tread; - Dreaming she lived, I watched intent - Till, ah, the gracious vision fled; - The plain gave place to blocks of grey, - The sunlit heaven to murky cloud-- - Staring I stood in common day. - And never knew the street so loud. - - - - - THE SONG-SPARROW - - - When plowmen ridge the steamy brown, - And yearning meadows sprout to green, - And all the spires and towers of town - Blent soft with wavering mists are seen: - When quickened woods in freshening hue - Along Mount Royal billowy swell, - When airs caress and May is new, - Oh, then my shy bird sings so well! - - Because the blood-roots flock in white, - And blossomed branches scent the air, - And mounds with trillium flags are dight, - And myriad dells of violets rare; - Because such velvet leaves unclose, - And newborn rills all chiming ring, - And blue the dear St Lawrence flows-- - My timid bird is forced to sing. - - A joyful flourish lilted clear,-- - Four notes--then fails the frolic song, - And memories of a vanished year - The wistful cadences prolong: - "A vanished year--O, heart too sore-- - I cannot sing;" thus ends the lay: - Long silence, then awakes once more - His song, ecstatic of the May! - - - - - THE BAD YEAR - - - May, blighted by keen frosts, passed on to June - No blooms, but many a stalk with drooping leaves, - And arid Summer wilted these full soon, - And Autumn gathered up no wealthy sheaves; - Plaintive October saddened for the year, - But wild November raged that hope was past, - Shrieking, "All days of life are made how drear-- - Mad whirl of snow! and Death comes driving fast." - Yet sane December, when the winds fell low, - And cold, calm light with sunshine tinkled clear, - Hearkened to bells more sweet than long ago, - And meditated in a mind sincere:-- - "Beneath these snows shining from yon red west - How sleep the blooms of some delighted May, - And June shall riot, lovely as the best - That flung their odors forth on all their way: - Yes, violet Spring, the balms of her soft breath, - Her birdlike voice, the child-joy in her air. - Her gentle colors"--sane December saith - "They come, they come--O heart, sigh not 'They were.'" - - - - - JOHN STUART THOMSON - - - - - THE VALE OF ESTABELLE - - - They hide within the hollows, and they creep into the dell, - The little time-stained headstones in the vale of Estabelle. - - I often looked across them when I lounged upon the hill; - I never walked among them, nor could cross the moody rill. - - I had a dread of seeing e'er the dead of pallid face, - And feared at night to meet their ghosts haunting a lonely place. - - The church bell rang at night time, just one hollow, dismal toll; - The agëd by the cranny heard, and sighed: "How grows Death's - roll!" - - Each meadow has its sparrow and each copse its note of spring; - But seasons through I never heard a bird in graveyard sing. - - A solemn man, the sexton, and 'twas he you saw at eve - Look at the sun, lay down his spade, wipe brow upon his sleeve. - - The church was old; its tower bold, and dust bedimmed the panes; - The preacher ever paused a while when fell the autumn rains. - - The goodwives ceased from musing, and some fear upon them came; - "'Tis ill to be from church to-day, when one's not blind or lame." - - They often asked me why it was I shunned the headstones so; - "I fear them not," I said, "to some new grave with you I'll go." - - I thought perhaps a patriarch would tire of life, and sleep; - I'd walk behind,--he was so old,--there'd be no need to weep. - - The morrow morn came darkly; there was awe within the town; - Three days of dread before they said, "'Twas pretty Alice Brown." - - Oh! 'tis not she of hazel eyes; of plaited golden hair; - Whose smiles of greeting always beamed like heaven on my care! - - Not Alice of the sidelong glance, soft heart, and tender sigh, - That kissed the rose aswoon: tell me, did God let Alice die? - - "The third day past came darkly; there was awe within the town; - They called her long, but ne'er will wake your pretty Alice - Brown." - - I linger in the village still; I cannot go away; - I walk the ways alone at eve; sometimes I pause and pray;-- - - It is not much I say of her; I say it very low; - But somehow it is sweet to think, "Perhaps the spirits know." - - One house there is I never pass; one way I never look; - I never climb the hill at eve; I never cross the brook; - - But over there, amid the rest, is carved into a stone, - Her name and day, and that sad word I feel the most: "Alone." - - They hide within the hollows and they creep into the dell, - Those little crumbling headstones in the vale of Estabelle. - - - - - EVEN-TIME - - - In meadows deep with hay, I see - The reapers' steel flash sparklingly; - And bobolinks at play;-- - And in the iris-bordered coves - Frail lilies, shaded by the groves, - Moor all the golden day. - I watch the flicker rise on sun-lit wings - High where a pewee sings,-- - Apollo's messenger - To the lone piper of the fir. - Where rolling western hills look like - Waves of aërial seas, the sunsets strike; - And wrecking, dye the clouds with gold. - Moon-wheeled, Eve's chariot is rolled - On through the high star-spangled doors, - To Night's dark murmurous shores. - - - - - LATE AUTUMN - - - Behold! the maize fields set their pennons free, - In this rich golden ending of the year; - And asters bloom upon the sunny lea, - Smiling as sweet as May, though leaves turn sere. - Deep in the dell, the gentle turtle-head - Lifts up its tiny spire of pearly bells, - And cardinals ring out a richer chime;-- - A last brave bee seeks in the gentians' cells - A farewell taste of honeyed spring, for dead - Is all the clover on its fragrant bed;-- - And bloomless rose vines o'er the trellis climb. - - Sometimes across the still and cheerless night, - The farewells of the flocks are softly heard, - As to the warm savannahs they take flight, - Following the sad and tuneful mocking-bird. - And numerous winds are murmuring sudden loss, - Like cries of Hylas through the Mysian land; - Or doleful chords on Grecian citherns played - By tearful maidens of a funeral band. - Of all the wealth of Autumn now is left - But that to wound the memory; bereft - Is he who wanders in this barren glade. - - No more I linger in the Lydian wood, - And wait Silenos by each dell and spring; - No more the gloaming seems or warm or good - When everything of joy has taken wing. - I e'en despair of Hellas in my pain; - I walk an endless line of cypress shade; - I wreck upon the tossing coast of night, - When everything of loveliness light made - Dissolves into the cold, swift autumn rain, - That sweeps interminably o'er the plain, - And leaves the dying world in piteous blight. - - The reaper Winter cometh on apace, - And gleaneth all the wealth of golden-rod, - And parsley wild of timid peaceful face,-- - Cutting the summer from the close shorn sod. - The miser-wind plucks now the last pale leaf - From the poor bough that treasured it in hope;-- - The chilling mists unroll their purple folds, - Leaving the outcast through the wilds to grope, - Or fall beneath a silent, hopeless grief, - Gathered to ruin with the forsaken sheaf, - And all the wreckage of the blasted wolds. - - - - - FRANCIS L. DOMINICK WATERS - - - - - _From_ "THE WATER LILY" - - - Then sighed the Wandering Angel sore, - And turned one lingering look, and last, - Upon the dead; and, rising o'er - The lake, the groves, the dell, he passed - On sailing pinions, broad and bright, - Along the footsteps of the night, - And down the pathway of the wind, - Until he faded westward far,-- - A glory in the deep enshrined, - The brother of the morning star-- - And dropt upon the burning bar - Of the horizon, and passed on - Under its shadow, and was gone. - - And loud and shrilly sang the lark; - And lovely waxed the risen day, - And laughed through every dewy spark - That on the groves and meadows lay; - And all the level leas o'erflowed - With light; and all the copses glowed - Throughout; and over every slope - Trembled a glory, like the hope - Of future summers, seen through tears - Of autumn, down the rolling years; - And from the bosom of the brook - A thousand happy memories shook; - And on the still and smiling lake - The lingering lilies seemed to wake - Once more into their bygone bloom, - And breathed a soul of fresh perfume: - And all the sombre cypress lit - In the light shaking over it; - And even the hoary willow took - A smile from Nature's happy look. - - - - - ARTHUR WEIR - - - - - A SNOWSHOE SONG - - - Hilloo, hilloo, hilloo, hilloo! - Gather, gather ye men in white; - The wind blows keenly, the moon is bright, - The sparkling snow lies firm and white: - Tie on the shoes, no time to lose, - We must be over the hill to-night. - - Hilloo, hilloo, hilloo, hilloo! - Swiftly in single file we go, - The city is soon left far below: - Its countless lights like diamonds glow, - And as we climb we hear the chime - Of church bells stealing o'er the snow. - - Hilloo, hilloo, hilloo, hilloo! - Like winding sheet about the dead - O'er hill and dale the snow is spread, - And silences our hurried tread. - The pines bend low, and to and fro - The maples toss their boughs o'erhead. - - Hilloo, hilloo, hilloo, hilloo! - We laugh to scorn the angry blast, - The mountain top is gained and past. - Descent begins, 'tis ever fast,-- - A short quick run, and toil is done. - We reach the welcome inn at last. - - Shake off, shake off the clinging snow, - Unloose the shoe, the sash untie, - Fling tuque and mittens lightly by. - The chimney fire is blazing high, - And, richly stored, the festive board - Awaits the merry company. - - Remove the fragments of the feast! - The steaming coffee, waiter, bring. - Now tell the tale, the chorus sing, - And let the laughter loudly ring. - Here's to our host, come drink the toast, - Then up! for time is on the wing. - - Hilloo, hilloo, hilloo, hilloo! - The moon is sinking out of sight, - Across the sky dark clouds take flight, - And dimly looms the mountain height. - Tie on the shoes, no time to lose, - We must be home again to-night. - - - - - VOYAGEUR SONG - - - Our mother is the good green earth, - Our rest her bosom broad; - And sure, in plenty and in dearth, - Of our six feet of sod, - We welcome Fate with careless mirth - And dangerous paths have trod, - Holding our lives of little worth - And fearing none but God. - - Where, ankle deep, bright streamlets slide - Above the fretted sand, - Our frail canoes, like shadows, glide - Swift through the silent land; - Nor should, broad-shouldered, in some tide - Rocks rise on every hand, - Our path will we confess denied, - Nor cowardly seek the strand. - - The foam may leap like frightened cloud - That hears the tempest scream, - The waves may fold their whitened shroud - Where ghastly ledges gleam; - With muscles strained and backs well bowed, - And poles that breaking seem, - We shoot the Sault, whose torrent proud - Itself our lord did deem. - - The broad traverse is cold and deep, - And treacherous smiles it hath, - And with its sickle of death doth reap - With woe for aftermath; - But though the wind-vexed waves may leap, - Like cougars, in our path, - Still forward on our way we keep, - Nor heed their futile wrath. - - Where glitter trackless wastes of snow - Beneath the northern light, - On netted shoes we noiseless go, - Nor heed though keen winds bite. - The shaggy bears our prowess know, - The white fox fears our might, - And wolves, when warm our camp-fires glow, - With angry snarls take flight. - - Where forest fastnesses extend, - Ne'er trod by man before, - Where cries of loon and wild duck blend - With some dark torrent's roar, - And timid deer, unawed, descend - Along the lake's still shore, - We blaze the trees and onward wend - To ravish nature's store. - - Leve, leve and couche, at morn and eve - These calls the echoes wake. - We rise and forward fare, nor grieve - Though long portage we make, - Until the sky the sun-gleams leave - And shadows cowl the lake; - And then we rest and fancies weave - For wife or sweetheart's sake. - - - - - THE LITTLE TROOPER - - - Swift troopers twain ride side by side - Throughout life's long campaign. - They make a jest of all man's pride, - And oh, the havoc! As they ride, - They cannot count their slain. - - The one is young and debonair, - And laughing swings his blade. - The zephyrs toss his golden hair, - His eyes are blue; he is so fair - He seems a masking maid. - - The other is a warrior grim, - Dark as a midnight storm. - There is no man can cope with him: - We shrink and tremble in each limb - Before his awful form. - - Yet though men fear the sombre foe - More than the gold-tressed youth, - The boy with every careless blow - More than the trooper grim lays low, - And causes earth more ruth. - - Keener his mocking word doth prove - Than flame on winter's breath. - Men bear his wounds to the realm above, - For the little trooper's name is Love, - His comrade's only Death. - - - - - LITTLE MISS BLUE EYES - - - Little Miss Blue Eyes opens the door, - "Nobody's in," says she. - Little Miss Blue Eyes has evermore - Stolen my heart from me. - - Little Miss Blue Eyes stands at the door, - "Will you come in?" says she. - "Papa'll be back in an hour or more";-- - Blue Eyes has seen through me. - - Little Miss Blue Eyes opes her heart's door, - "Nobody's in," says she. - (Would I might venture that threshold o'er - Into its sanctity.) - - Little Miss Blue Eyes, if you are kind, - Keep me not at the door; - Into your love, from the cold and wind, - Take me, dear, evermore. - - Little Miss Blue Eyes stands at the door, - Archly smiling at me: - "Papa'll be back in an hour or more, - Come in and wait," says she. - - - - - A CHRISTMAS LULLABY - - - The restless clock is ticking out - The hours that go before the dawn, - And icy moonbeams dart about - The snow that shrouds the slumbering lawn,-- - The lawn that Santa Claus must cross - Ere he shall reach my baby's cot,-- - Ah! who shall measure Bertie's loss - Should Santa Claus come not! - Sleep, softly sleep, my pretty one; - I hear the neighing of the steeds,-- - Good Santa Claus has just begun - His round of kindly deeds. - - What has the little man for thee, - My precious babe who slumb'rest there? - He brings, sweet one, a gift from me, - A mother's love, a mother's care,-- - A mother's care that shall not wane, - While hands can toil or brain can think, - Until that day shall come again - When thou shalt cross life's brink. - Sleep, softly sleep, my pretty one; - I hear the neighing of the steeds,-- - Good Santa Claus has just begun - His round of kindly deeds. - - He brings a cross, he brings a crown, - And places them on either hand. - Upon the cross thou must not frown, - For some day thou shalt understand,-- - Shalt understand the preciousness - That to the sombre cross pertains, - And thou wilt hold the crown far less - Than of the cross the pains. - Sleep, softly sleep, my pretty one; - I hear the neighing of the steeds,-- - Good Santa Claus has just begun - His round of kindly deeds. - - He brings the greatest gift of all - In bringing thee this Christmas Day: - The deathless love it doth recall - Of Him who took thy sins away; - And when no more thy mother's care - Can guide thy footsteps, Baby Mine, - Thy steps shall be secured, eachwhere, - By love of One divine. - Sleep, softly sleep, my pretty one; - I hear the neighing of the steeds,-- - Good Santa Claus has just begun - His round of kindly deeds. - - - - - AGNES ETHELWYN WETHERALD - - - - - THE HOUSE OF THE TREES - - - Ope your doors and take me in, - Spirit of the wood; - Wash me clean of dust and din, - Clothe me in your mood. - - Take me from the noisy light - To the sunless peace, - Where at midday standeth Night - Signing Toil's release. - - All your dusky twilight stores - To my senses give; - Take me in and lock the doors, - Show me how to live. - - Lift your leafy roof for me, - Part your yielding walls, - Let me wander lingeringly - Through your scented halls. - - Ope your doors and take me in, - Spirit of the wood; - Take me--make me next of kin - To your leafy brood. - - - - - AT THE WINDOW - - - How thick about the window of my life - Buzz insect-like the tribe of petty frets: - Small cares, small thoughts, small trials, and small strife, - Small loves and hates, small hopes and small regrets. - - If 'mid this swarm of smallnesses remain - A single undimmed spot, with wondering eye - I note before my freckled window-pane - The outstretched splendor of the earth and sky? - - - - - TO FEBRUARY - - - O master-builder, blustering as you go - About your giant work, transforming all - The empty woods into a glittering hall, - And making lilac lanes and footpaths grow - - As hard as iron under stubborn snow,-- - Though every fence stand forth a marble wall, - And windy hollows drift to arches tall, - There comes a might that shall your might o'erthrow. - - Build high your white and dazzling palaces, - Strengthen your bridges, fortify your towers, - Storm with a loud and a portentous lip; - And April with a fragmentary breeze, - And half a score of gentle, golden hours, - Shall leave no trace of your stern workmanship. - - - - - THE HAY FIELD - - - With slender arms outstretching in the sun - The grass lies dead; - The wind walks tenderly, and stirs not one - Frail, fallen head. - - Of baby creepings through the April day - Where streamlets wend, - Of childlike dancing on the breeze of May, - This is the end. - - No more these tiny forms are bathed in dew, - No more they reach - To hold with leaves that shade them from the blue - A whispered speech. - - No more they part their arms, and wreathe them close - Again to shield - Some love-full little nest--a dainty house - Hid in a field. - - - - - WILLIAM HENRY WITHROW - - - - - OCTOBER - - - Like gallant courtiers, the forest trees - Flaunt in their crimson robes with broidered gold; - And, like a king in royal purple's fold, - The oak flings largess to the beggar breeze. - Forever burning, ever unconsumed, - Like the strange portent of the prophet's bush, - The autumn flames amid a sacred hush; - The forest glory never brighter bloomed. - - Upon the lulled and drowsy atmosphere - Fall faint and low the far-off muffled stroke - Of woodman's axe, the school-boy's ringing cheer, - The watch-dog's bay, and crash of falling oak; - And gleam the apples through the orchard trees, - Like golden fruit of the Hesperides. - - - - - CLOUD CASTLES - - - Did you see the snowy castle, - Shining far off in the air? - Did you mark its massy bulwarks, - And its gleaming turrets fair? - - Deep and broad seemed its foundations, - Stable as the solid rock, - Braving in their stern defiance - Tempest roar and battle shock. - - And its huge and strong escarpment - Rose sheer up into the sky, - And above its sunset banners - Streamed and waved right royally. - - Hark! throughout that lordly castle - Trumpets peal and lightnings glare, - And the thunder's haughty challenge - Shakes the wide domains of air. - - Now before the rushing tempest - All its cloudy pillars bend, - And the leven bolts of heaven - Smite its bastions deep, and rend. - - And the castle sways and totters; - A vast breach is in its walls; - Now its turrets sink and crumble, - And its lofty rampart falls. - - So I've seen a gorgeous castle, - Built of hopes and visions bright, - Sink and disappear for ever, - Like a phantom of the night. - - O the gay and glorious castles! - How we build them up again - But to see them melt and vanish - As the clouds dissolve in rain. - - O my soul! look thou up higher, - Where the many mansions be, - To that bright and glorious palace - That thy Lord hath built for thee. - - - - - R. WALTER WRIGHT - - - - - EASTER MORN - - - Hushed is the voice of scorn, - Anew the world is born,-- - Sweet morn! sweet morn! - - Sing songs so loud and clear - That all the world must hear - Their notes of cheer. - - * * * * * - - White angels of surprise - Whisper from morning skies, - Arise! Arise! - 'Neath the lightning countenance - Sleep men of sword and lance, - In heavy trance. - Broken the sceptic's seal, - Backward the devils reel, - The nations kneel. - - Christ bids the Old adieu, - Christ lives the Ever-New, - Faithful and True. - - Hushed is the voice of scorn, - Anew the world is born,-- - Sweet morn! sweet morn! - - - - - A STILL SMALL VOICE - - - In the silence of the morning, through the softly-rising mist, - As the chrysolite of dawning ripened into amethyst, - Came a voice so clear, peremptory, that my soul could not but - list: - "Unto thyself be true!" - - In the rush and swirl of noontide, 'mid a gale of voices loud, - And keen eyes that flashed their lightnings over faces - thunder-browed, - Came a voice imperious, alien to the voices of the crowd: - "Be to thy brother true!" - - In the calmness of the evening, when the winds had sunk to rest, - When no earthquake heaved its fury, burned no fire within my - breast, - Came a still small voice so tender, it the heart of Christ - confessed: - "Unto thy God be true!" - - - - - G. F. W. - - - - - SENSE AND SPIRIT - - - The bloom of the roses, the youth of the fair, - The voice of the lover, the love-lighted eye, - The music of birds as they move through the air, - The bright glow of sunshine that tinges the sky, - And scintillant dewdrops, the green of the grass-- - They will pass, they will pass, they will pass. - - But, glory of honor, the freedom of truth, - The might of the spirit, the breath of our call, - The soul of essentials, eternity's youth, - The essence of beauty, the pith of them all, - The that which did make them the powers unto me,-- - They shall be, they shall be, they shall be! - - - - - EVA ROSE YORK - - - - - I SHALL NOT PASS THIS WAY AGAIN - - - I shall not pass this way again-- - Although it bordered be with flowers, - Although I rest in fragrant bowers, - And hear the singing - Of song-birds winging - To highest heaven their gladsome flight; - Though moons are full and stars are bright, - And winds and waves are softly sighing, - While leafy trees make low replying; - Though voices clear in joyous strain - Repeat a jubilant refrain; - Though rising suns their radiance throw - On summer's green and winter's snow, - In such rare splendor that my heart - Would ache from scenes like these to part; - Though beauties heighten, - And life-lights brighten, - And joys proceed from every pain,-- - I shall not pass this way again. - - Then let me pluck the flowers that blow, - And let me listen as I go - To music rare - That fills the air; - And let hereafter - Songs and laughter - Fill every pause along the way; - And to my spirit let me say: - "O soul, be happy; soon 'tis trod, - The path made thus for thee by God. - Be happy, thou, and bless His name - By whom such marvellous beauty came." - And let no chance by me be lost - To kindness show at any cost. - I shall not pass this way again. - Then let me now relieve some pain, - Remove some barrier from the road, - Or brighten some one's heavy load; - A helping hand to this one lend, - Then turn some other to befriend. - - O God, forgive - That now I live - As if I might, sometime, return - To bless the weary ones that yearn - For help and comfort every day,-- - For there be such along the way. - O God, forgive that I have seen - The beauty only, have not been - Awake to sorrow such as this; - That I have drunk the cup of bliss - Remembering not that those there be - Who drink the dregs of misery. - - I love the beauty of the scene, - Would roam again o'er fields so green; - But since I may not, let me spend - My strength for others to the end,-- - For those who tread on rock and stone, - And bear their burdens all alone, - Who loiter not in leafy bowers, - Nor hear the birds nor pluck the flowers. - A larger kindness give to me, - A deeper love and sympathy; - Then, O, one day - May someone say-- - Remembering a lessened pain-- - "Would she could pass this way again!" - - - - - PAMELIA VINING YULE - - - - - THE BEAUTIFUL ARTIST - - - There's a beautiful Artist abroad in the world, - And her pencil is dipped in heaven,-- - The gorgeous hues of Italian skies, - The radiant sunset's richest dyes, - The light of Aurora's laughing eyes, - Are each to her pictures given. - - As I walked abroad yestere'en, what time - The sunset was fairest to see, - I saw her wonderful brush had been - Over a maple tree--half of it green-- - And the fairest coloring that ever was seen - She had left on that maple tree. - - There was red of every possible hue, - There was yellow of every dye, - From the faintest straw-tint to orange bright, - Fluttering, waving, flashing in light, - With the delicate green leaves still in sight, - Peeping out at the sunset sky. - - She had touched the beech, and the scraggy thing - In a bright new suit was dressed; - Very queer, indeed, it looked to me, - The sober old beech tree thus to see, - So different from what he used to be, - Rigged out in a holiday vest. - - Red, and russet, and green, and grey-- - He had little indeed of gold-- - For the beech was never known to be gay, - Being noted a very grave tree alway, - Never flaunting out in a fanciful way - Like other trees, we are told. - - But the beautiful artist had touched him off - With an extra tint or so; - And he held his own very well with the rest, - On which, I am sure, she had done her best, - Dressing each in the fairest kind of a vest, - Till the forest was all aglow. - - There were the willow that grew by the brook, - And the old oak on the hill, - The graceful elm tree down in the swale, - The birch, the ash, and the bass-wood pale, - The orchard trees clustering over the vale, - And weeds that fringed the rill. - - One she had gilt with a flood of gold, - And one she had tipped with flame; - One, she had dashed with every hue - That the laughing sunset ever knew, - And one--she had colored it through and through - Russet, all sober and tame. - - Now this beautiful artist will only stay - A very few days, and then - She will finish her gorgeous pictures all, - And hurry away ere the gusty squall - Ruins her work, and the sere leaves fall - Darkly in copse and glen. - - - - - WARBLE THY LAYS TO ME - - - Come down from the heights, my bird, - And warble thy lays to me! - I shall pine and droop in my grassy nook - For the passionate song that my spirit shook, - And the low, sad voice of the grieving brook - Will murmur all night of thee. - - I shall sit alone--alone, - While the noontide hours steal by; - And mournful the woodland's music will be,-- - Mournful the blue, calm heavens to me,-- - Mournful the glory on earth and sea,-- - And mournful the sunset sky. - - O voice of exulting song!-- - O bright, unwavering eye!-- - O free wing soaring in fetterless flight - Up to the Fountain of quenchless Light! - O, Earth that darkenest in sudden night, - I shudder, and faint, and die! - - - [Illustration: Decoration] - - - - -NOTES OF AUTHORS - - - PAGE - - 2 Mrs MARGARET H. ALDEN, born at Caledonia, Ontario, 1863--now - resident in Saginaw, Michigan. Sister of Edward William Thomson - (p. 403). Has published booklets of verse. - - 2 Rev. JOSEPH ANTISELL ALLEN, b. at Arbor Hill, Ireland, February - 27, 1814. Came to Canada, 1842. Published (anonymously), 1854, - _Day Dreams by a Butterfly_ (a booklet from which the extract in - the text is taken); _The Lambda-nu-Tercentenary Poem on - Shakespeare_, 1864; _The True and Romantic Love Story of Colonel - and Mrs Hutchinson_, a drama in verse, 1884; and several prose - works. Resides at "Alwington," Kingston, Ontario. - - 3 GRANT ALLEN, son of the preceding, b. at Alwington House, Kingston, - Ontario, February 24, 1848. Educated at Merton College, Oxford. A - distinguished naturalist, and author of many scientific works and - novels. Published, in 1894, _The Lower Slopes_, a volume of poems. - Died October 25, 1899, at Hazelmere, Surrey, England. - - 5 WILLIAM TALBOT ALLISON, b. at Unionville, Ontario, December 20, - 1874. Educated at Victoria University. He has published occasional - verse in the Magazines. Resides in Toronto. - - 9 Mrs SOPHIE M. ALMON-HENSLEY, b. at Bridgetown, Nova Scotia, May, - 1866,--a direct descendant of Cotton Mather. Educated largely in - England and Paris. Published, in 1895, a volume of verse entitled - _A Woman's Love Letters_. Now resident in New York, where she - devotes much time to philanthropic work, but spends her summers at - Brighton, Nova Scotia. - - 11 Rev. DUNCAN ANDERSON, b. in Rayne, Scotland, 1828. Educated at - King's College and University, Aberdeen. For many years chaplain - to the Imperial troops stationed at Lévis, Quebec. An expert - ornithologist. Author of _Lays of Canada_, 1890, and of a prose - work, _Scottish Folklore, or Reminiscences of Aberdeenshire_, - 1895. Resides at "Monymusk," Chaudière Basin, Quebec. - - 22 ISIDORE G. ASCHER, b. in Glasgow, Scotland, 1835. Educated in - Montreal, and called to the bar, 1862. Author of _Voices from the - Hearth, and Other Poems_, 1863. Removed to England, 1864, where he - has published several novels. One of his comediettas was produced - at the Crystal Palace. - - 20 ALICE M. ARDAGH ("Esperance"), b. in Monmouthshire, Wales, July - 15, 1866. Writer of occasional verse. Resides at Barrie, Ontario. - - 23 SAMUEL MATHEWSON BAYLIS, b. in Montreal, September 3, 1854. - Published, in association with W. H. Whyte, _Our City and Our - Sports_, 1894; and, in 1897, a volume of prose and verse entitled - _Camp and Lamp_. Resides in Montreal. - - 26 JOHN WILSON BENGOUGH, b. in Toronto, April 5, 1851. Printer, - caricaturist, lecturer, and poet. Author of several works, among - them _Motley: Verses Grave and Gay_, 1895. Resides in Toronto. - - 28 CRAVEN LANGSTROTH BETTS, b. in St John, New Brunswick, April 23, - 1853. Educated at St John Grammar School, and Fredericton Normal - School. Most of his life has been given to business pursuits, but - he has done a variety of literary work. Besides contributions - to _Harper's Weekly_, the New York _Independent_, the _Youth's - Companion_, _Puck_, and _Judge_, he edited for a year a New York - magazine. Author of _Songs from Berenger_ (in the original - metres), 1888; _The Perfume Holder, a Persian Love Poem_, 1891. - For some years he held the office of secretary to the American - Authors' Guild. Resides in New York. - - 31 BLANCHE BISHOP, b. at Greenwich, Nova Scotia, and educated at - Acadia Seminary, and Acadia University. After study and travel in - Europe, she taught five years in Moulton College, Toronto. Writer - of occasional verse. Resides at Harding Hall, London, Ontario. - - 33 EDWARD BLACKADDER, b. at Wolfville, Nova Scotia, 1871. Educated - at Acadia University. Author of _Poems, Sonnets, and Lyrics_, - 1895. Since 1894 has been engaged as a public lecturer on - Temperance, under the direction of the Sons of Temperance of Nova - Scotia. Resides in Wolfville, Nova Scotia. - - 33 Mrs JEAN BLEWETT, b. at Scotia, Lake Erie, Ontario, November 4, - 1862 (Janet M'Kishney). Educated at St Thomas Collegiate - Institute. She has written much prose for the public press. Author - of _Songs of the Heart_, 1897. Resides in Toronto. - - 36 JOHN BREAKENRIDGE, b. at Niagara, Ontario, February 13, 1820; - d. July 18, 1854, at Belleville, Ontario. Educated at Upper Canada - College. Barrister at Law. Author of _The Crusades, and Other - Poems_, 1846. - - 38 JOHN HENRY BROWN, b. in Ottawa, Ontario, April 29, 1859. A member - of the Civil Service. Author of _Poems, Lyrical and Dramatic_, - 1892. Resides in Ottawa. - - 40 EDWARD BURROUGH BROWNLOW ("Sarepta"), b. in London, England, - November 27, 1857; d. in Montreal, September 8, 1895. In 1896 The - Pen and Pencil Club of Montreal published _Orpheus and Other - Poems_, a collection of his verse. - - 41 GEORGE FREDERICK CAMERON, b. in New Glasgow, Nova Scotia, - September 24, 1854. He was editor of the Kingston, Ontario, _News_ - at the time of his death, September 1885. _Lyrics on Freedom, - Love, and Death_, edited by his brother Charles J. Cameron, - appeared in 1887. - - 45 BLISS CARMAN, b. at Fredericton, New Brunswick, April 15, 1861. - Educated at the Collegiate School there and at the University - of New Brunswick, and with subsequent study at Edinburgh and - Harvard Universities. In 1890 was literary editor of the New York - _Independent_, and was also connected with the _Cosmopolitan_ and - _Atlantic Monthly_ Magazines. In 1894 he established the _Chap - Book_. Author of _Low Tide on Grand Pré, A Book of Lyrics_, 1893; - _Songs from Vagabondia_ (in conjunction with R. S. Hovey, Boston), - 1894; _A Sea-Mark_, 1895; _Behind the Arras: a Book of the - Unseen_, 1895; _More Songs from Vagabondia_, 1896; and _By the - Aurelian Wall, and Other Elegies_, 1898. Moves back and forth - freely between the Maritime Provinces and the United States. His - present address is _Independent Office, 114 Nassau Street, New - York_. - - 59 AMOS HENRY CHANDLER, M.D., son of the late Governor Chandler, b. - at Dorchester, New Brunswick, August 8, 1837. Author of _Lyrics, - Songs, and Sonnets_ (conjointly with the late Rev. C. P. - Mulvaney), 1880. Resides at Dorchester, New Brunswick. - - 60 EDWARD J. CHAPMAN, Ph.D., F.C.S., b. in England. Professor of - Mineralogy in University College, Toronto, for many years. He - recently resigned his professorship. Author of _A Song of - Charity_, 1857. - - 63 Mrs ANNIE ROTHWELL CHRISTIE, b. in London, England, 1837. Came - to Canada when four years of age, living with her family on - Amherst Island, near Kingston, Ontario. Some of her best poems - are to be found in the _Magazine of Poetry_. The examples given in - the text were written at the time of the Half-Breed Rebellion. She - has published no volume of poems, but is the author of four novels - of much interest. Resides at The Rectory, North Gower, Ontario. - - 67 GEORGE HERBERT CLARKE, b. at Gravesend, England, August 27, 1873. - Educated at Woodstock College, and M'Master University. Has - published occasional verse in the Magazines. He is Assistant - Editor of the _Baptist Union_ of Chicago, where he at present - resides. - - 70 HUGH COCHRANE, for some time City Editor of the Montreal - _Witness_. Author of booklets _Rhyme and Roundelay_, and _Ideal - and Other Poems_. For the past two years he has been employed on - the _Literary World_, London, England,--which is his present - address. - - 70 HEREWARD K. COCKIN, b. at Frizing Hall, near Manningham, - Yorkshire, England. Author of _Gentleman Dick o' the Greys, and - Other Poems_, 1889. Present occupation is divided between - journalism and prospect mining in the Michipicoten district, on - the north-east shore of Lake Superior. Resides in Guelph, Ontario. - - 72 Mrs SARA JEANETTE DUNCAN COTES, b. at Brantford, Ontario, 1862, - and educated at the Collegiate School there. Has published very - occasional verse, but since 1890 has issued many popular books, - travels and novels. Resides in Calcutta, India, since her marriage - in 1891. - - 73 ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD, b. near Dublin, Ireland, December 25, - 1851. Came to Canada when five years of age, living with her - father, Stephen Crawford, M.D., in Peterboro, Ontario. Removed to - Toronto, where she died February 12, 1887. Author of _Old - Spookses' Pass, Malcolm's Katie, and Other Poems_, 1884, and much - occasional verse. - - 78 FRANCIS BLAKE CROFTON, b. at Crossboyne, Ireland, 1842, and - educated at Trinity College, Dublin. He is librarian of the - Parliamentary Library, Halifax, Nova Scotia. Writer of occasional - verse, and author of several works, among them _Haliburton, the - Man and the Writer_, and _The Imperialism of Haliburton_. Resides - in Halifax. - - 81 JOHN ALLISTER CURRIE, b. at Nottawa, Ontario, February 25, 1862. - Was for thirteen years engaged as a journalist on the Toronto - _Mail and Empire_ and the Toronto _News_. Is now engaged in the - brokers' business. Author of _A Quartette of Lovers_, 1892. - Resides in Toronto. - - 81 Mrs MARGARET GILL CURRIE, b. at Lower St Mary's, New Brunswick, - June 14, 1843. Author of _John Saint John and Anna Gray_, 1897, a - colonial romance in verse. Resides in Fredericton, New Brunswick. - - 83 Mrs SARAH ANNE CURZON, b. near Birmingham, England, 1833. Came - to Toronto in 1862; d. at Toronto, October 6, 1898. Was a frequent - contributor in prose and verse to the Canadian press. Author of - _Laura Secord, the Heroine of 1812_, a drama, 1887. The issue of - this volume led to the formation of several historical societies. - Since 1887, Mrs Curzon's literary work was chiefly on historical - subjects. - - 87 NICHOLAS FLOOD DAVIN, Q.C., M.P., b. at Kilfinane, Ireland, - January 13, 1843. Connected himself with the press in Toronto, - 1872, and established the Regina _Leader_ in 1883,--the first - newspaper issued in Assiniboia. Published in 1889, _Eos: an Epic - of the Dawn_; and subsequently several works in prose. Resides at - Regina, N.W.T. - - 89 A. B. DE MILLE, son of the following, b. in Halifax, Nova Scotia, - March 7, 1873. Recently appointed professor of English Literature - in King's College, Windsor. Has published occasional verse in the - Magazines. Resides at Windsor, Nova Scotia. - - 92 JAMES DE MILLE, b. in St John, New Brunswick, August 23, 1836; d. - in Halifax, Nova Scotia, January 28, 1880. Writer of occasional - verse. The extract in the text is taken from a posthumous - publication issued by Allan & Co., of Halifax, Nova Scotia,--a - poem entitled _Behind the Veil_. Mr De Mille was professor in - Acadia College, and subsequently in Dalhousie College. He is the - author of numerous works in prose, among them _Helena's Household: - a tale of the First Century_; _The Dodge Club_; and _Elements of - Rhetoric_. (See note under Richard Huntington.) - - 96 EDWARD HARTLEY DEWART, D.D., b. in the Co. Cavan, Ireland, 1828. - Came to the County of Peterboro, Ontario, with his family in 1834. - For twenty-five years he was Editor of the _Christian Guardian_, - Toronto. Author of _Selections from Canadian Poets_, 1864; _Songs - of Life_, 1869; _Essays for the Times_ (including later poems), - 1898. Resides in Toronto. - - 98 FREDERICK AUGUSTUS DIXON, b. in England, May 7, 1843, and came to - Canada in the early seventies. He was tutor at Rideau Hall during - Earl Dufferin's Governor-Generalship. He is now Chief Clerk of - correspondence, Department of Railways and Canals. Is the author - of several dramas, among them _The Mayor of St Brieux_, and _A - Masque of Welcome_, the latter in honour of the arrival in Canada - of the Marquis of Lorne and the Princess Louise. A contributor of - occasional verse to the Magazines. Resides in Ottawa. - - 101 WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND, M.D., b. at Currawn House, Co. Leitrim, - Ireland, April 13, 1854. Author of _The Habitant, and Other - French-Canadian Poems_, 1898. Resides in Montreal. - - 104 JOHN HUNTER DUVAR, b. August 29, 1830; d. January, 1899. Of - Scoto-English birth and education. He lived the greater part of - his life in Canada, serving as Lt.-Col. of the 3rd Brigade Halifax - Garrison Artillery, and later in command of Prince County, Prince - Edward Island Battalion of active militia. For ten years he was - Dominion Inspector of Fisheries for the Province of Prince Edward - Island. Author of _The Enamorado_, a drama, 1878; _Roberval_, a - drama, 1888; _The Emigration of the Fairies_ and _The Triumph of - Constancy_, a romaunt. He has written other works, also: _The - Judgment of Osiris_, _The Enchanted Mooress_, and _Annals of the - Court of Oberon_. His characteristic is very marked,--the romantic - with a bias towards the mystic. Respecting the poem in the text, - beginning "In the Rheingan standeth Aix," it may be remarked that - it is a matter of history that the crowned corpse of Charlemagne - sat in the crypt of the Cathedral of Aix-la-Chapelle, until 1166, - when the tomb was opened and the chair taken away by the Emperor, - Frederick Barbarossa. Mr Duvar resided at "Hernewood," Fortune - Cove, Prince Edward Island. - - 109 Rev. ARTHUR WENTWORTH HAMILTON EATON, b. at Kentville, Nova - Scotia. A graduate of Harvard University. Author of _Acadian - Legends and Lyrics_, 1889; and of several prose works, among them - _The Church of England in Nova Scotia, and the Tory Clergy of the - Revolution_; and _Tales of a Garrison Town_ (collaborated with C. - L. Betts). He has in preparation a _History of the People of Nova - Scotia_. Resides in New York. - - 116 Sir JAMES DAVID EDGAR, Speaker of the House of Commons of Canada, - b. at Hatley, Quebec, August 10, 1841. Author of _This Canada of - Ours, and Other Poems_, 1893; and of _Canada and its Capital_, - prose, 1898. Died July 31, 1899, at Toronto. - - 117 CONSTANCE FAIRBANKS, b. at Dartmouth, Nova Scotia, May 10, 1866. - She edited, in conjunction with Mr H. Piers, the volume of the - poems of the late Mrs Lawson. Writer of occasional verse in the - Magazines. Resides at Halifax, Nova Scotia. - - 118 JOSEPH KEARNEY FORAN, b. at Aylmer, Quebec, 1857. Educated at the - University of Ottawa. A journalist. Author of _Poems and Canadian - Lyrics_, 1895, also of a prose work, _The Spirit of the Age; Faith - and Infidelity_. Resides in Montreal. - - 120 WILLIAM HENRY FULLER, b. at Ramsgate, England. Came to Canada in - the early seventies. Author of a local burlesque, _H.M.S. - Parliament_, and other plays; _Ye Ballad of Lyttel John A_; and - several essays and _brochures_. Resides at Ottawa. - - 121 Rev. ALEXANDER RAE GARVIE, b. at Vilcoy Estate, Demerara, British - Guiana, January 6, 1839; d. at Montreal, March 5, 1874; buried at - Chatham, New Brunswick. He was of Scotch parentage. His - ministerial service was rendered chiefly, if not wholly, in the - Maritime Provinces. A singularly interesting man. _Thistledown_, a - posthumous volume of Poems and Essays, 1875. - - 123 PIERCE STEVENS HAMILTON, b. in, or near, Truro, Nova Scotia, - 1826; d. in Halifax, February 1893. A journalist and versatile - political writer. Author of _The Feast of St Anne and Other - Poems_, 1890. - - 126 Mrs S. FRANCES HARRISON ("Seranus"), b. in Toronto upwards of - thirty years ago, and educated in Toronto and Montreal. She is a - musical critic, and has written widely for the Magazines, in prose - and verse. Author of _The Canadian_ _Birth-Day Book_, 1887; _Pine, - Rose and Fleur-de-Lis_, 1891. Resides in Rosedale, Toronto. - - 129 THEODORE ARNOLD HAULTAIN, b. at Kannanur, Madras Presidency, - November 3, 1857. A graduate of Toronto University. Author of - _Versiculi_, 1893; and of several prose publications. A - contributor to many well-known Magazines. Resides in Toronto. - - 131 CHARLES HEAVYSEGE, b. in Huddersfield, England, 1816; d. at - his residence in Bleury St., Montreal, July 14, 1879. He was a - cabinetmaker by trade,--and a journalist. Author of _Saul_, a - tragedy, 1857; _Jephthah's Daughter_, 1865; _Count Filippo; or - the Unequal Marriage_, 1860. _Saul_ was first published by Mr - John Lovell, Montreal; a second edition was issued in Boston. Mr - Heavysege was a powerful dramatic writer. The _North British - Review_ for August, 1858, characterizes _Saul_ as "one of the most - remarkable English poems ever written out of Great Britain." There - is an unfinished work in the hands of his widow, who resides at - Winnipeg, Manitoba. - - 133 JOHN FREDERIC HERBIN, b. in Windsor, Nova Scotia, February 8, - 1860. His mother was an Acadien (Robichau), and his father French. - Educated at Acadia University. Author of _Marshlands_, a volume of - Poems. Also of _Grand Pré_, a brief history of the Acadien - occupation of Minas. Resides in Wolfville, Nova Scotia. - - 138 ANNIE CAMPBELL HUESTIS, b. in Halifax, Nova Scotia, 1876. Writer - of occasional verse. Resides in Halifax. - - 145 Rev. JAMES COBOURG HODGINS, b. in Hamilton, Ontario, 1866. In - the past seven years he has resided in the United States; and is - at present pastor of the church in Philadelphia formerly in charge - of Rev. Samuel Longfellow. Author of _Fugitives_, a booklet, 1891; - and _A Sheaf of Sonnets_, printed for private circulation, 1896. - - 147 Hon. JOSEPH HOWE, b. at North West Arm, Halifax, Nova Scotia, - 1804; of loyalist parentage; d. in Halifax, June 1, 1873. A most - distinguished son of Nova Scotia, and one of the ablest of - Canadian Statesmen. He was Governor of his native Province at the - time of his death. _Poems and Essays_, a posthumous publication, - 1874. - - 141 WILLIAM EDWARD HUNT ("Keppell Strange"), b. at Brighton, England, - of ancient Sussex ancestry. Educated at South Kensington, and at - the Berbeck Institute. Is a member of the editorial staff of the - Montreal _Witness_, Author of _Poems and Pastels_, 1896. Resides - in Montreal. - - 142 RICHARD HUNTINGTON, b. at Yarmouth, Nova Scotia, February 13, - 1819; d. at Yarmouth, May 13, 1883. He was for thirty years editor - and publisher of the Yarmouth _Tribune_. Mr Huntington was a - nephew of the late Hon. Herbert Huntington, and a grandson of - Miner Huntington, one of the loyalist settlers of Yarmouth - (mentioned in Sabine's History of the Loyalists); and a distant - relative of the late Hon. L. S. Huntington, of Quebec. A writer of - occasional verse. In Lighthall's _Songs of the Great Dominion_, a - poem entitled _The Indian Names of Acadia_ is erroneously - attributed to De Mille (the late professor James De Mille). It was - written by Richard Huntington. - - 149 CHARLES EDWIN JAKEWAY, M.D., b. at Holland Landing, Ontario, - 1847. Graduated M.D. at Toronto, 1871. Author of _The Lion and the - Lilies; a Tale of the Conquest, and Other Poems_, 1897. Resides at - Stayner, Ontario. - - 155 E. PAULINE JOHNSON,--Tekahiońwake--, b. at "Chief's Wood," Six - Nations Reserve, County of Brant, Ontario. She is the daughter of - the late George Henry M. Johnson, head chief of the Mohawk - Indians, by his wife, Emily S. Howells, of Bristol, England. - Educated by private tuition, and at the Brantford Model School. - She is a frequent contributor to the periodical press. In 1894 she - visited England, and while there published _The White Wampum_, a - book of poems. She has publicly recited her poems throughout - Canada and the United States. Resides at Winnipeg, Manitoba. - - 160 ROBERT KIRKLAND KERNIGHAN ("The Khan"), b. at Rushdale Farm, near - Hamilton, Ontario, April 25, 1857. A journalist, and widely known - as the author of many clever songs, and of patriotic and humorous - verse. He published _The Tattleton Papers_, prose, 1894; and _The - Khan's Canticles_, 1896. Resides at Rushdale Farm, Rockton, - Ontario. - - 162 WILLIAM KIRBY, b. at Kingston-upon-Hull, England, October 13, - 1817. Came to Canada with his parents, 1832. A journalist, - novelist, and poet. Was Collector of Customs at Niagara (where he - settled in 1839) from July 1, 1871, till his retirement from the - public service, 1895. Author of _The U. E._, 1859, an epic poem, - very valuable as a series of pictures of loyalist personages and - times; _Canadian Idyls_ (2nd ed.), 1894. He has published four - volumes in prose, the chief of which is _The Golden Dog, a Legend - of Quebec_, 1877, and 1896. A new American edition of this work - was published in 1898. Mr Kirby resides at Niagara, Ontario. - - 166 Rev. MATTHEW RICHEY KNIGHT, b. at Halifax, Nova Scotia, April - 21, 1854. Educated at Mount Allison University. He has written - considerable, in prose and verse. Author of _Poems of Ten Years_, - 1887. Present residence, Boistown, New Brunswick. - - 168 ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN, b. at Morpeth, Ontario, November 17, 1861; d. - at Ottawa, February 10, 1899. Educated at Trinity University, - Toronto. He was a member of the Canadian Civil Service, in the - Post Office Department. Elected F.R.S. Can., 1895. Author of - _Among the Millet, and Other Poems_, 1888; _Lyrics of Earth_, - 1895. Resided in Ottawa. His complete poems, edited with a Memoir, - were published under the supervision of Duncan Campbell Scott, - March, 1900. - - 177 Mrs MARY JANE KATZMANN LAWSON, b. at "Maroon Hall," Preston, - about five miles from Dartmouth, Nova Scotia. Her mother--a Nova - Scotian--was a granddaughter of Dr Joshua Prescott, of - Massachusetts. She was largely self-educated. For two years she - edited the _Provincial Magazine_. In 1887 she obtained the - Aikin's Historical Prize of King's College for her _History of the - Townships of Dartmouth, Preston, and Lawrencetown_,--since - published. She died at Halifax, March 23, 1890. In 1893, - _Frankincense and Myrrh_ (selections from the poems of the late - Mrs Lawson) appeared under the joint editorship of Mr Harry Piers - and Miss Constance Fairbanks. - - 180 Mrs SOPHIA V. GILBERT LEE, author of _Wayside Echoes_, a volume - of verse, 1894. Resides at Penetanguishene, Ontario. - - 180 Mrs LILY ALICE LEFEVRE ("Fleurange"), b. at Stratford, Ontario, - but reared at Brockville. Educated at Villa Maria Convent, - Montreal. Author of _The Lion's Gate, and Other Verses_, 1895. - (The two highest peaks of the mountains that overlook the harbor - of Vancouver bear a strong resemblance in outline to the lions of - Trafalgar Square.) Has resided at Vancouver, British Columbia, the - past fifteen years. - - 182 Mrs R. E. MULLINS LEPROHON, b. in Montreal, 1832. Educated at - the Convent of the Congregation of Notre Dame. She was a leading - contributor to the _Literary Garland_, and contributed freely to - other periodicals. She wrote many tales. After her death at - Montreal, September 20, 1879, John Lovell & Son published _The - Poetical Works of Mrs Leprohon (Miss R. E. Mullins)_, 1881. - - 184 WILLIAM DOUW LIGHTHALL, b. in Hamilton, Ontario, December 27, - 1857. Educated at M'Gill University. He is the head of the law - firm Lighthall & Harwood, Montreal; and was one of the founders of - the Soc. of Can. Lit., and of the Château de Ramezay Museum. - Author of _Thoughts, Moods, and Ideals_, a booklet of verse, 1887. - In 1889 he edited _Songs of the Great Dominion_ (Windsor Series, - London), and _Canadian Poems and Lays_ (Canterbury Poets Series, - 1891). He has written several prose works, the latest being the - novel, _The False Chevalier_, a Canadian Adventurer at the Court - of Louis XVI. (1898). Resides in Montreal. - - 187 STUART LIVINGSTON, Q. C., b. in Canada of U. E. Loyalist stock. - Was educated at Toronto University. He is the head of the law firm - Livingston & Garrett, Hamilton, but is well known in literary and - artistic circles as a writer and a painter. Besides _The History - of Professor Paul_, a novel, and contributions to the Magazines, - he has published _In Various Moods_, a book of poems, 1894. - Resides in Hamilton, Ontario. - - 192 Rev. ARTHUR JOHN LOCKHART ("Pastor Felix"), b. at Lockhartville, - Nova Scotia, May 5, 1850. For some years he was a printer, but - entered the ministry in 1872. He is widely known as a writer in - prose and verse in Canadian and American periodicals. _A Masque of - Minstrels_, poems by himself and his brother, 1887; and _Beside - the Narraguagus and Other Poems_, 1895. Contributed in prose to - _Burnsiana_, 1893. Resides at Pemaquid, Maine, U.S. - - 196 Rev. BURTON WELLESLEY LOCKHART, D.D., brother of the preceding, - b. at Lockhartville, Nova Scotia, January 24, 1855. Educated at - Acadia University. Among his poems of special note, included in _A - Masque of Minstrels_, are _The Retrospect_, _Sir Richard - Grenville_, _In Solemn Vision_, _The Old Home_, _Wordsworth_, and - _Talking by the Sea_. Resides at Manchester, New Hampshire, U.S. - - 198 JOHN E. LOGAN ("Barry Dane"). A writer of fugitive verse of much - beauty. Resides in Montreal. - - 199 AGNES MAULE MACHAR ("Fidelis"), b. in Kingston, Ontario. Has for - years contributed both in prose and verse to Canadian and American - periodicals. She is best known as a novelist. Resides at Kingston, - Ontario, but lives at "Fern Cliff," among the Thousand Islands, in - the summer. - - 204 EVAN MACCOLL, b. at Kenmore, Scotland, September 21, 1808; d. at - Toronto, July 1898. Came to Canada, 1850, filling a position in - the Customs at Kingston, Ontario, till he retired on a pension, - 1880. Author of _Clasach nam Beann: or, Poems and Songs in - Gaelic_, 1838; _The Mountain Minstrel: or, Poems and Songs in - English_, 1838; and _Poems and Songs, chiefly written in Canada_, - 1883 (2nd ed. 1866). He was appointed a Fellow of the R. S. Can. - on its organisation, 1880. _The Child of Promise_, given in the - text, is a translation from the author's Gaelic poem, by Dr - Buchannan. - - 205 Mrs ELIZABETH ROBERTS MACDONALD, b. at Westcock, New Brunswick. - Educated at the Collegiate School of Fredericton, and at the - University of New Brunswick, and was for some time teacher in the - School for the Blind, Halifax, Nova Scotia. Her poems have - appeared chiefly in the Magazines. In 1891 she issued a booklet of - poems for private circulation. Resides at Fredericton, New - Brunswick. - - 206 JOHN MACFARLANE ("John Arbory"), b. at Abington, Scotland, May - 1857. Author of _Heather and Harebell; Songs and Lyrics_, 1892. - He contributed to _Burnsiana_. In 1895 he edited _The Harp of the - Scottish Covenant_,--an anthology of poetry "intended to do for - the Covenanters, what has long ago been done for the Cavaliers and - the Jacobites." Resides in Montreal. - - 208 Mrs KATE SEYMOUR MACLEAN, b. at Fulton, Oswego County, New York. - She is a well-known writer of verse for the Magazines. Author of - _The Coming of the Princess, and Other Poems_, 1881. Resides at - Kingston, Ontario. - - 211 Mrs ELIZABETH S. MACLEOD, b. in Edinburgh, Scotland. Is a - frequent contributor to the Magazines. Author of _Carols of - Canada_, 1893. Resides in Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island. - - 212 A. D. MACNEILL, of Orangedale, Nova Scotia. Author of a booklet, - _Woodlands and Other Rhymes_ (without date). - - 213 DONALD M'CAIG, b. in Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, May 15, 1832. - Educationist. Author of _Milestone Moods and Memories_, poems, - 1893; and _A Reply to John Stuart Mill, on the Subjection of - Women_, prose, 1871. Resides at Collingwood, Ontario. - - 215 JAMES M'CARROLL, b. in Lanesboro', Co. Longford, Ireland, - August 3, 1814, d.--?. Came to Ontario, 1831. Journalist. Author - of _Madeline, and Other Poems_, 1889. - - 217 WILLIAM M'DONNELL, b. at Cork, Ireland, September 1824. Author of - _Manita_, and other booklets of poems. He is the undoubted author - of the original of the many poems entitled _Beautiful Snow_. - Resides at Lindsay, Ontario. - - 218 BERNARD M'EVOY, b. in Birmingham, England, February 7, 1842. Came - to Canada in 1888, and was employed as a journalist on the Toronto - _Mail and Empire_, till 1898. His great grandfather, Rev. John - Augustus Nisbitt M'Evoy, was vicar of Kineton, Warwick, for forty - years, preaching once a month in the church at Stratford-upon - Avon, in which Shakespeare is buried. Author of _Away from - Newspaperdom and Other Poems_, 1897. Resides in Toronto. - - 219 THOMAS D'ARCY M'GEE, M.P., b. at Carlingford, Ireland, April 13, - 1825. Came to Canada, 1857. He was assassinated in Ottawa, Canada, - April 7, 1868. Author of _Canadian Ballads and Occasional Verses_, - 1858. A Canadian statesman of high repute. - - 224 WILLIAM P. M'KENZIE, b. at Almonte, Ontario, about 1855. Educated - at Toronto University and Knox College. Was Professor for some - time of English Literature in the University of Rochester, U.S. - Author of _A Song of Trust_, 1887; _Voices and Undertones_, 1889; - _Songs of the Human_, 1892; and _Heartsease Hymns and Other - Verses_, 1895. Present residence, Boston, U.S. - - 227 ALEXANDER M'LACHLAN, b. in Johnstone, Renfrewshire, Scotland, - August 12, 1818. Came to Canada, 1840. Died at Orangeville, - Ontario, March 20, 1896. Author of _Lyrics_, 1858; _The Emigrant - and Other Poems_, 1861; _Poems and Songs_, 1888. His complete - poems, with Memoir, published April, 1900. A representative poet, - and widely known. - - 231 JOHN M'PHERSON ("Harp of Acadia"), b. in Liverpool, Nova Scotia, - February 4, 1817; d. at Brookfield, Nova Scotia, July 26, 1845, - and is buried near Lake Tupper. He was a teacher. In 1862 his - collected poems were published at Halifax under the title of - _Poems, Descriptive and Moral_. - - 233 CHARLES MAIR, b. at Lanark, Ontario, September 21, 1840. Educated - at Queen's University, Kingston. Author of _Dreamland and Other - Poems_, 1868; _Tecumseh, a Drama_, 1886. A Fellow of the R. S. - Can. Resides at Winnipeg, Manitoba. - - 238 GEORGE MARTIN, b. at Kilrae, Ireland, 1822. Came to Canada, 1832, - and has lived in Montreal since 1835. Was educated at the Black - River Literary Institute, Watertown, New York; and subsequently - studied Medicine. Author of _Marguerite: or the Isle of Demons, - and Other Poems_, 1887. It is said he contemplates the publication - of another volume of poems at an early day. Resides in Montreal. - - 241 HELEN M. MERRILL, b. in Napanee, Ontario. Educated at the Ladies' - College, Ottawa. An Entomologist. She has published no volume of - verse. In 1892 she published a small holiday volume, entitled - _Picturesque Prince Edward County_. The poem in the text, _The - Blue Flower_, is a personification of the unattainable. Resides at - Picton, Ontario. - - 244 Mrs SUSANNA (STRICKLAND) MOODIE, b. in Suffolk, England, December - 6, 1803; came to Canada, 1832; d. in Toronto, April 8, 1885. - Author of _Roughing it in the Bush_ and _Life in the Clearings_, - 1853, prose, with poetry interspersed,--both written in Canada. - _Enthusiasm, and Other Poems_, 1830. Published considerable - fugitive verse. - - 247 MARY MORGAN ("Gowan Lea"), a native of Scotland, but came in - childhood to Montreal. Author of _Woodnotes in the Gloaming_, - 1887; _Sonnets from Switzerland_, 1896. Travels extensively in - Europe,--"a citizen of the world." - - 249 Mrs IRENE ELDER MORTON, b. at Hantsport, Nova Scotia, February - 17, 1849. Educated at Acadia Seminary. She has written much verse, - and some prose, but has not published any volume. Resides at "The - Bluffs," Clementsport, Nova Scotia. - - 255 Rev. CHARLES PELHAM MULVANEY, b. in Dublin, Ireland, May 20, - 1835; d. in Toronto, May 31, 1885. A classical scholar of - distinction. Published in 1880, conjointly with A. H. Chandler, - _Lyrics, Songs and Sonnets_. - - 256 GEORGE MURRAY, b. in London, England. Educated at King's College, - London, and at Oxford University. Before taking his degree in 1860 - he published _The Oxford Ars Poetica; or, How to Write a - Newdigate_. Came to Canada 1859, and was connected with the - Montreal High School until his retirement on a pension in 1892. He - was one of the editors of the literary remains of Hon. D'Arcy - M'Gee. Author of _Verses and Versions_, 1891. Resides in Montreal. - - 260 H. M. NICKERSON, b. in Nova Scotia. Author of _Carols of the - Coast_, 1892. Mr Nickerson is known as the "Fisherman Poet." - Resides at Clark's Harbor, Nova Scotia. - - 261 CORNELIUS O'BRIEN, His Grace the Archbishop of Halifax, b. near - New Glasgow, Prince Edward Island, May 4, 1843. Besides many works - in prose he published in 1890, _Aminta, a Modern Life Drama_. Was - President of the Royal Soc. of Can., 1896-7. Resides at Halifax, - Nova Scotia. - - 261 THOMAS O'HAGAN, Ph.D., b. near Toronto, Ontario, 1855. Educated - at St Michael's College and at Ottawa University, taking - subsequent studies at Syracuse and Cornell Universities. Author of - _A Gate of Flowers_, 1887; _In Dreamland and Other Poems_, 1893; - _Songs of the Settlement_, 1899. Resides in Toronto. - - 264 HORATIO GILBERT PARKER, b. at Camden East, Addington, Ontario, - 1859. Educated at Trinity University, Toronto. A novelist of wide - repute, and author of _A Lover's Diary_, poems (2nd ed. 1894). Has - lived in Australia, but now resides in London, England, making - frequent visits to Canada. - - 265 AMY PARKINSON was born in Liverpool, England, and came to - Toronto, Ontario, with her parents when a child. Her formal - education ceased when she was twelve years of age, her health - failing her. For eight or nine years past, she has not risen from - her bed. Her poems are dictated to her father, and it is - noteworthy that her mind is specially vigorous in composition as - she is passing into or recovering from the severe attacks which - seize her, any one of which might prove fatal. Author of booklets - of verse, _Love Through All_, and _In His Keeping_. Resides in - Toronto. - - 268 FRANK L. POLLOCK, b. February 1876. Has resided for the most - part in St Mary's, Ontario, and in Toronto. His literary - productions have appeared chiefly in the _Youth's Companion_, _The - Criterion_, _Ainslee's Magazine_ and _Town Topics_. His present - residence is in New York City. - - 270 ANDREW RAMSAY, b. in 1849, near the village of West Flamboro, - Ontario. "After two years of torture under the mad manipulation - of a savage schoolmaster," he "escaped to the wilderness for what - scanty education" he obtained. Author of _The Canadian Lyre_, - 1859; _Win-on-ah; The Forest Light, and Other Poems_, 1869; _One - Quiet Day_, prose and poetry, 1873; _Muriel, The Foundling, and - Other Poems_, 1886. Is a house decorator, and has won distinction - in landscape work in that art. Resides at Westover, Ontario. - - 273 THEODORE HARDING RAND, D.C.L., b. at Cornwallis, Nova Scotia, - February 8, 1835. Educated at Horton Academy and Acadia - University. Has devoted his life to Education. Organised the - systems of Free Public Schools of both Nova Scotia and New - Brunswick. Ex-Principal of Woodstock College, and Ex-Chancellor of - M'Master University,--by whom the founding of the University was - promoted, and organised as such. Author of _At Minas Basin, and - Other Poems_, 1897 (second edition, enlarged, 1898). Resides in - Toronto. - - 282 WALTER A. RATCLIFFE, b. in London, England, August 23, 1865. Came - to Canada with his parents at the age of seven years. He is almost - totally blind and deaf. Published _Morning Songs in the Night_, - 1897. Resides at Port Hope, Ontario. - - 283 JOHN READE, b. at Ballyshannon, Ireland, November 13, 1837. - Educated at Queen's College, Belfast. Came to Canada, 1856. Author - of _The Prophecy of Merlin, and Other Poems_, 1870. In association - with Professor Penhallow of M'Gill University, he inaugurated the - Montreal branch of the Am. Folk-lore Soc. He has been president of - the Eng. Lit. and Hist. section of the Royal Soc. Can. Elected a - Fellow of the Royal Soc. of Lit. of Great Britain, 1896. Since - 1870 he has been literary and general assistant editor of the - Montreal _Gazette_. Resides in Montreal. - - 290 ROBERT REID ("Rob Wanlock"), b. at Wanlockhead, Scotland, June 8, - 1850. Came to Canada 1877, and has since then filled a responsible - position in the mercantile establishment of Henry Morgan & Co., - Montreal. Author of _Moorland Rhymes_, 1874; and _Poems, Songs and - Sonnets_, 1894. Resides in Montreal. - - 292 CHARLES GEORGE DOUGLAS ROBERTS, b. at Douglas, near Fredericton, - New Brunswick, January 10, 1860. Educated at the University of New - Brunswick. He became editor of the Toronto _Week_, 1883, and later - Professor of English Literature and Economics in King's College, - Windsor, Nova Scotia. Since 1895 be has devoted himself - exclusively to literary work. Author of _Orion and Other Poems_, - 1880; _In Divers Tones_, 1887; _Poems of Wild Life: an Anthology_, - 1888; _Ave: An Ode for the Shelley Centenary_, 1892; _Songs of the - Common Day, and Ave_, 1893; _The Book of the Native_, poems, 1896; - and _New York Nocturnes and Other Poems_, 1898. He has also - published several novels and other works. He was one of the - literary arbiters at the World's Fair, Chicago. Resides in - Fredericton, New Brunswick (and in New York). _Note._--The two - following are younger brothers of Mr Roberts, and Mrs Elizabeth - Roberts MacDonald is a sister, while Mr Bliss Carman and Mr Barry - Straton are cousins of the foregoing. They are children of three - sisters. - - 309 THEODORE ROBERTS, b. at Fredericton, New Brunswick, July 7, - 1877. Educated at the Collegiate School of that city. His verse - has appeared in the Magazines. He was war correspondent for the - New York _Independent_ in the Spanish-American War. Resides at - Fredericton, New Brunswick. - - 313 WILLIAM CARMAN ROBERTS, b. at Fredericton, New Brunswick, - December 6, 1874. Educated at the Collegiate School, and the - University of that city. He has published verse in the Magazines - and literary periodicals. Has done journalistic work in New York. - Resides at Fredericton, New Brunswick. - - 315 GEORGE JOHN ROMANES, b. at Kingston, Ontario, May 20, 1848; d. at - Oxford, England, May 23, 1894. Educated at Caius College, Oxford. - A distinguished naturalist, and brilliant scientific and - philosophical writer. During his somewhat prolonged illness he - preserved to the last his mental vigour and keenness of interest - in scientific pursuits. Not long before his death he said: "I have - now come to see that faith (the Christian faith) is intellectually - justifiable." The sonnet of the text has a pathos all its own. - Longmans, Green & Company published a volume of selections of his - poetry, 1896. - - 316 CARROLL RYAN, b. in Toronto, Ontario, February 3, 1839. Educated - at St Michael's College. He served as a volunteer in the British - German Legion and Turkish Contingent, during the Crimean war, and - in H.M.'s 100th Royal Can. Regt., 1859. After his return to Canada - he commanded a battery of volunteer artillery at Ottawa, and was - extra A.D.C. to Gen. Sir E. S. Smyth. Mr Ryan is a veteran of the - Canadian press. Author of _Oscar and Other Poems_, 1857; _Songs of - a Wanderer_, 1867; and _Picture Poems_, 1884. Resides in Montreal. - - 318 CHARLES SANGSTER, b. at Kingston, Ontario, 1822; d. at Ottawa, - Ontario, 1893. Author of _The St Lawrence, and the Saguenay, and - Other Poems_, 1856, and of _Hesperus and Other Poems and Lyrics_, - 1860. A representative Canadian poet, widely known. - - 322 DUNCAN CAMPBELL SCOTT, b. at Ottawa, Ontario, August 2, 1862. - Educated at Stanstead Wesleyan College. Is Accountant of the - Department of Indian Affairs. He is a contributor to Magazines in - prose and verse. Author of _The Magic House and Other Poems_, - 1893, and of _Labor and the Angel_, 1898. Resides at Ottawa. - - 330 Rev. FREDERICK GEORGE SCOTT, b. in Montreal, April 7, 1861. - Educated at Bishop's College, Lennoxville, Quebec, and at King's - College, London, England. Author of _The Soul's Quest, and Other - Poems_, 1888; _Elton Hazlewood_, a dramatic life-story, 2nd ed., - 1893; _My Lattice and Other Poems_, 1894; _The Unnamed Lake and - Other Poems_, 1897; and _Poems Old and New_, 1899. Resides in - Quebec city. - - 336 CHARLES DAWSON SHANLY, b. in Dublin, Ireland, March 9, 1811. Came - to Canada, 1836, and settled near London, Ontario. He edited - _Punch in Canada_. A writer of occasional verse. He became noted - as an Art Critic in New York. Died at Arlington, Florida (whither - he had gone in search of health), April 15, 1875, and is buried - near London, Ontario. Best known as engineer of the Hoosac Tunnel. - - 338 FRANCIS SHERMAN, b. at Fredericton, New Brunswick, 1871. Educated - at the Collegiate School and the University there. Author of - _Matins_, 1896; _In Memorabilia Mortis_, a booklet of Sonnets, - 1896; and _A Prelude_, privately printed, 1897. Resides in - Fredericton. - - 341 GOLDWIN SMITH, LL.D., D.C.L., author, and a distinguished - Professor of History, b. at Reading, England, August 23, 1823. His - published works are numerous and widely known,--among them, _Bay - Leaves: Translations from the Latin Poets_, 1894. A very - occasional writer of verse. Resides at "The Grange," Toronto. - - 342 LYMAN C. SMITH, b. at Glanford, near Hamilton, Ontario, September - 8, 1850. Educated at Victoria University. He has been for the past - eighteen years the principal of the High School, Oshawa, Ontario. - Author of _Mabel Gray and Other Poems_, 1896. - - 344 Rev. WILLIAM WYE SMITH, b. in Jedburgh, Scotland, March 18, 1827. - Came to Canada, 1837. A man of considerable journalistic - experience. Author of _Poems_, 1888; _The New Testament in Broad - Scotch_, 1896. Resides at St Catharines, Ontario. - - 345 ALBERT ERNEST STAFFORD SMYTHE, b. at Gracehill, Ireland, December - 27, 1861. Educated at Belfast Inst., and holds certificates from - the Science and Art Department, South Kensington. Author of - _Poems, Grave and Gay_, 1891. He is editor of the _Lamp_, a paper - devoted to theosophy. Resides in Toronto. - - 346 HIRAM LADD SPENCER, b. at Castleton, Vermont, April 28, 1829, and - educated there. Among his classmates were Henry Cabot Lodge, W. C. - Wilkinson, W. C. Langdon, and Redfield Proctor. He became a - resident of St John, New Brunswick, 1863. A journalist. Author of - _Poems_, 1848; _A Song of the Years: a Memory of Acadia_, 1889, - (widely known,--published by J. & A. M'Millan, St John, N. B.). - Resides in St John. - - 348 EZRA HURLBURT STAFFORD, M.D., b. 1865. Is an associate editor of - Canadian _Journal of Medicine and Surgery_. An occasional - contributor to periodicals. Author of _Saints' Day Ballads, and - Sundry Other Measures_, a booklet, 1895. Resides in Toronto. - - 351 ALEXANDER CHARLES STEWART, b.--? Author of _Poems and Songs_, - 1890; _The Pensioner_, 1890,--a booklet. Resides in Toronto. - - 351 PHILLIPS STEWART, b. 1864; d. in Toronto, Ontario, February 2, - 1892. Author of _Poems_, 1887. A dominant sadness inspired the - muse of this gifted youth. His early death was a loss to - Canadian literature. - - 353 BARRY STRATON, b. at Fredericton, New Brunswick, December 27, - 1854. Educated at the Collegiate School of that city. Studied law, - but the confinement proving detrimental to his health, he resorted - to farming. Author of _Lays of Love, and Miscellaneous Poems_, - 1884; _The Building of the Bridge: an Idyl of the St John_, 1887; - and _The Hunter's Hand Book_. Resides at Maugerville, New - Brunswick. - - 356 ARTHUR J. STRINGER, a journalist of the Montreal _Herald_, till - very recently. Author of _Watchers of Twilight_, 1894; _Pauline - and Other Poems_, 1895; and _Epigrams_, 1896. Present residence, - New York. - - 359 ALAN SULLIVAN, b. in Montreal, November 29, 1867. Educated at - Loretto School, Musselburgh, near Edinburgh. A civil engineer. - Author of a booklet of verse. Resides at Rat Portage, Ontario. - - 361 BERTRAM TENNYSON, Q.C., b.--? Author of _The Land of Napioa and - Other Essays in Prose and Verse_, 1896. Resides at Moosomin, N. W. - T., Canada. - - 363 EDWARD WILLIAM THOMSON, b. in the township of Toronto, Ontario, - February 12, 1849. Educated at Trinity College Grammar School, - Weston. He served with the army of the Potomac during the closing - scenes of the Am. Civil War. Served in the field with the Queen's - Own Rifles, Toronto. In 1889-90 was chief editorial writer on the - Toronto _Globe_. He removed to Boston to accept a lucrative post - on the _Youth's Companion_. Writer of occasional verse, and author - of several volumes of short stories. Resides in Boston, Mass. - - 365 JOHN STUART THOMSON, b. in Montreal, 1870, where he was educated - at the old "Senior School," and in special work at M'Gill - University. He also enjoyed special advantages of private - classical study in New York City. He is a frequent contributor to - the Magazines. Author of _Estabelle and Other Poems_, 1897. - Resides in New York City. - - 369 FRANCIS L. DOMINICK WATERS, b. in Fermoy, Ireland, April 4, 1857. - Educated at St Colman's College. Compelled by ill health to - abandon his medical studies, he came to Canada, 1879. He has - devoted himself chiefly to literature. Author of _The Water Lily: - an Oriental Fairy Tale_, 1888. Resides at Cornwall, Ontario. - - 370 ARTHUR WEIR, b. in Montreal, June 17, 1864. Educated at M'Gill - University. He has had considerable journalistic experience. - Author of _Fleur de Lys_, poems, 1877; _The Romance of Sir - Richard, Sonnets, and Other Poems_, 1890; _The Snowflake, and - Other Poems_, 1896. He was selected to read the inaugural poem at - the unveiling of the national monument to Sir John A. Macdonald, - at Ottawa, 1895; and he also wrote the inaugural poem for the - unveiling of the monument to Maisonneuve, dedicated on the same - day. Resides in Montreal. - - 376 AGNES ETHELWYN WETHERALD ("Bel Thistlewaite"), b. in Rockwood, - Ontario, of English Quaker parentage, and educated at Friends' - Schools in New York and Ontario. She has done much journalistic - work. Author of _The Algonquin Maiden_, a romance of the early - days of Upper Canada, written in collaboration with G. Mercer - Adam; and _The House of Trees_, a volume of verse, 1896. Resides - at Fenwick, Ontario. - - 379 Rev. WILLIAM HENRY WITHROW, D.D., author and journalist, b. - in Toronto, August 6, 1839. Educated at Victoria and Toronto - Universities. Elected a Fellow of the Eng. Lit. Sec. of the Royal - Soc. of Can., 1884. He is editor of the _Methodist Magazine and - Review_, and author of numerous volumes, the best known of which - is _The Catacombs of Rome, and their Testimony Relative to - Primitive Christianity_. Writer of occasional verse. Resides in - Toronto. - - 380 Rev R. WALTER WRIGHT, b. near Toronto, Ontario, December 29, - 1852. Educated at Streetsville High School, and was graduated in - Theology in connection with Chautauqua University. Author of _The - Dream of Columbus_, a poem, 1894. Present residence, Arthur, - Ontario. - - 382 Mrs EVA ROSE YORK, b. in Western Ontario, December 22, 1858. - Educated at Woodstock College, and at the New England Conservatory - of Music. Writer of occasional verse. Resides in Toronto. - - 384 Mrs PAMELIA VINING YULE, wife of the late professor J. C. Yule, - of Woodstock College, Ontario. Author of _Poems of the Heart and - Home_, 1881, and of several prose works. She was born in - Clarendon, State of New York, and her early life was spent in - Ellicottville in that State. Died at Ingersoll, Ontario, 1896. - - - - -INDEX OF FIRST LINES - - - PAGE - - A blood-red ring hung round the moon 198 - - Adieu to these!--Niagara, thy roar 351 - - A forethought of the fated reign of peace 78 - - After her bath yet early in the day 270 - - Ah, list the music of the whistling wings 17 - - Ah, what if the mind 2 - - A lark sprang up to greet the dawn 181 - - A little while before the fall was done 341 - - All day the sun drops gold, the grassy mead 244 - - All hail to the day when the Britons came over 147 - - Among the fine old kings that reign 215 - - An ashen grey touched faint my night-dark room 279 - - And no one saw, while it was dark 349 - - And this is Louisburg, whose moss-grown ruin 144 - - A perfect artist hath been here; the scene 40 - - A rocky channel from the harbor led 111 - - Around the world the fame is blown 230 - - Art thou not sweet, Oh world 210 - - As hills seem Alps, when veiled in misty shroud 288 - - A shell lies silent on a lonely shore 261 - - A star leant down and laid a silver hand 77 - - A stream of tender gladness 157 - - As the light beyond draws nearer 200 - - As the twilight's grey was swallowed 118 - - As time past onwards, day by day 217 - - At husking time the tassel fades 156 - - At the close of the day, when the year was a-dying 98 - - At the forging of the Sword 76 - - At the postern gate of Day 208 - - Awake, my country, the hour is great with change 296 - - Ay, lay them to rest on the prairie 64 - - A young-eyed seer, amid the leafy ways 192 - - - Because, dear Christ, your tender, wounded arm 158 - - Behind Jacques Cartier's hills the sun sinks low 11 - - Behold the foe of Grub Street's lettered fools 30 - - Behold, the maize fields set their pennons free 368 - - Beshrew the coined gold!--and so, take heed 141 - - Birds that were grey in the green are black in the yellow 128 - - Bite deep and wide, O Axe, the tree 73 - - Blue-black like the breast of the gusty sea 243 - - Borne on the wavelets of thy fluent notes 238 - - Butterfly, Flutter by 68 - - By cliffs grown grey, as men grow grey 346 - - - Canada, Canada, land of the maple 289 - - City about whose brow the north wind blows 329 - - "Close up in front, and steady, lads!" brave Stewart cries, - "They're here" 70 - - "Cold," cried the wind on the hill 310 - - Columbus came to thee and called thee new 356 - - Come and let me make thee glad 338 - - Come down from the heights, my bird 386 - - Come, happy morn, serene and fair 32 - - Come hither, Sleep, from Chio's isle 225 - - Come, walk with the world and go down to the destitute homes - of the poor 354 - - Cradled within the arms of night 22 - - - Dark tresses made rich with all treasures 255 - - Dead! dead! And now before 26 - - Deserted nest, that on the leafless tree 148 - - Did you see the snowy castle 379 - - Down from the blue the sun has driven 227 - - Down the long lanes of Arcadie 312 - - Do you remember, dear, a night in June 197 - - Draw nigh with reverence, Canada 211 - - Dreary, dreary, Fundy's mists are sweeping 59 - - - Enough! the lie is ended. God only owns the land 27 - - Eyes of blue and hair of gold 2 - - Eyes that we look into--so 309 - - - Facing the ocean, guardian of our land 117 - - Fair bird, whose silvery pinions sweep 212 - - Faith spread her wings to seek the realms of day 202 - - Fancy many forms assumes 121 - - For three whole days across the sky 170 - - From out the cold house of the north 8 - - - God spake three times and saved Van Elsen's soul 335 - - God speaks, life beats within the brain 69 - - Gone, brother, lover, son! 63 - - Good Christmas bells, I pray you 91 - - Greatest twain among the nations 318 - - - Hack and Hew were the sons of God 49 - - Had I two loaves of bread--ay--ay! 276 - - Hail, first of the Spring 277 - - Hail to the pride of the forest--hail! 244 - - Helot drink--nor spare the wine 74 - - Here at the change of ways, the steel steed halts 117 - - Here is the old church. Now I see it all 285 - - Her gold hair fallen about her face 313 - - He sits at last among his peers 249 - - He wandered down, an Orpheus wilder-souled 358 - - He who but yesterday would roam 300 - - He who would start and rise 304 - - Hilloo, hilloo, hilloo, hilloo 370 - - How beautiful she was, the little maiden 240 - - How bold the Imagination and how strong 281 - - How fair thou art the poets long have known 138 - - How thick about the window of my life 377 - - Hushed is the voice of scorn 380 - - - I am, and therefore these 278 - - I ask not for Thy love, O Lord; the days 315 - - I awoke from the dreams of the night 96 - - I came upon a drawer to-day 20 - - I come, ye lovely wildwood groves 232 - - "If Peepy had lived," the mother sighed 161 - - If, pilgrim, chance thy steps should lead 219 - - If you would see Venice as she is 359 - - I had a garden when I was a boy 110 - - I have been wandering where the daisies grow 9 - - I hear the bells at eventide 326 - - I hear the wondrous lyre 353 - - I know not what my heart has lost 261 - - I know that death is God's interpreter 346 - - I know thee not, O spirit fair 184 - - I'll sing you a song of the sea 120 - - I loiter here within the ancient town 33 - - I loved my Art, I loved it when the tide 264 - - In a city of churches and chapels 202 - - In a veil of white vapor, hushed stars moving through 31 - - In meadows deep with hay, I see 367 - - In my heart are many chambers through which I wander free 286 - - In shadowy calm the boat 351 - - In sooth he was a mighty king 189 - - In the glimmering light of the Old Regime 25 - - In the heart of a man 301 - - In the Rheingan standeth Aix 106 - - In the silence of the morning, through the softly rising mist 381 - - I read on de paper mos' ev'ry day, all about Jubilee 101 - - I rested on the breezy height 323 - - I sat within the temple of the heart 320 - - I see a schooner in the bay 327 - - I shall not pass this way again 382 - - Is there a God, then, above us? 43 - - I stood and saw the angel of the dawn 206 - - I swing to the sunset land 159 - - I swing to the land of morn 159 - - I talked about you, Dear, the other night 292 - - It comes! This strange bird from a distant clime 236 - - It comforts me through all my days 251 - - I thought as I watched in the dawning dim 265 - - I thought of death beside the lonely sea 329 - - It is enough that in this burdened time 264 - - It is growing dark 283 - - It was one of those grand cathedrals 177 - - I watch the printer's clever hand 218 - - I watch the ships by town and lea 114 - - I will not tell thee why the land 271 - - - Joy came in youth as a humming-bird 10 - - - Last night, and there came a guest 99 - - Let other tongues in older lands 116 - - Let us bury him here 339 - - Life gives us better than it takes away 250 - - Life has two sovereign moments 167 - - Lightly He blows, and at His breath they fall 304 - - Like gallant courtiers, the forest trees 379 - - Like Israel's seer I come from out the earth 280 - - Like marble, nude, against the purple sky 137 - - Like mists that round a mountain grey 192 - - Little Miss Blue Eyes opens the door 374 - - Long, long ago, it seems, this summer morn 172 - - Love built a crimson house 48 - - Lover of man, if not of God, the Sea 238 - - Love sayeth: Sing of me! 197 - - Love's sun, like that of day, may set, and set 321 - - - May, blighted by keen frosts, passed on to June 364 - - Merry mad-cap on the tree 229 - - Methought the stream of Time had backward rolled 343 - - Mildly through the mists of night 348 - - Mother of Swords! while the river runs 268 - - My purest longings spring 114 - - My sandalled feet are firm and fleet 160 - - Mysterious life! we speak as if we knew 248 - - - Naked and shaggy, they herded at eve by the sound of the seas 332 - - Nilus! Nilus! and before them rolled 107 - - No flame of war was he, no flower of grace 166 - - Not in eyed, expectant gloom 303 - - Not to be conquered by these headlong days 168 - - Now along the solemn heights 307 - - Now hath the summer reached her golden close 174 - - Now the Fraser gleamed 87 - - Now wherefore trembles still the string 83 - - - O, bella fior del mondo! to-morrow 316 - - O blessed angel of the All-bounteous King 85 - - O brothers! thro' how many lands 196 - - O covering grasses! O unchanging trees 340 - - O do you hear the merry waters falling 193 - - O elder sister, though thou didst of yore 342 - - O'er the white waste of drifted sands unstable 260 - - Of all the tiny race of Skye 341 - - Oft I have met her 236 - - O gifted son of our dear land and time 288 - - Oh, Gentle-breath goes singing, goes singing through the grass 138 - - Oh the shambling sea is a sexton old 46 - - Oh, what could wake life that first sweet flame 286 - - O, Love builds on the azure sea 73 - - O Love, can the tree lure the summer bird 356 - - O master-builder, blustering as you go 377 - - On a stone by the wayside, half-naked and cold 213 - - Once more the robin flutes in glee 145 - - Once ye were happy, once by many a shore 169 - - One by one they pass away 243 - - "Only a penny, Sir!" 280 - - Only in dreams she appears to me 129 - - On the crimson cloth 3 - - Open, my heart, the ruddy valves 131 - - Ope your doors and take me in 376 - - O Richard, my King, lion-hearted, behold 36 - - O rivers rolling to the sea 297 - - O ship incoming from the sea 325 - - O sweet unto my heart is the song my mother sings 262 - - O tender love of long ago 330 - - O, the East is but the West, with the sun a little hotter 344 - - O Thou who hast beneath Thy hand 309 - - O Twenty, running through the wood 140 - - Our mother is the good green earth 372 - - Out of the dreams that heap 305 - - Over the field the bright air clings and tingles 326 - - O very, very far from our dull earth 72 - - - Pale Melancholy, faithfully thou lov'st 352 - - Pallid saffron glows the broken stubble 322 - - Proud, languid lily of the sacred Nile 109 - - - Quebec, the grey old city on the hill 36 - - - Remote, upon the sunset shrine 194 - - Ripple, ripple, ripple 180 - - Rome, Florence, Venice,--noble, fair and quaint 186 - - - "Saddle and mount and away"---- 23 - - Sang one of England in his island home 357 - - Sans peur et sans reproche!--our lion-heart 199 - - See how the Morn awakes. Along the sky 132 - - She died--as die the roses 204 - - She is so winsome and so wise 35 - - Shaper of breathing lives, and Lord of all above 350 - - Shepherd Jesus, in Thy arms 69 - - Shy bird of the silver arrows of song 1 - - Simon bent to his hissing saw 133 - - Since I rose out of child-oblivion 265 - - Sing a song of springtime 205 - - Sing me a song of the great Dominion 290 - - Sleep, sleep imperious heart! Sleep, fair and undefiled! 295 - - Slowly rose the dœdal Earth 321 - - Some glad thing comes to me 252 - - Son of Britannia's isle 361 - - "Son of Light," I murmured lowly 92 - - So sat I yesterday, with weary eyes 163 - - So tremulous the flame of thinking burns 224 - - Speed on, speed on, good Master 336 - - Sprung from a sword-sheath fit for Mars 126 - - Standing on tiptoe ever since my youth 43 - - Still, in the light of morning grey 142 - - Still, though the sun is setting 241 - - "Summer is dead!"--it was the wind that spake 142 - - Sweet child of an April shower 231 - - Swifter the flight! Far, far and high 67 - - Swift troopers twain ride side by side 373 - - - Take not from me my lute 104 - - Take the mouldering dust 247 - - Talk not to me of Tempe's flowery vale 205 - - The air is still, the night is dark 247 - - The blooming flowers, the galaxies of space 277 - - The bloom of the roses, the youth of the fair 382 - - The brine is in our blood from days of yore 142 - - The broad round-shouldered giant Earth 81 - - The chime of bells across the waking sky 313 - - The dark has passed and the chill Autumn morn 8 - - The darkness brings no quiet here, the light 168 - - The days begin to wane and evening lifts 6 - - The dew is gleaming in the grass 169 - - The dusky warriors stood in groups 182 - - The dykes, half-bare, are lying in the bath 137 - - The earth is the cup of the sun 170 - - The furrows of life Time is plowing 353 - - The heart of Merrie England sang in thee 30 - - Their very gods, it seems, we have forgot 357 - - The immortal spirit hath no bars 335 - - The mountains gather round thee as of yore 285 - - Then sighed the wandering Angel sore 369 - - The ocean bursts in very wrath 69 - - The purple shadows, dreamingly 60 - - There are no colors in God's heaven bent bow 81 - - There came a day of showers 299 - - There is a beauty at the goal of life 177 - - There's a beautiful Artist abroad in the world 384 - - There's a little gray friar in yonder green bush 216 - - The red-til'd towers of the old Chateau 127 - - There is no God! if one should stand at noon 11 - - There is rain upon the window 328 - - There is the school-house; there the lake, the lawn 285 - - The restless clock is ticking out 375 - - The rivers that sweep to the sea 254 - - There lies a lone isle in the tropic seas 331 - - There's a whisper of life in the grey dead trees 360 - - There was a time on this fair continent 233 - - The rowan tree grows by the tower foot 208 - - These are the days that try us; these the hours 128 - - The sky had a grey, grey face 139 - - The song unsung more sweet shall ring 70 - - The sonnet is a diamond flashing round 41 - - The sweet Star of the Bethlehem night 186 - - The sun goes down, and over all 45 - - The sun has gone down in liquid gold 97 - - The tide flows in and out, and leaves 113 - - The twilight land toyed with the night 149 - - The wild birds strangely call 207 - - They have a saying in the East 167 - - They hide within the hollows, and they creep into the dell 365 - - They journey sadly, slowly on 33 - - This is the white winter day of his burial 51 - - This Canada of ours 116 - - This is the purple sea of ancient song 146 - - This river of azure with many a weed in 272 - - Those far-off fields, how fair they seem 118 - - Thou askest not to know the creed 248 - - Thou sweet-souled comrade of a time gone by 188 - - Through a Gethsemane of city streets 218 - - 'Tis dawn, but not such morning-tide 123 - - 'Tis the laughter of pines that swing and sway 112 - - 'Tis the sound of a silver-toned bell 224 - - 'Tis solemn darkness, the sublime of shade 132 - - 'Tis summer still, yet now and then a leaf 322 - - True comrade, we have tested life together 314 - - 'Twas midnight. Darkness, like the glow of some funereal pall 256 - - 'Twas on a day, and in high radiant heaven 133 - - - Under the ward of the Polar Star 269 - - Up by the idling reef-set bell 52 - - Upon the heights of Sillery one day 163 - - - Vast, unrevealed, in silence and the night 301 - - - Wanted, a stalwart man 282 - - War-worn, sun-scorched, stained with the dust of toil 66 - - We fear not the thunder, we fear not the rain 234 - - West wind blow from your prairie nest 155 - - What reck we of the creeds of men?-- 43 - - What shall withstand her? Who shall gainsay her? 38 - - What went ye to the wilderness to see? 162 - - When early shades of evening close 40 - - Whence comes the charm that broods along the shore 290 - - When God sends out His company to travel through the stars 306 - - When high above the busy street 363 - - When ploughmen ridge the steamy brown 364 - - When the Sleepy Man comes with dust on his eyes 302 - - When tree and bush are comfortless 31 - - Where are the men of my heart's desire 311 - - Where does my sweetheart Baby go 226 - - Where the soft shadows fall 254 - - Where the world is grey and lone 89 - - Where, where will be the birds that sing 347 - - Whom would you choose? for, lo, the chief is dead 28 - - Wide are the plains to the north and the westward 187 - - Winged wonder of motion 273 - - Within, a panic-stricken throng 180 - - With folded wings of dusky light 216 - - With fragrance flown, as of a long-plucked bud 345 - - With slender arms outstretching in the sun 378 - - - You ask for fame and power 41 - - - - -TURNBULL AND SPEARS, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Treasury of Canadian Verse with -Brief Biographical Notes, by Theodore Harding Rand - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A TREASURY OF CANADIAN VERSE *** - -***** This file should be named 54601-0.txt or 54601-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/4/6/0/54601/ - -Produced by Larry B. 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