A TREASURY
OF
CANADIAN VERSE

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."

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!

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!

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,

[5]

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.

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.

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?

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,

[9]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.

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.

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! 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!"

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!

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.

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.

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.

"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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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!

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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 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.

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, 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?

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 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!

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.

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.

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 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.

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."

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.

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....

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.

[61]

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.

[62]

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.

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!"

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.

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?

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!

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,— [69]

"The sun to me sings,

Beauty dowers my wings,

All of joy I attain."—

Flutter by,

Butterfly!

THE ocean bursts in very wrath,

The waters rush and whirl,

As the hardy diver cleaves a path

Down to the treasured pearl.

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!

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!

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.

"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!

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.

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!

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!

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."

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!

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!

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!"

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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!

"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?

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.

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!

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?

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.

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!

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!

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

'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 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

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 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!

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!

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.

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, 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!

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!

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!

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?

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. [126]

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!...

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.

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!

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?

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.

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.

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!

'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.

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.

'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.

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.

[136]

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.

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.

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.

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."

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 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!

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.

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 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.

"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."

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!

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!...

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

[151]

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